55.Flickering Shadows

1st of November 1993, Monday (1 day later)

Galloway Forest

???

A hooded figure drifted through the morning mist like a wraith, gliding into what looked like a large encampment, entirely unbothered by her surroundings. It was a woman—the heavy black cloak failed to hide the shapely figure underneath completely. 

She stopped at the edge of the clearing, the aquiline nose poking out of the hood wrinkling with disdain as she looked around. Over seventy camping tents and pavilions were strewn haphazardly all over, all in army green and mottled brown, blending with the surrounding forest. Bodies littered the ground—some lying in the wet grass like broken dolls, others half-hidden beneath canvas flaps or slumped against tree trunks, limbs askew, faces slack.

There was no blood, and not one of them looked dead—merely passed out like drunks after a night of revel. 

“Come out, Greyback.” Her sharp voice cracked through the clearing like a whip. “Or has the full moon left you drooling in a corner like the rest of your mongrels?”

From the largest tent, a man rose to meet the visitor, who had just pulled down her hood, revealing a long tangle of dark hair that might have once been pretty curls and a pale face twisted in a grimace that made her hollowed features even uglier.

“Lady Lestrange,” he rasped, his yellow eyes looking at the newcomer with caution. 

Greyback was a tall, dangerous brute of a man with grey hair and whiskers in worn-out leather clothing and a mouthful of yellow teeth. 

Bellatrix arched a brow, unimpressed. “Any progress?”

“Something spotted our scouts in the forest—my finest men. Had to pull back before Dumbledore got wind of us sniffing around.”

“And you ran the first moment some wild beast sensed you in the Forbidden Forest?” The disdain oozed from her words. “Coward.”

Fenrir Greyback merely laughed back coldly.

“I don’t see you knocking on Hogwarts’ front gate either, Lestrange,” he sneered. “We know better than to confront a titan of magic like Dumbledore, especially now that he has no more qualms about killing on sight. Now, stop wasting my time. Why are you really here?”

Bellatrix Lestrange flung a crumbled paper on the grass between them. Only the title could barely be read through it. 

JUNO BLACK’S DARK CHARM: Has the Boy Who Lived Fallen Under Her Spell?

“The Potter boy has seduced my innocent little girl!” she hissed, venom dripping from each word. 

“The Prophet clearly says otherwise,” Greyback said, a mocking smile spreading across his fleshy face.

“The Prophet lies.” With a flick of her wand, the thrown paper was blasted into shreds, sending chunks of parchment and wet grass in every direction.

“Watch it, you mad bitch—” 

“Hold your tongue, mutt,” she said, something cold and dangerous creeping into her tone. “Only one man can command me, and you’re barely worthy enough to lick the mud off his shoes.”

Greyback wiped off a piece of muddy grass from his nose and scowled. “That’s a fancy way of saying we serve the same master. Now out with it.”

“I want my daughter back. I want the head of the Potter boy. And you will help me with both.” 

“That’s not what the plan is,” he said flatly. “I’m here to establish a forward base and scout out the Ministry and the old monster, not to deal with a pair of snot-nosed brats at your behest.”

The tip of Bellatrix’s wand shimmered with dark purple. “Well, I’m changing the plan.”

Greyback stepped back cautiously, looking at the witch as if she were a viper ready to strike. 

“Your daughter could be retrieved in time, but the Potter boy… now that’s far harder. I heard he’s as dangerous as they can get and cautious and well-protected besides—not worth the time and the effort.” He waved her away. “Even so, I can’t help you with your personal grievances, Lestrange. My orders here are different.”

“Can’t?” Bellatrix tilted her head, letting out a high-pitched titter. Fenrir took another step back, but her wand lashed out. “Crucio.”

It was said in an almost lazy manner, but her hand was too swift, and the jet of red came faster than Greyback expected. He tried to duck under, but it struck him in the head, and he collapsed on the ground in a twitching heap, howling with pain.

Half a minute later, Bellatrix lifted her wand, a wide smile spreading across her face.

The twitching Greyback raised his head, his amber eyes burning with hatred.

“B-Bitch,” he spat. 

“Know your place, little doggie,” she crooned, giggling like some schoolgirl. “There’s no need for stubbornness, unless you wish to be… trained again.”

Same Day

Dumbledore

It was rare to see Harry Potter come to him. Rarer than a blue moon, for Lily’s son had never once approached him of his own volition. That was why he was quite surprised to see Harry Potter and Amelia in his office early in the morning, just a few minutes after he had woken up and was descending into his morning meditations. 

