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Chapter Text

The Prime Minister, John Major, sat at the board-room table and tried not to fidget. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be an issue. Though he had only been in office just for a few days, he was a seasoned politician.  

However, it wasn’t just the situation that unsettled him—it was the people and the room itself.

Even as Prime Minister, one doesn’t enter the Palace or meet with the Queen every day.

The room was imposing. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers cast a dim, golden light over the polished wood of the table.

He sat at the far end of the table.

Opposite him sat the Queen, all calm authority, her gaze unreadable.

To her left sat his predecessor, looking far too comfortable in a setting that made him squirm. There was an almost imperceptible smile on her lips, one that hinted at knowledge he wasn’t yet privy to.

To the Queen’s right sat her son, Prince Charles. His attire was as unassuming as his expression, but there was a precision to his appearance that hinted at military roots.

Beside them were figures he recognised only by title: marshals from various branches of Military Intelligence — men and women with stoic demeanours and steely gazes. They were the type who moved in the shadows, dealing with the unspeakable so that the rest of the country could sleep peacefully at night. Their presence made him feel as if they had summoned him into a secret world, one that was far more dangerous than he had prepared for.

And then there were the two foreigners. Their strange clothing made them stand out in the room. They were leaning against the wall with crossed arms and closed eyes.

The room was silent, save for the muted rustling of papers and the occasional clink of porcelain as tea was poured.

He cleared his throat softly, searching for the right words to break the stillness. Just as he was about to speak, the Queen raised a hand, halting him before he could begin.

“Prime Minister,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, “before we start, there is something you must understand.”

Her gaze was unwavering, and Major felt a sudden chill despite the warmth of the room.

“This meeting is unlike any you have faced in your political career,” she continued. “You have been summoned here not for matters of state, but for something far more... delicate.” She paused, allowing the weight of her words to sink in. “There are things, Prime Minister, that even your office does not have access to."

The two foreigners in the room stirred, opened their eyes, and straightened.

He glanced at his predecessor, who was now looking at him with a knowing smile. She had been briefed before, perhaps during her tenure, yet had said nothing of it.

The Queen gestured to the strangers, and they draw near.

“Prime Minister,” the Queen spoke again, this time with a faint edge of formality. “May I assume that you have been contacted by a man with a name Cornelius Fudge?”

Major’s breath caught in his throat.

What? Fudge? How does she--

“I—I don’t understand,” he stammered, finally voicing the question that had been brewing in his mind since the moment he entered the room. “What is this about?”

The two strangers reached the table, and Major could now see them more clearly. One, an Indian man with greying hair, a sharp jawline with a thick handlebar moustache, wore a long, dark purple loose collarless shirt that swirled with green as he moved and deep red — something that resembled loose trousers.

The other, taller and younger, had long auburn hair streaked with two colours tied back by a blue ribbon with long strands of hair hanging on either side of his face. His attire was the strangest one John Major ever seen - a long deep-red shirt with golden knot patterns and wide, flowing sleeves reminiscent of a Japanese kimono. His black trousers were loose at the knees but tapered tightly from the shins to the ankles.

Their presence felt otherworldly, as though they didn’t quite belong in the carefully curated world of Buckingham Palace.

The Queen held Major’s gaze, her expression unreadable. “You have met Cornelius Fudge, have you not?” She repeated calmly, though her eyes flickered with something that unsettled him.

“I did,” Major admitted, his voice wavering. “But how—he claimed- I wasn’t aware that you knew...”

“The Queen does not know him, Prime Minister,” one of the strangers interrupted.

Major's head snapped toward the stranger who had spoken. The man with the auburn hair, his tone calm yet firm, stared at him with eyes that held an intensity cutting through the room’s heavy atmosphere.

“She knows of him,” the man continued, his accent unplaceable, but each word crisp. “We all do. But that is not the issue here.”

The Queen remained poised; her gaze never leaving Major. Her silence was both comforting and unsettling.

Major’s mind raced. He had met Fudge only days ago — and had tried to convince himself it had never happened.

Yet here, in the presence of the Queen herself, he couldn’t dismiss the reality he was now facing.

John Major felt the weight of the room pressing in on him as the Queen remained silent, her gaze as unwavering. The tension coiled in his chest, a knot of uncertainty forming as he searched for a foothold in the strangeness that surrounded him.

“Prime Minister,” the Indian man’s voice broke the silence, its deep resonance cutting through the tension with measured calm. “I apologise for this situation. This meeting is the first of its kind, and we hope it will be the last.”

Major's eyes flicked to the man. His accent was rich and formal, each word spoken with the precision of someone accustomed to wielding authority. It was soothing, though it did little to fully ease the knot of uncertainty in Major's chest.

Before he could respond, the Queen shifted slightly in her chair. Her gaze remained fixed on him—calm yet piercing. "Let’s start again," she said, her voice steady but commanding.

"Yes, of course," the Indian man agreed, nodding deferentially. "I am deeply sorry for the abruptness of this, Prime Minister."

With a graceful movement, the man pulled out a chair and sat down, followed closely by the auburn-haired man.

"My name is Rajhans Bhattacharya," the Indian man continued. "I serve as the Court Wizard to Queen Elizabeth of the House of Windsor, second of her name. I also represent The Magical Commonwealth of Nations ."

John Major sat quietly in the pale grey light of his office at Downing Street. He sat alone, trying to piece together what he had just been told—what he had just been entrusted with. The words echoed in his mind, along with the broader revelations of the magical world’s complex history.

The meeting had started formally enough, with Bhattacharya outlining the brief history and quick run on needed informations.

The International Coven of Warlocks (ICW) serves as the global governing body of the magical world, much like the United Nations functions for non-magical nations. Established centuries ago, the ICW exists to maintain international peace, cooperation, and the regulation of magic between countries. It was instrumental in the creation of the Statute of Secrecy, which governs the separation of the magical and non-magical worlds. The magical Commonwealth—comprising the same nations as the non-magical Commonwealth.

The position of Court Wizard, equal to Minister of Magic, was traditionally the central figure responsible for governance and maintaining the country’s welfare. This position, however, remained a secret from the public, kept hidden to avoid unwanted attention. Historically, the Court Wizard wielded considerable influence in both magical and political spheres, ensuring that magical Britain was well-represented within the ICW and other international magical bodies.

However, following the First Wizarding War in Britain, Fudge’s predecessor made a decision to split the position of the Court Wizard in secret. This occurred largely due to Fudge’s increasing reliance on unsavoury elements, particularly those from the losing side of the war, many of whom harboured darker ambitions. The split left Fudge as a figurehead with compromised authority, allowing factions with ulterior motives to gain influence over the magical government. Fudge, lacking the foresight or the political acuity to question the division of power, never verified whether the Court Wizard position was truly necessary or maintained its prior influence.

This internal imbalance has attracted the attention of the ICW, who have grown increasingly concerned about the state of Magical Britain. Despite their global reach, the ICW is unable to take legal action against the country, as its current head hails from Britain. Such a conflict of interest complicates any efforts for direct intervention. Nevertheless, dissatisfaction is widespread, especially from some of the oldest magical communities—those that were crucial in shaping both the ICW and the Statute of Secrecy. These ancient entities have voiced their displeasure at the disarray within Britain’s magical leadership and the threat it poses to international stability.

The ICW, recognising the potential for further destabilisation, has quietly reached out for assistance. They believe that Major, a key figure in the non-magical government, can help by covertly gathering intelligence on Fudge and his actions.

Chapter Text

The gentle morning sunlight, usually a source of comfort, only highlighted the desolation that lingered in the air.

Harry sat on the creaky wooden bench in the garden, bathed in the soft morning sunlight. The loneliness seemed to intensify in the quiet solitude of the garden.

Feeling particularly miserable on his birthday, Harry longed for Hogwarts and was disappointed that his friends seemed to have forgotten him. He had hoped that his friends from Hogwarts would write to him, but except for a single letter from Ron, announcing that they won a lottery and used most of the money for the trip to Egypt to visit Ron’s eldest brother, Bill; he received nothing.

Countless times, Harry considered sending Hedwig with a letter to Hermione, as he was hesitant about her flying all the way to Egypt to reach Ron. Harry released Hedwig the moment he exited the train because he knew that Uncle Vernon would lock her in it for the entire summer. He often spotted her nesting across the road during the nights.

With a heavy heart, Harry gazed into the distance, lost in thought, and failed to notice Dudley lumbering out, his enormous frame filling the doorway. A cruel smirk adorned his face as he sauntered over to where Harry sat.

Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.

“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward him.

“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.

“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.

“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”

“Today’s your birthday,“ sneered Dudley. “How come you have got no cards?Haven’t you even got friends at that freak place?”

“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school,” said Harry coolly.

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom.

Despite Dudley’s efforts to undermine him, Harry maintained his composure. “Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.

Seizing the opportunity to play a prank and momentarily forget his own troubles, Harry added with a sly smile, “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harry.

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face. “You c-can’t - Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic - he said he’ll chu-“ he exclaimed with a sputter. But Harry wasn’t listening. In a fierce voice he started muttering nonsense words until Dudley dashed back toward the house, tripping over his feet, hollering and tattling to Aunt Petunia.

Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge suffered any harm, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t actually performed magic. Nevertheless, he had to dodge a heavy blow aimed at his head with a soapy frying pan, and she assigned him a slew of chores, insisting he wouldn’t eat until he finished.

While Dudley lounged around watching and eating ice cream, Harry tackled a series of tasks. He cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench.

In a brief exchange with Burmese, the large Boa Constrictor that Harry released last year in the zoo by accident, he directed the snake towards the back garden. The Dursleys would be furious if they discovered him, but beyond the fence lay a vast field leading to Wisteria Walk, home to an excessive number of cats roaming the neighbourhood.

Watching the snake slither away, Harry could have sworn he glimpsed green eyes in the bushes along the side of the house. However, he dismissed it, choosing to focus on his work.

It was half-past seven in the evening when Aunt Petunia called him in.

Engaged in cleaning the windows, Harry listened to a reporter on the television detailing an ongoing report about an escaped convict named Sirius Black. Aunt Petunia went to the window, likely half-expecting to spot him outside.

Relieved to move into the shade of the gleaming kitchen, Harry noticed a dog across the street. Its tawny fur, tinged with an orange hue in certain lighting, was heavily clouded with black over the back and tail, accompanied by light sandy markings around the lips and eyes. The unusual aspect was its size—it was hulking, remarkably large, with wide, gleaming eyes fixated on him.

An uneasy feeling washed over him, making him quickly retreat inside.

Abandoned on the table were a lump of cheese and two slices of bread for him to hastily devour before being banished to his bedroom for the evening. As he barely reached the landing, the doorbell rang, and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Remember, boy - one sound -”

Harry felt kinda glad that he didn’t have to deal with the Dursleys’ fancy and fake friendliness for the night, Vernon had been practically obsessed for the last two weeks about a ridiculous dinner party, eager to cosy up to a wealthy builder and his wife to further his ambitious plans for social climbing.

Vernon wasn’t very good at being sneaky. He thought everyone would like it if he showed off a lot and acted super nice. His big plans for the night were more about bragging about how rich he thought he was than actually making genuine connections with the Masons.

Of course, Harry had no place in their pantomime of the perfect family. Not that he cared all that much; in fact, he preferred it that way.

Resigned to a dull night of staring at walls, as all his belongings had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs the moment Harry had arrived home. Numerous times, Harry had been on the point of unlocking it by magic, but the risk wasn’t worth it. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school, a fact he hadn’t shared with the Dursleys. He knew it was only their fear of him turning them into dung beetles that prevented them from locking him in the cupboard with his wand and broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under his breath, relishing in Dudley’s hasty retreat from the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him, but even that had lost its appeal. Though he pondered if the restriction applied to wandless magic too, not that he could do much spells like that, anyway.

He entered his bedroom, closed the door, and turned to wearily sank onto his bed. But before settling in, he checked the window. A quick glance confirmed that the dog was still sitting across the street, its gaze fixed on Harry.

Chapter Text

It was nearing midmorning, two days after the Masons’ visit, and Harry found himself perched on the pavement alongside the forested edge of the street. A prevailing sense of loneliness enveloped his thoughts. The only companionship available to him at that moment was Burmese, nestled in a rosebush and sound asleep, along with a couple of other snakes.  

Seated there, Harry couldn’t help but question whether Ron and Hermione had spared a thought for him. Had their summer been so incredible that he didn’t even cross their minds? The age-old saying, “out of sight, out of mind,” echoed through his mind.  

Abruptly, the distinct hum of a car engine drew Harry’s attention. Looking up, he observed a dark red car smoothly parking in front of the Dursleys’ house, followed closely by an unmistakable police car, proudly displaying “Surrey Police” on its side.  

As the car doors opened, a tall woman emerged. She towered over the average person, her stern expression softened by kind eyes. With olive skin and long, wavy black hair, she cut an imposing, yet somehow a compassionate figure.  