And he absolutely did not expect the words his deputy headmistress said next.

“Mr Potter here claims that his familiar has smelled the presence of werewolves.”

“And it’s not Professor Lupin,” Harry added evenly. “But some other werewolves in the woodland near Hogsmeade.”

Albus was fully awake by then, rising from his seat. There was no deception in their eyes, and he still remembered that great black serpent that could hide in the shadows. “When did this happen?” 

“When we went to Hogsmeade yesterday. I let Nyx into the forest when we left Hogwarts, and she joined me on the way back…”

“Very well,” he said, flicking his wand at the hanger. His favourite coat of purple dragonhide sailed towards him, landing in his grasp. “Can you lead us to the location, Mr Potter?”

“Right now?”

“We’re already nearly a day late,” Albus reminded, giving a pointed look at the young wizard from behind his spectacles.

Harry merely shrugged, showing no sign of shame or discomfort.

The lack of trust stung deeper than Albus would want to admit. Perhaps deservedly so, for some things were harder to forgive and forget than others, but there was no hostility in Mr Potter.

Alas, alas. Could he complain when it was all his fault?

It was a small mercy that his cover-up with Quirrell was not exposed, even after Harry had found out. There were no ulterior motives like blackmail or something else there in the young wizard… merely disdain and caution. As if his student feared he would be silenced.

But where the old had failed, the young had succeeded.

Albus’s eyes crinkled at Amelia Bones, who hovered over Lily’s son like a mother hen over her young chick. That was a better outcome than he had dared hope—he knew the older witch was a capable woman with a sense of propriety and justice, more suited than most to guide a young, headstrong wizard of significant talent and power. She clearly had won Harry’s trust, so Albus could now breathe easier than before.

The headmaster observed the boy through all his senses as they descended the grand staircase. Tall enough that he could be easily mistaken for a fourth-year student and a star beater, with his broad shoulders and lean frame. His magic was coiled tightly beneath his skin, under perfect control that could put some Aurors to shame.

Harry Potter had grown even more dangerous since they last spoke. Lily’s son sought qualitative change through quantitative growth in magic. The headmaster only spotted it because he had done the same in his youth. But not nearly as ambitious—Harry Potter had to be exhausting himself to the very brink, but never stepping into magical exhaustion at least five times a day without failure. Very dangerous, but it had borne great results. 

He was already twice as strong as Albus was at his age. 

And there was something so faint that it would have eluded anyone with weaker senses. Something new. A trace of smoke—elemental magic. It seemed that Harry’s drive and discipline had not dwindled.

Had Bellatrix’s escape awakened the urgency in his heart?

It was a good thing, regardless, especially since Voldemort would soon return. If Harry could defend himself better, Albus would have one less worry weighing on his weary mind.

He shook his head, banishing the distracting thoughts as they had arrived at Hagrid’s hut, picking up Rubeus and venturing into the ancient grove. The most fascinating thing was the stillness amidst the gnarly roots, mirrored by the silence of the wand. Was the Death Stick cowed by something, or had it decided to remain quiet here?

Forty minutes later, they were deep into the forbidden forest, at the south-eastern end in a small clearing, facing a large fire pit and a gathering of freshly cut-down logs that served as benches around it.

Dumbledore spread out his senses to the limit, but only felt the forest’s ambient dampness. The rain and the wind had washed away any lingering magic already.

“Looks ‘bout two days old at most,” Hagrid said, kneeling to poke around the wet ashes in the firepit. “At least twelve o’ them, but they’re long gone now.”

Young Harry was looking at Fang, who was whimpering quietly. “Is he supposed to do that?”

Albus’s lips twitched. Where his senses had failed, the dog’s nose succeeded. He trusted Harry enough to know he told the truth regardless.

Hagrid frowned fiercely. “No, he must’a smelled something. We can ask the centaurs if they’ve seen or heard anything new.”

The centaurs hadn’t seen anything—this was far from their territory, and there the trip ended, leaving all four of them empty-handed.

The moment they left the forest and split up, his wand was quick to remind Albus of its presence.

‘Destroy them all!’

“What do you think?” Amelia asked in the privacy of his office.

“Usually, only poachers would venture into the forbidden forest,” Albus mused, stroking his beard. “Yet poachers haven’t been a problem for decades.”

The growing acromantula colony saw to that.

“A poaching party wouldn’t have left with nothing, and they move in groups of two or three, not twelve.” She adjusted her monocle and peered through the window. “It doesn’t bode well, regardless. A camp in the forest means someone is eyeing Hogwarts or Hogsmeade. Besides, there should be no significant number of werewolves in Magical Britain.” 

Albus let out a long sigh. “The Ministry keeps the word under wraps, but at least two werewolf packs have crossed the Channel.”

Amelia Bones looked… disappointed at the news. She was more thoughtful than surprised, though. Incompetence ran deep in the Ministry, and anyone with a desire to change a thing had to struggle their way through cumbersome bureaucracy and endless so-called standard procedure. 

“Why would werewolves come to Britain?” she asked.

“Taking advantage of the chaos with Bellatrix, perhaps,” Albus said. “Or they do not want to compete with the hordes of their brethren in Germany and France. It’s too early to say. I have reported their possible presence to the Ministry, of course, but that isn’t likely to go very far.”

“Of course. I’m sure they’ve assured you that the problem will be dealt with… in time.”

Which meant never, or until it actually became an issue, and he would have to deal with himself.

After a long moment of silence, he rubbed his brow. “If Mr Potter had informed us last night, we could have found more clues. Now, we’re reduced to guesswork.”

“Mr Potter would have informed us earlier if the staff had shown themselves to be more trustworthy,” Amelia shot back mercilessly. “Or if you had not decided to leave the castle on an errand, sir.”

Albus stifled a grimace—he had been out buying Muggle sweets. His experiments with Juno might have been over, but he still enjoyed dabbling with candy making in private. Also, he couldn’t help but wonder why Amelia sounded more like Harry’s mother than the school’s deputy headmistress.

There wasn’t much he could say in response, though. Harry’s distrust could also be traced to being left with Muggles in his childhood—and that was a choice Albus had made, and the consequences were his to bear.

Not that Amelia’s favouritism was surprising, either. The prodigious Potter was hard-working and polite, and preferred to avoid trouble. By all means, he was the perfect student, easy to like. In fact, most teachers favoured Harry—especially Flitwick, Minerva, and Slughorn.

“Perhaps we should cancel the Hogsmeade visits again,” Dumbledore murmured. “Or at least delay them after the holidays.”

A heavy frown settled on Amelia’s face. “Let’s not be hasty—there’s still time. The next Hogsmeade visit was roughly scheduled for December. Wasn’t the timing left to chance to avoid problems like these?”

“Quite.”

Amelia soon excused herself, leaving Albus alone with his thoughts.

A distant unease had settled into his mind, and it was not Voldemort’s inevitable return but something else. Knowing that your enemy was preparing and biding his time, but there wasn’t much you could do, was exhausting. It felt like a knife pointed at your back, ready to strike when you eased your vigilance. 

And yet all that caution could go nowhere but inside, where it would gnaw whenever his mind was idle. Dumbledore knew his student all too well—Tom had plans upon plans, schemes within schemes, and plotting one thing did not stop him from plotting a second and a third. 

Should he involve himself in hunting for Bellatrix and her merry band of madmen? Or perhaps that’s precisely what Voldemort wanted. Perhaps strike up his contacts in the ICW and work with them more closely? No, that would see him tangled in the web of international politics. 

Albus Dumbledore was torn with indecision, then. He had so many options… and none seemed good. 

“The school comes first, Albus,” Armando’s gravely voice carried from the portraits.

“I know,” Albus said, slumping on his chair. “Don’t worry. As long as I remain in Hogwarts, no harm shall come to the students here.”

Perhaps he ought to set up a few more informants around the Continent to keep an eye on things. Even the Order could hardly do anything but recruit, train, and move in the shadows to oppose Bellatrix in Magical Britain. Yet even that scarcely yielded any result.

“You’re dawdling too much,” Phineas grumbled from the wall. “If there’s an actual werewolf problem, you should push the Ministry to tighten control against the mangy mongrels, yet you hesitate.”

“Most werewolves are innocent,” Albus said, the vague pressure behind his eyes building at the man’s nasally voice. “Their lives are doomed to misfortune even without the Ministry heaping grief upon their shoulders.”

The portrait scoffed. “You only say this because one of your professors is one. Everyone knows werewolves are a danger. If people weren’t so spineless, the mongrels would have all been rooted out ages ago, and far fewer children would have fallen to that damned curse.”

“You know it’s far easier said than done, Phineas,” said Dylis Derwent, an old, plump wizard who had served as headmaster nearly three centuries ago. “If the werewolves were so easily removed for good, they wouldn’t have survived to this day. All you need is one pack to survive and hold severe enmity to wizardkind, and they would return with a vengeance.”