Aunt Petunia peered anxiously out of their window; her expression twisted in horror. A knock echoed sharply through the Dursley household, prompting Uncle Vernon to cautiously open the door. Standing on the threshold was a woman named Ms Aderes, a social worker, who cast a discerning gaze upon Uncle Vernon, causing his complexion to visibly pale.  

Reluctantly, Uncle Vernon ushered Ms Aderes inside. The atmosphere tensed as she insisted on meeting Harry. From the pavement, Harry observed the unfolding drama, his heart pounding with apprehension.  

Ms Aderes entered the living room, scanning the space with a critical eye. The room, like the rest of the house, bore the mark of the Dursleys’ obsession with appearances, impeccably neat and orderly. Seated on the couch were a thin, blonde woman and an extremely overweight boy, both eyeing her nervously.  

With a composed smile, she greeted them, “Good morning.” However, her stern demeanour remained. “Two months ago, there was a report on suspected child neglect, as you were informed. The investigation is ongoing, and Ms Hickory has already visited you. Multiple neighbours confirmed the existence of a second child in this house, yet there were no signs of said child during her visit. She raised suspicions about the absence of your nephew. As you did not provide sufficient information about the whereabouts of the second child, the investigation was intensified.” Ms Aderes continued; her gaze unwavering.  

“You’re not the worker from before,” Petunia Dursley, the thin blonde woman, noted, nervously adjusting her blouse.  

“Ms Hickory fell ill. I’m here instead of her, to check on the well-being of Harry Potter.”  

Vernon Dursley, still looking uneasy, gestured toward Harry, who stood awkwardly near the doorway. Ms Aderes studied him for a moment before retrieving a clipboard and pen from her briefcase, her expression serious as she turned back to the Dursleys.  

“Let’s start with some questions about Harry’s education and welfare. You claim that he attends Stonewall High, a local public school, correct?” she asked.  

“Well, actually no,” Petunia replied quickly, hoping to conclude the interrogation swiftly. “He was supposed to, but we made the decision to send him to St. Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys,” Vernon added, his face reddening. “He was just too much of a handful for us. We mentioned this to the previous worker.”  

“Funny that,” said Ms Aderes. “We contacted St. Brutus’s after some of your neighbours mentioned them. There’s no record of his enrollment or expulsion from that school. They said they never heard of Harry Potter, nor do they have any records of anyone by the name of Dursley communicating with them,” she stated, her voice cold and sharp.  

“Oh,” Vernon responded, taken aback. “Well, they must have misfiled the records!” he blustered.  

Ms Aderes continued to scrutinise the Dursleys, her gaze piercing and unyielding. “Misfiled records, you say? That seems rather convenient, considering the numerous inconsistencies we’ve already encountered in this case.” She paused for a moment, allowing her words to sink in before pressing on.  

“Now, let’s discuss the incident at the zoo last year,” Ms Aderes stated firmly, her tone leaving no room for evasion.  

The Dursleys exchanged nervous glances, their composure slipping further. Petunia’s grip on her blouse tightened visibly.  

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Petunia stammered, her voice betraying her unease.  

Ms Aderes’s gaze remained fixed on them, her expression unreadable. “Several witnesses reported that two boys inside the reptile exhibit, one – according to them- breaking the glass and trying to drown the other one. Additionally, a newly installed security camera recorded the incident. Can you explain what happened?“  

Petunia and Vernon exchanged nervous glances, their discomfort growing more palpable. Petunia cleared her throat, attempting to maintain composure, and Vernon’s face turned a shade paler as he struggled to find a response. “It was a misunderstanding, a... a prank gone wrong,” he mumbled, his voice faltering.  

But their flimsy excuses did not convince Ms Aderes. “A prank, you say? How convenient that it coincided with the beginning of our investigation. I find it rather curious, don’t you?”  

The room fell into a heavy silence, tension crackling in the air.  

“Miss Aderes? I think you should see this,” one police officer broke the silence, standing by the cupboard under the stairs.  

“Hey now!” the overweight man protested. “What are you doing?”  

Ignoring Vernon’s protests, Ms Aderes followed the officer to the cupboard, a normal-looking one except for its two locks, one a standard door handle lock and the other a chain lock. Written on the door was “ Harry’s Room ”.  

As the realisation of their deceit set in, Vernon’s face turned from pale to a deep shade of red. His eyes bulged with anger, and he took a menacing step toward Harry. The atmosphere in the room grew tense as the Dursleys’ facade of normalcy crumbled.  

“You little ingrate!” Vernon roared, his voice echoing through the living room. He raised his beefy hand, swinging it at Harry with a force fuelled by years of suppressed frustration.  

Caught off guard, Harry stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table. The room fell into chaos as Petunia gasped, police officers jumped into action, and Dorisa’s stern expression turned to one of shock.  

Vernon, his face twisted with rage, advanced toward Harry, his anger seemingly unrestrained. “THIS IS YOUR DOING!! YOU LITTLE FREAK!” he bellowed as Harry sidestepped, hiding behind one police officer. “YOU MENACE! WE’VE HAD TO PUT UP WITH YOUR NONSENSE FOR YEARS,” he spat out, continuing his assault.  

But before Vernon could reach anyone, the second police officer swiftly intercepted him, grabbing hold of his outstretched arm and halting his advance with a firm grip. “That’s enough, Mr Dursley,” the officer commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority.  

Vernon struggled against the officer’s hold, his fury unabated as he continued to thrash and shout obscenities.  

With a sudden jerk, Vernon broke free from the officer’s grip and lunged at the social worker, who was standing near the cupboard. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down, attempting to punch her in the face. She screamed and fought back, kicking him in the shin and biting his hand. The other officer rushed to help her, but Vernon was too strong and stubborn to let go.  

“Get off me, you brute!” Dorisa shouted, clawing at his eyes.  

Vernon ignored her words and continued to attack her, his face contorted with hatred. He landed a blow on her cheek, making her bleed. She felt a surge of pain and anger, pushing him off with all her strength. Gasping for air, she quickly scrambled to her feet and fumbled in her pocket for something.  

Out came a small canister.  

As she attempted to regain her footing, Vernon closed the distance between them, his massive hands reaching out to grab her. As Vernon loomed over her, his rage palpable, she knew she had to act fast. But as Vernon lunged forward at her once more, his rage consuming him, an unexpected twist of irony stopped him. Just as Vernon reached out to strike, his foot caught on an errant rug, sending him careening forward in a clumsy stumble. He let out a startled cry as he lost his balance, his momentum betraying him, and with a loud crash, his massive frame collided with the floor with a resounding thud, his outstretched hand grasping at thin air.  

The room fell into stunned silence as Vernon lay sprawled on the ground, his face contorted in a mix of anger and embarrassment. Ms Aderes, unfazed by his feeble attempt, maintained her composure, her gaze unwavering as she watched the spectacle unfold.  

The police officers, quick to react, rushed forward to restrain Vernon once more, their combined efforts subduing him. With his rage momentarily quelled by the unexpected fall, Vernon lay on the ground, his chest heaving with exertion.  

Petunia, her facade shattered, stood frozen in shock.  

Breathing heavily, Ms Aderes spared a glance at Harry, who stood nearby, his eyes wide with shock. Stepping forward, she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, offering him a small nod of encouragement.  

She wasted no time. With a calm yet authoritative demeanour, she directed the officers to place Vernon and Petunia Dursley under arrest.  

Harry’s heart raced at the violence and chaos before him. He knew that Uncle Vernon can be violent, but he never witnessed it to this degree.  

Amidst the commotion, he noticed something familiar—a faint wisp of pale green mist swirling around the edges of the rug near Uncle Vernon’s ankle.  

Harry’s mind flashed back to the encounter with the Rider and his dragon, Alohilani.  

Confusion mingled with his relief as he watched the mist disappear as quickly as it appeared.  

Harry’s mind raced with questions, but he couldn’t dwell on them for long as the events in the room ended.  

Chapter Text

Four days had passed since the tumultuous events at Privet Drive. Harry found himself in unfamiliar place: an orphanage. The transition from the Dursleys’ home to this new environment was jarring, to say the least.   

Harry couldn’t shake the memories of the events that led him here. He did not expect to end there. He thought that the Rider – Ms Aderes- would take him away, not send him there.   

Despite the initial shock of finding himself in the orphanage, Harry gradually began to adjust to his new surroundings. The other children, while wary of him tried to be welcoming, and the staff, while well-meaning and often overwhelmed with the number of children in their care, leaving little time for individual attention, did their best to make him feel at home.   

Each day brought new experiences and challenges, but amidst it all, he couldn’t shake the lingering uncertainty. But as the end of the week approached, Harry felt lost and alone in this unfamiliar environment.   

As the sun began to rise on another day, Harry found himself sitting by the window, lost in thought. The events of the past week played over and over in his mind, each detail etched into his memory with startling clarity.   

Suddenly, a knock at the door roused Harry from his thoughts. Startled, he turned to see one of the staff members entering the room, a look of surprise on their face.   

 “Harry,” they said gently, “there’s someone here to see you.”   

Confused, Harry followed the staff member out of the room and down the hallway. His heart raced as they approached the entrance of the orphanage.   

Standing in the doorway was the Rid—Ms Aderes.   

For a moment, Harry could only stare at her in disbelief. Then, without a word, Harry followed Ms Aderes out of the orphanage and into the waiting car.  

*****  

Harry sat on a bed for a long time, absent-mindedly stroking Hedwig. Coiled beside him on the bed was Burmese, resting quietly, occasionally flicking out his tongue. The sky outside the window was changing rapidly from bright pale blue to a cold, steely grey and then, gradually turning into a deep, velvety blue. It had been an eventful week—one that had turned his world upside down.   

As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, a mix of emotions swirled within him. Relief washed over him, knowing that he was no longer legally bound to the Dursleys, the family that had treated him so poorly for so long. But alongside that relief, there was also a lingering sense of uncertainty and fear.  

During his stay in the orphanage, Harry wondered how the Rider had found him.   

How he—she—knew to look for him.   

Why was she looking for him in the first place? 

After the end of the school year, he resigned himself that he will never see the mysterious, secretive, dragon rider ever again.   

Yet, for some reason, she sent him a letter. Letter, that he never received, which started the chain of events, that led to this moment.   

Apparently, the never received letter was enchanted to inform the sender when the recipient touch it. But when the enchantment never activated, she went to investigate.  

Apparently, something called house-elf – whatever that is- was stopping his letters. All of them.   

There was a thick wad of envelopes, birthday cards and presents.   

And then there was her assurance about the fate of the Dursleys—a fate she claimed to know with unwavering certainty.   

She detailed that they would be arrested for misusing of child support funds, child neglect, and, in Vernon’s case, an act of assault. Dudley, on the other hand, would be sent to a juvenile correctional facility.  

Yet, when he voiced his doubts, questioning how she could be so certain of these outcomes, her answer was a confident smirk and that she and someone else had intervened, speeding up the process with magic.   

Then, after explaining the situation, she advised him to rest with a gentle but firm tone. She pointed out the importance of allowing himself time to adjust from the recent chaos in his life.  

Promising to return, she assured him that there were matters she needed to attend to but that she would be there in the next days.  

As she bid him farewell and left the room, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that settled over him. There were still so many unanswered questions, so many troubles looming on the horizon.   

But for now, as he gazed out the window at the fading light of the day, all he could do was follow her advice.  

With a sigh, Harry could just wonder, “It’s been a very weird week, Hedwig. Right, Burnese?” He yawned.  

Instead of answering, Burmese just flicked his tongue in response, a subtle acknowledgment.  

And without even removing his glasses, Harry slumped back onto his pillows and fell asleep, with Hedwig perched on head of bed and Burmese curled up at his side.  

***********  

Dorisa sat in the park, waiting.  

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the neatly trimmed grass, while a soft breeze rustled through the leaves of the towering oak trees that lined the path. The park was alive with the distant sounds of children laughing and playing on the swing. Birds flitted from branch to branch, their melodies weaving through the air, adding a peaceful, almost idyllic atmosphere to the scene.  

Dorisa, however, felt anything but peaceful. She glanced at her watch, impatiently drumming her fingers on the wooden bench beneath her. Despite the park's calm, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, anxieties, and expectations.  

After a while, she noticed a familiar dog trotting towards her.  

Well, 'dog' was an inaccurate description. It was huge and hulking, with tawny, orange-tinged fur, black back and tail, and sandy marks on its face. The creature moved with a purpose, its amber brown eyes locking onto hers as it approached with a questioning gaze.  

“Hey there, Soraichi,” she murmured, waving in greeting.  

The dog—Soraichi—responded with a nod and sat down beside her, its large frame comically dwarfing the bench. The tension in Dorisa’s shoulders eased slightly at the sight of her companion, though the weight of what was to come still pressed heavily on her.  

Just then, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up to see someone walking toward her. The figure was someone she knew all too well—herself. It was as if she were staring into a mirror, every detail perfectly replicated.  

The other Dorisa smiled warmly, "Hello, other me," her double said, her voice identical. "It is done." and sat next to Dorisa.  

Dorisa nodded slowly, absorbing the words. She glanced at Soraichi, who seemed content to sit and observe the exchange. “And you’re sure it will work?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt.  