Albus hummed, ignoring the previous headmasters. They were not wrong. If some great wizard had cut off the cursed line of werewolves, he would have been hailed as a hero. Even now, he was certain that those werewolves who had come to scout the Forbidden Forest were not here with good intentions.

‘Kill them,’ the Death Stick whispered, voice clearer than before. ‘Once they’re dead, you will feel better.’

In the end, all he needed to do was to observe and protect the school, nudge the Ministry in the right direction, and move when the opportunity arose to strike at Voldemort. And he needed more eyes on the werewolves. 

But could he send Remus into it again? Dare he ask him once more when he had a family to care for?

Alas, indecision remained Albus’s constant companion.

11th of December 1993, Saturday (39 days later)

Sirius Black

Hogsmeade was a ghost town—most residents and the small stream of students had chosen to take refuge from the cold and the snow inside the cottages, shops, and pubs.

“I thought I’d see little Juno with you,” Sirius noted, looking at his godson. 

He had grown yet again, and at this pace, he’d be taller than Sirius in a few years. The girl to his side was Flora… or was it Hestia? Sirius still couldn’t tell the difference.

“She decided to remain in the castle,” Harry said evenly. His face did not twitch, and his eyes seemed clear, but Sirius couldn’t help but think his godson looked troubled. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have used Occlumency.

There was something more, there. He raised a wand and threw a powerful muffling charm.

“Problems in your love life?” Sirius prodded. “I have plenty of experience, you see. Is it Skeeter’s article or—”

“Nothing so thrilling,” Harry said with a scowl. “Juno is more annoyed at the slander and is busy plotting revenge already. When we’re not training and studying, that is. So, why did you call me?”

Sirius stifled a sigh at the stubborn slant of the brows he had often seen when he looked in a mirror as a student. 

His gaze flickered to the Carrow twin beside Harry. Her face looked… empty, and even her presence felt weird, incomplete without her sister.

“Do you trust her?”

“Of course,” Harry said, affronted.

“With your life?”

“Yes.”

“Then, come in,” Sirius whispered, dragging the two inside one of the private parlours in the Three Broomsticks. “I want to put our home under a Fidelius, and there needs to be a Secret Keeper.”

“Don’t you have anyone you trust?” his godson asked, eyes darting around.

Andromeda. Ted. Maybe Pandora Lovegood. Perhaps even Hagrid—no, he was too big a blabbermouth. Yet the rest all had children of their own. Children who would come first in any decision. Children who could be used against the parents.

“Not to be a secret keeper,” he said at last, mouth twisting. “As of now, only two souls know of our House’s location, but it can still be found by a determined witch or a wizard.”

“I would trust Hestia with my life,” Harry said slowly, glancing at the Slytherin girl beside him. She merely nodded, a creepy smile spreading across her face that did nothing to assuage Sirius. “The only problem is that I’m a Secret Keeper myself. If my home is hidden with a Fidelius, and if I stay too long, either my secret will dissolve, or the Fidelius will shatter—or at least Dumbledore explained something in that vein.”

Sirius swallowed heavily.

“Juno’s home?” 

“Yes,” Harry said simply.

The moment the confirmation left his godson’s mouth, Sirius knew Fidelius was no longer an option. Even if the two lovebirds had quarrelled, Harry would never betray Juno, nor would he put her into danger. His godson was more loyal than Lily and James combined—a true Gryffindor. Or no, wasn’t loyalty supposed to be a thing for Hufflepuffs?

“Why did the hat even put you in Ravenclaw?” Sirius murmured, shaking his head.

Harry snorted. “Cause I asked it to. And cause Ravenclaw allows you to get a small room to yourself.”

“Figures. Anyway, forget about the Fidelius, I suppose. Buying a cerberus or two will work fine for now.”

Perhaps he could purchase a villa on the Continent… but half the countries there seemed to have fallen into greater trouble than Magical Britain. Switzerland was always safe, though, as long as he didn’t venture deep under the mountains. But buying a villa there would cost an arm and two legs. The damned dwarves were just as bad as the goblins. 

Sirius would just have to bite the bullet—he could afford it. But he did not speak his thoughts. It was not that he thought Hestia Carrow would rat them out, it’s just that she was too creepy, and he couldn’t bring himself to trust the girl, no matter what Harry said. 

“So,” he cleared his throat, giving Harry a strained smile. “How’s Hogwarts going?”

“A bit boring.” Harry’s eyes flicked to Hestia. “Training, studying, more training—though I did start a study group to help some friends. I’m pretty sure I can beat you in a duel, now.”

There was a hint of challenge there, and Sirius would almost laugh if he didn’t know his godson was serious.