“Absolutely,” her double replied confidently. “ ‘You’ have just spent three months in child services, and Soraichi and 'me' were observing that family. No need to feel bad about them, trust yourself.” she said with note of finality,  

Suddenly, as if the air itself shimmered, her double began to fade away. Within moments, she disappeared entirely, leaving Dorisa staring at the spot where she had just been.  

Dorisa turned to look at Soraichi, only to find that the massive dog had vanished as well. In its place, a man now sat on the bench beside her. He was fairly tall, lean-built, with peach skin, amber brown eyes, and long orange hair with white and dark stripes tied up by a black ribbon, with long strands hanging on either side of his face.  

“It’s in motion, Dorisa,” the man said, his voice steady. “Too late to halt the plan now.”  

Dorisa took a deep breath, her gaze shifting nervously around them, making sure that anyone in the park noticed. The park, with its calm lake and laughing children, seemed worlds away. “Are you sure it will work? What if the old—”  

“Don’t worry, he will. This entire country is unhealthily obsessed with that boy. And Dumbledore is a scheming old man. He’s used to being always right and in control, surrounded by incompetent people in power seeking his help.”  

Dorisa nodded, but still felt a pang of doubt.  

“Where is the boy now?” asked Soraichi.  

“I got him into Wolterton Hall,” Dorisa replied, her voice firmer now. “And I messed with some papers of a few children.”  

Soraichi quirked an eyebrow at her.  

“Nothing serious! Changed or added a letter in one name here and there. Johnson became Johanson, or Jonanstone, Potter became Porter, Jones became Jonas, Breanna to Brianna, Raley to Reily, Dillon to Dylan, Copland to Copelan, Cockburn to Colburn. The last one will thank me, honestly.”  

Dorisa saw the look Soraichi was throwing at her.  

“I chose several old social workers whose eyesights and handwritings are notoriously bad. No one will suspect a thing.”  

Soraichi sighed but nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re thorough, I’ll give you that. Now we wait and see how things unfold.”  

Dorisa relaxed slightly, feeling a bit more confident.  

“Let’s see  how much do they knew the laws.”  

But as the evening light dimmed, casting a serene glow over the park, a mix of anticipation and anxiety crept back. There was no turning back now. The wheels were in motion, and all she could do was hope that everything would go as planned.  

Chapter Text

The early morning mist clung to the rolling hills of the countryside, slowly lifting as the sun peeked over the horizon. Harry stood by the small window of his new bedroom, gazing out at the endless stretch of greenery. The air here felt fresher, the world quieter, as if it had been waiting just for him to notice its beauty.

A vast garden sprawled out below, neatly lined with rows of vegetables and vibrant flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Tall trees bordered the garden, their leaves rustling softly as the morning breeze stirred them.

 Beyond that were open fields, sweeping lawns that sloped gently away from the house, opening wide and extending into the distance, broken only by clusters of trees and the occasional grove, each placed as if part of a larger plan to enhance the view.

And the view- it was nothing like what Harry was used to at the Dursleys'—it was quiet, peaceful, almost untouched.

Pathways crisscrossed the property, lined with hedgerows and framed by towering trees that stood like sentinels, guarding the edges of the estate. Farther off, clusters of mature trees dotted the horizon, their dense canopies forming a natural barrier that cradled the land within.

The landscape stretched on and on, far beyond what Harry could see.

It was his third morning here, and though the feeling of unfamiliarity still lingered, a sense of ease was beginning to settle in. The house was old but sturdy, wrapping him in a warmth he associated with Hogwarts. But here, there were no stifling rules, no biting comments, no glares to avoid. For the first time in years, Harry felt like he could breathe.

A soft hiss caught his attention, and he turned to see Burmese uncoiling from a warm spot within the glass walls of his new terrarium. The python moved slowly, almost lazily, as if he too was enjoying the peaceful morning.

“Good morning, Burmese,” Harry murmured softly, leaning down to watch as the snake lifted his head and flicked his tongue, tasting the air. Harry tapped gently on the glass, and Burmese seemed to acknowledge him with a faint flicker of his eyes, settling back down on his coil and stretching in a relaxed motion.

A soft hoot from above drew Harry’s gaze upward. Hedwig, still perched on the wooden beam in the shadows of the room, blinked down at him.

“And good night to you, Hedwig,” Harry whispered with a smile. The snowy owl puffed up slightly, settling herself into a more comfortable position, clearly ready to rest after a night of hunting.

He wasn’t sure what the day would bring.

He glanced at the small pile of clothes that sat neatly folded on a worn chair in the corner of his room. Not Dudley’s hand-me-downs this time, but soft, simple garments that fit him properly.

A light knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Harry turned and, just as always, Mrs Harris stepped inside, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said with a gentle smile. “I thought you might like some breakfast. There’s porridge on the stove, with some toast, if you prefer — and a certain guest for you.”

The Rid- Dorisa,  he thought excitedly.

Harry nodded, returning her smile, and followed her down the winding staircase. He was already beginning to feel at home here, noticing the little details he’d come to expect: the gentle creak of each step, the worn, polished gleam of the wooden banister inviting his hand to slide along its length, the light streaming through tall, arched windows that cast the hall in a golden glow.

Soft sounds drifted from the kitchen and neighbouring rooms—the murmur of voices, footsteps in distant parts of the house — the comforting hum of a house alive with subtle activity. It was a quiet rhythm he was starting to enjoy, a world carrying on around him without demanding anything of him. He could simply be here - a part of the life filling these old walls.

As Harry entered the kitchen, the warmth greeted him, inviting aroma of freshly baked bread, drying herbs and various spices.

Seated at the small wooden table, already sipping a cup of tea, was Dorisa.

She looked up as he entered, her distant expression softening into a small smile. "Morning, kiddo."

"Good morning, Ride- ehm- Dorisa," he replied, settling into the seat across from her.

I need to stop call her Rider.

He berated himself just as Mrs Harris brought over a bowl of porridge and a plate of sweet toast, bustling with gentle energy as she placed them in front of Harry. "Eat up, dear," she said, patting his shoulder before leaving them alone.

They ate in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Harry still wasn’t sure exactly why the Rid-Dorisa was doing here, or what she wanted with him.

"You’re adjusting well, it seems," she said after a moment, her voice soft but filled with a depth he was coming to recognise.

He nodded, setting his spoon down. "It’s… nice here. Different from what I’m used to."

She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him feel almost transparent. "Different can be a good thing. Sometimes, it’s just what we need to rediscover ourselves."

Harry finished his porridge, enjoying the warmth that spread through him, and pushed the bowl aside. He glanced at Dorisa, who was still observing him, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“Thanks for the terrarium. I really appreciate it—Burmese too, though he insists that he doesn’t,” Harry said, eager to break the silence.

Dorisa chuckled softly, her expression lightening. “Does he now?”

Harry smiled, picturing the boa constrictor lazily basking in the warm sunlight. “Yeah, I guess so. I think he is just pissy because it reminds him of the zoo.”

She laughed again, and the sound danced through the kitchen. “I can understand that. Living in a box doesn’t sound appealing. He probably prefers the idea of roaming free, exploring the wild.”

“Definitely,” Harry replied, hint of mischief in his voice. “He wants to go to Brazil—that’s what made him escape in the first place."

“Brazil, eh? Well, his species is native there after all,” Dorisa said, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Maybe he dreams of sunbathing on a tropical beach, hunting in the lush jungles. And by the way, it’s nice to see you nurturing something, especially after everything you’ve been through.”

Harry nodded, feeling the weight of her words. “It does help. It’s like… for the first time, I’m able to focus on something that’s not just about surviving or dealing with... stuff.”

She looked at him then, and he saw the understanding in her eyes.

Dorisa studied him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “How has your magic training been going?”

Harry shifted hesitantly, looking at her cautiously. “But I’m not supposed to use magic outside of school. What if someone finds out?”

Dorisa’s expression shifted to one of reassurance. “You don’t have to worry about that here, Harry. This place is special. You’re safe to practise your magic without fear of the rules or repercussions.”

“But how?” he pressed, intrigued but cautious. “What makes this place different?”

She smiled cryptically, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mystery. "Well, it's a long story," she breathed. "But to keep it simple... politics."

“Huh?”

“What do you know about Merlin and King Arthur?” she asked with a chuckle.

Harry blinked, taken aback. “Merlin and King Arthur? Like the...?”

Dorisa nodded, her smile widening. “Yes. They are not just stories, though... the stories may be far from the truth, as it was so long ago.” She leaned in slightly, her tone conspiratorial. “But some things are certain. The Court Wizard of the King, for example—though in this case, it’s of the Queen."

Harry’s eyes widened, a spark of excitement mixed with disbelief. “Wait—are you saying that… there’s a real court wizard?”

Dorisa chuckled, and while amused by his reaction, she sighed. “In a way. But not like you’d imagine, I’m afraid.”

Harry leaned in, fascinated.

“Lisen,- I’m not a history arcan—history teacher or a politician.... In short- only Court Wizard is allow- no— there are places where the Ministry can’t ...interfere... without permission from the Court Wizard. Places that belong to royal and ruling families. If the Ministry uses magic in these places or on the people who live here, there will be problems. Have you learned about ICW in school already?”

Harry shook his head slowly, but piecing together what she was saying. “Not really. But...they’re like… magical United Nations?”

“Close enough,” Dorisa agreed, folding her hands thoughtfully. “The ICW sets broader rules, and countries follow them – usually - at best completely; in some cases they adjust them. Like the Statute of Secrecy and the penalties for breaking it. So, what I am saying,” she added with a smile, “is that here, you - WE can practise magic as safely as you would at Hogwarts—without sneaking into the forest at night."

Harry’s mind was racing, filled with questions he wasn’t sure how to ask. Except for one.

“So, what is the plan?”

Chapter Text

The days passed quickly as Harry fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that wasn’t really a routine, but rather a peaceful flow of activities. He began each morning with breakfast in the kitchen, often shared with Dorisa or Mrs Harris or another member of the staff. After, he would help around the house or in the garden, explore the estate and the surrounding countryside and even ventured into the nearby towns.

During his magic lessons, just as they had been during their secret meetings the year before, they stick with spells from his first year.

During that time, a letter from Hogwards arrived, and Harry found himself ignoring it. The letter sat untouched in the corner of his room for days, and while he glanced at it occasionally, he made no move to open it.

Then, one afternoon, as they wrapped up another lesson, Dorisa broke the news.

“We’ll need to pause our sessions for a few days,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

Harry looked up, surprised. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she assured him. “I have something to take care of. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll pick up where we left off.”

Harry frowned, but nodded. “Alright. I guess I’ll just... keep practicing on my own?”

Dorisa smiled faintly, her expression thoughtful. “Or... you take a few days off, too. But if you insist- just don’t overdo it.”

That night, she had packed a small bag and when the morning came she left without much ceremony, before Harry woke up.

The Leaky Cauldron was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. For such a supposedly famous place, it was very dark and shabby. Then again, if its initial purpose was to serve as a disguise in case of non-magical breach, it worked as an excellent first line of defence.

The Diagon Alley was packed with shoppers going about their business, passing shop after shop in a constant, lively stream. Dorisa weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, Soraichi keeping pace beside her with an unhurried stride. His sharp eyes darted from shop windows to the passing people, as if cataloging every detail of their surroundings.

A few people glanced their way, but no one stared for long—though Soraichi draw more attention due to his unusual hair colour. A few of the looks bordered on rude, but neither of them paid it any mind.

“Do you ever relax?” Dorisa asked, glancing sideways at him as they skirted around a group of children pressing their faces against the window of a shop displaying the latest broomsticks and sport gear.

“I am relaxed,” Soraichi replied without looking at her. “This is me relaxed.”

She snorted softly.

As they continued down the alley, the crowd grew noticeably denser near one of the shops. Dorisa narrowed her eyes at the source of the congestion—Flourish and Blotts. A garish, sparkling sign hung in a display window:

GILDEROY LOCKHART BOOK SIGNING! TODAY, 12:30–4:30 PM!

“Oh, great,” Dorisa muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.

A small but growing queue had formed outside the shop, most of them women in their mid to late thirties, all trying to look casual as they clutched freshly purchased copies of Magical Me to their chests. A few were giggling.

Soraichi glanced over. “Should I know who that is?”

“Do you know about the werewolf incident in Australia?” she asked without looking at him. ”The one where none of the locals could remember anything the way our Order member stationed there at that time could?”

He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “...Yes. Inconsistencies as of later. Obvious signs of tampering.”

“Exactly.” she said with a jerk of her chin toward the bookshop. “Well, someone reported that he arrived sometime after the incident. That’s when the locals started telling a different story than what our rider had reported.”

Soraichi’s expression soured as he turned a sharper, more scrutinising gaze on the shop sign above the store. “He is a suspect then?”

Dorisa smirked. “Oh, he certainly is. The main one—and the only one, really. I mean... he took the credit. Wrote a book, for gods’ sake.”

She sighed, exasperated. “The Arcanarch of our Arcane Order asked the Arcanarchs of Law and International Relations to investigate. Did you not hear about that? You work in International, after all. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

He gave her a sideway glance, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “No. I’m here because of you and the boy. There are... more plans in motion that you are aware of.”

Dorisa blinked, glancing sideways at him. “Aha. That’s what this is, then? A babysitter duty?”

Soraichi didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed ahead, scanning the shifting crowd with quiet vigilance. “No, don’t think that. You know what you did was...”

“Against the rules.”

“Well, yes, obliviously. What did you expect, no punishment?"

Dorisa gave a dry laugh, one with little humour. “I expected to be degraded and not allowed to leave the Atolls ever again. Not reassigned to a garden teaching duty with a child and a trowel.”

“This isn’t just a teaching duty,” Soraichi said, tone flat but not unkind. “It’s a little bit more complicated. A mitigation. As I said, there are more plans in motion. You stirred a few of them and---” he sighed with defeat, “Let’s not talk about it here.”

Dorisa snorted but didn’t argue. The crowd was thickening as they moved deeper into the alley. “Come on. Let’s get to the bank before the street becomes completely impassable.”

Gringotts loomed ahead, its snowy-white facade rising above the surrounding shops like a watchful sentinel. The goblin-run bank was intimidating—tall, gleaming, and vaguely predatory in its silence, despite the bustle outside.

The great bronze doors stood open, flanked by a pair of goblin guards, who eyed each passerby with practiced disinterest—or suspicion. Probably both.

As they approached, the goblins straightened. One of them gave the faintest nod in Soraichi’s direction. Not a welcome. A recognition.

Dorisa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here recently?”

“Not exactly,” Soraichi murmured. “But goblins can sense magic better than humans. Mainly the untrained ones of this country.”

“Right,” she muttered, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve as they stepped inside.

That’s technically when the trouble started, though it didn’t seem like trouble at the time.

A few early risers were already in, and as they exchanged currency, it was easy to notice the other customers trickling in. That in itself might’ve been fine, except for the way the aristocratic man looked down his nose in Soraichi’s direction. He scoffed loudly, overhearing the goblin explaining the exchange rates and denomination conversions of magical money.

Soraichi’s eyes flicked to him briefly, his expression unreadable. The man’s apparent disdain didn’t seem to faze him.

From there, their errand was brief- after the exchange, followed discreet, silent descent far below the public levels for a routine check on the dragons guarding the deepest vaults. They rode the cart down tunnels colder and darker than most wizards even knew existed—tunnels so deep that only the oldest goblin personnel were permitted to enter them.

After that, they didn’t linger longer than necessary.

The trouble continued the moment they stepped outside, and Dorisa steered them toward the nearby ice cream parlour, drawn more by the promise of a seat than any real craving.

And so it was that they encountered the father and son again. Not that either Dorisa or Soraichi paid them much attention. They were just another pair of customers, and the alley was busy enough that they barely registered.

Still, when they reached the counter, the sight of jewel-toned scoops piled high in frosted glass jars was more tempting than she’d expected.

“Two scoops of blackcurrant and banana, in a cup,” she told the server, squinting at one particularly shimmery option. “And that—whatever it is with the glitter.”

The man behind the counter smiled politely. “That’ll be five Sickles, four Knuts."

Dorisa blinked. “Right. That’s the... medium silver ones and... little copper ones? And it was twenty-nine Knuts per Sickle, or twenty-nine Sickles per Galleon?” she said, fumbling with the unfamiliar coins in her pouch.

And that was when the offspring started the real trouble.

The boy looked to be around young Potter’s age, though taller, with pale, almost white-blond hair. His eyes narrowed as he glanced over at Dorisa and Soraichi, an expression of obvious distaste on his face.

“Great—another Mudblood,” the boy muttered under his breath, yet loud enough to carry across the counter, his voice dripping with scorn as he leaned in toward his father.

Several customers glanced their way, but no one seemed offended. If anything, they gave rolled their eyes and gave the boy the indulgent sort of look that really small children often receive when they do something considered rude in polite society.

“Don’t look at them, Draco, and eat your ice-cream,” his father snapped, voice low and stern, eyes darkening with haughtiness. “They are beneath our attention; do not honour them with your gawking.”

Draco’s eyes went wide, but rather than look away, he stared at Dorisa and Soraichi even more intently—until his father’s silver-tipped cane clattered sharply against the floor, demanding obedience.

“Do not make me regret this by making a scene, Draco,” the father added quietly, and Draco finally turned back to his ice-cream with a sullen huff.

Other customers’s looks were less indulgent now, several of them giving the father pointed, annoyed glares, one even made a face at him, sticking his tongue out. That went to waste, though, as after his initial look, the man had taken his own advice and was determinedly looking anywhere but at their table with stony disapproval.

And if fortune had been on their side, that is how the day would have ended. They would have finished their ice cream, given a friendly nod towards the nice strangers one table over while avoiding looking at the rather less friendly man and his son at the other table; and walked away without incident.

Dorisa would have gone back to Wolterton Hall, babysit--’teaching’ young Potter. Soraichi would go...whenever he stayed- some hotel, under a tree in his animagi form, Buckingham palace with his brother? Dorisa didn’t really know. She hadn’t asked. She didn’t really want to know.

They would never have seen the boy or his father again.

But that’s not how the rest of their day went.

They finished their ice cream and were just standing up and making sure they had gathered all of their belongings when more customers arrived, a couple, dressed plainly but with the unmistakable look of people unused to the magical world, with their daughter- bushy haired girl with a ginger cat.

The girl’s parents ushered her toward the counter, clearly trying not to stare at the wizarding oddities while pretending they were very much not out of place. Her mother gave a tentative smile to the server; the father hovered protectively close.

It might have passed as just another awkward new blood family moment in Diagon Alley—until the offspring turned and saw her.

His lip curled.

“Ugh,” he sneered, loud enough to carry again. “Another one. What is it today—Mudblood parade?”

The father did not flinch this time. He only gave an audible sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man enduring a slow, dull headache.

Dorisa paused in the tightening of her cloak clasp. Her gaze flicked from Draco to the girl with the cat, then to Soraichi, who had not moved, but whose expression had gone still and unreadable—like the calm before a very dangerous storm.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” she said, not bothering to keep her voice down as she shot him a sharp sideways glance. “We are not starting something over a brat with too much hair gel and a vocabulary he doesn’t understand.”

Soraichi didn’t look at her, but something in the tension of his shoulders eased—fractionally. Just enough for her to breathe again.

At the table, Draco’s smug expression faltered, uncertainty flickering behind his narrowed eyes. He glanced quickly at his father, as if to gauge whether he still had the upper hand.

He did not.

The tall, pale man leaned slightly toward him, voice low and sharp as a blade. “What did I tell you about acknowledging them?”

Draco shrank in his seat, murmuring something indistinct.

“Speak clearly,” the man hissed. “Must I repeat myself in front of them?”

“Sorry,” Draco muttered, flushing red.

Dorisa, halfway through the doorway, paused mid-step. Her hand tightened on the edge of the doorframe as her eyes slid toward the pair again.

“That’s it?” she exclaimed, incredulous. “That’s the problem? Not the fact he spat a slur, just that he acknowledged us? What a parenting.”

The pale man’s head turned slowly, his cool grey eyes narrowing as he regarded her with icy disdain. “Excuse me?"

“You’re excused,” Dorisa snapped, spinning to face him fully. “But I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I suggest you learn your place,” the man said icily, rising just slightly from his seat. “It is not your concern how I discipline my son.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Dorisa replied with forced calm, eyes narrowing. “When your son is publicly throwing around terms like Mudblood, and you act like the only misstep was making eye contact with the witnesses—yeah. That makes it exactly my concern.”

Soraichi still hadn’t spoken. He leaned lightly against the doorframe beside her, arms crossed, smirking and eyes focused—but unreadable. Like a man measuring variables in a duel, he hadn’t decided whether to join.

The tension in the parlour thickened. The girl with the cat stood frozen beside her parents, her wide eyes flicking between the adults. Her mother put a gentle hand on her shoulder, as if to guide her back. Her father, however, looked like he was about to say something himself.

The father took a step forward, voice low and venomous. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?”

Dorisa’s reply to the man’s arrogant question was cut short—not by fear, but by Soraichi’s calm, clear voice sliding between them like a blade.

“Parents are usually trying to raise their children to be polite,” he said calmly, looking the man directly in the eye.

The unpleasant expression twisted further, fury sharpening his patrician features.

“The day my son goes around excusing himself to Muggles is the day I disown him,” he spat. “Now kindly go away—and take the Mudblood bastards with you—before I show you exactly how inferior your magicless blood is!"

Silence crashed down.

The ice cream shop went still. Not hushed—silent. Not a cough, not a scrape of a chair. Even the air seemed suspended. Outside the window, time might have kept moving, but inside, the world froze in the wake of those words.

Dorisa didn’t move. Not at first. The pulse in her throat was thunder. Something hot and cold burned beneath her skin, lashing upward from her spine like fire eating through frost.

She took a step forward.

“What did you just call us?” she asked, voice low, soft, and more terrifying than a shout. Her tone didn’t rise, didn’t quiver—it carved through the stillness with surgical precision, accompanied by the slightest growl. Like the breath before an explosion.

Soraichi moved then, swift and silent, stepping between her and the girl with the cat, shielding the child and her parents with his body, the silent reprimand in his voice as he said her name in warning.

It was just as well that Draco didn’t move or Dorisa might already have had to drive her fist home.

“Not in my shop!” the shop owner cried, red-faced and breathless, and darted out from behind the counter, arms outstretched like he could physically push the violence back into the air. “I won’t have brawls in here!”

“You let that filth eat your food; you invited trouble,” snapped, pulling a wand from the hidden sheath within his cane. Only then did he seem to remember his son, thrusting Draco behind him with one arm. Draco peeked around the back of his father’s robes, eyes wide.

“Hey now!” someone at another table called out, indignant. “All she asked for was a bit of manners—no need for name-calling!"

“Not in my shop!” the shopkeeper exclaimed again, and with an annoyed growl, the man muttered some spell under his nose. His wand sparked and suddenly the shopkeeper flew backwards.

“Hey!” Dorisa shouted, that ice-hot current of fury and magic surging beneath her skin exploding at the sight of this needless violence, and even before she realised what she was doing it, her fist was flying into contact with the man’s face.

But the punch never landed.

Soraichi raised one hand—open, calm, empty. Magic shimmered to life around it—magenta, rich and pulsing like a heartbeat, curling at the edges of his fingers in controlled spirals.

It curled around Dorisa’s clenched fist, catching it mid-flight—mere millimetres from the man’s face. At the same time, the same magic cradled the shopkeeper midair, suspending him gently, preventing his fall.

“Enough,” Soraichi said. The word was not loud, but it echoed like thunder. “You don’t want to do this.”

Everything froze.

Now everyone was staring. Even the cat.

“Everyone will calm down,” Soraichi continued, tone composed but ironclad. “Mainly you, Dorisa.” He released her fist slowly and guided the shopkeeper down with a subtle motion.

Then he turned toward the pale man with the wand. “And you—you really shouldn’t anger her,” he added matter-of-factly. “She’s studying under one of the top battle magic specialists in Asia. I’d bet on her over a dozen full-trained Aurors—even now, not fully trained yet.”

With a snarl, the man raised his hand and shouted at them, swishing his wand.

Soraichi reflected the spell with an uninterested, lazy wave of his hand.

Then another, and another.

Each swatted aside with a flick or a twist of fingers, like brushing dust from a coat.

“Serpensortia!” the man roared in desperation, and from the tip of his wand burst a writhing black coil that struck the ground with a dull thump. The mass unfurled with chilling grace and three large serpents, thick-bodied and hissing, slithered forward.

Her hands snapped up, fingers poised, mint-coloured magic flaring bright and sharp around her palms. With effortless precision, she caught the snakes mid-lunge.

The snakes now dangled midair, twisting uselessly. She flicked her wrist, and the creatures vanished in a soft flash, dispelled as though they had never been summoned at all.

The man—red-faced, wand trembling—looked ready to launch yet another curse, but before he could speak, Soraichi stepped forward.

“I would advise you to consider how deeply you wish to embarrass yourself,” he said, tone coldly diplomatic. “You’ve already endangered a child, assaulted a business owner, and revealed a level of magical competence that wouldn’t be tolerated from a graduating freshman in my old school.”

The man’s mouth twitched, his grip on his wand tightening.

Soraichi smiled—not warmly. “Though if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I’d be happy to accept it through proper channels. The Ministry of International Magical Affairs is always interested in hearing from fringe reactionaries—if only as case studies."

The man blinked, somehow turned even paler and more red at once. His jaw clenched.

“Come on,” Dorisa said, herding the girl with a cat and her parents toward the door. She brushed off her cloak with one last glance at Draco, who too had gone ghost-pale behind his father. “Let’s get out of here before these washed-out aristocratic abominations of incest with a superiority complex try something else.”

The door jingled as they left, the silence behind them thick enough to choke on.

Only once they were a few steps outside did Dorisa mutter, “You think they’ll actually file a complaint?”

Soraichi didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I hope so. I plan to have it framed.”