“That’s good,” he said lightly. “Keep yourself safe and out of trouble.”

Harry gave him a slight smile. “You know me. I never look for trouble, but it somehow finds me anyway, and I always manage. Forget about me—how’s little Estelle?”

“Missing her godfather dearly…”

The two of them chatted for a whole hour, while Hestia stood like a statue, listening with rapt attention as if each of their words were gospel.

Sirius could only marvel at his godson’s luck with girls. If he only made a move, there was no witch in Hogwarts he couldn’t conquer. Too bad Harry’s head was filled with magic and training. But perhaps it was for the better, especially with all those Death Eaters roaming free.

Even at his current rate, he’d need all the training he could get—and besides, Harry and training were one and the same to Sirius now.

That same afternoon, Sirius returned to the Three Broomsticks for another meeting.

“This is my wife, Selene,” Moony said with a goofy grin of a young boy who had just won his house fifty points in one day. “Selene Lupin.”

Sirius blinked at his friend’s wife. Selene Lupin was a willowy thing with long legs, laughing eyes, and pale blonde hair that reached her shoulders. There was a small scar running through her lips that made her face look a bit harsh, but it was more than made up for by her more than generous chest.

In looks, she was significantly more impressive than he imagined, especially since she stood taller than her husband by nearly two inches, and Remus was already a tall man.

Moony was a lucky guy, Sirius decided. He knew his friend could be charming when he wanted to, but to capture the heart of such a beauty and marry her? Now that was a feat.

“Pleasure.” He gave his brightest smile. “Name’s Sirius Black.”

She shook the offered hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Black,” she said. Her voice was quiet and calm, like a sea breeze in the early summer.

“Likewise. Just Sirius would do, though. Mr Black makes me feel old.”

That earned him a wide smile. “Sirius, then.” 

Sirius paused, looking around the parlour. “Where’s little Liam? Wasn’t he going to join us?”

“He’s caught a bad case of Pixie Flu and is staying with his grandfather,” Selene said, regret dripping from her voice. “I decided that it would be better if he remained at home; otherwise, the sickness might carry to your little daughter. A pity, really. He wanted to meet you so badly that he could barely sleep last week.”

“Next time, then.” Sirius led the two over to the table filled with steaming meals and sat at one end. “Anyway, your English is quite good. I almost couldn’t tell you’re not born and bred here.”

“My mom was an Argentinian witch, and my dad a British wizard…”

They ate quickly and talked quicker, and Sirius couldn’t help but glance at Moony. He looked… worried. More worried than usual. Selene had no trouble chatting freely—in fact, she spoke a lot, but always quickly, as if she was always in a hurry. Most of it was inane things—complaining about the weather, flower arrangements, and baby food, and even gossip about her neighbours.

If Sirius had to use one word to describe her, it would be lively. The complete opposite of the Moony he remembered. But just like Remus, she seemed very guarded about her personal life. Most of her words were scattered, and there was no mention of her own situation.

No wonder the two of them got together.

Not even half an hour had passed, and Selene had already swept clean half the table and stood up.

“Thank you, Sirius,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “The meal was lovely— not as lovely as the company. But I must excuse myself—my father was never very good with children, so I must run and take care of little Liam.”

With that, she leaned in to take a deep kiss from the dazed Moony, and promptly left the parlour.

As soon as the door closed, Sirius whistled.

“You lucky dog,” he said, zooming on his friend. “Your wife sure is something.”

“That she is,” Remus agreed with half a sigh. “A bit of a chatterbox, though. Once she starts speaking, it’s hard to stop her. Like the wind, that one.”

“I noticed.” Sirius barked out a laugh as he poured himself another cup of hot butterbeer. “Anyway, you look quite worried. Spill.”

Moon sighed, reaching directly for the red currant rum, filled his cup, and took a generous swig. “At least three werewolf packs have entered Magical Britain,” he said, face flushed. “And the rumour is Greyback is amongst them.”

“Do you still want to kill the brute?”

“No,” Moony quickly said, shaking his head vigorously. “I can’t risk my life anymore. I don’t want to leave Liam and Selene alone. And perhaps there’ll be another little Lupin joining us next year.”

“Congratulations, Moony,” Sirius said, raising his cup in toast. “That’s great news.”

Moony just rubbed his face. 

“Now I need to earn more money,” he whispered. “At least the Hogwarts teacher’s salary is quite good, but with the werewolves here…”

“You’re afraid Dumbledore will ask you to go and try to play envoy with the werewolves again?”

“I regret it,” Moony said, voice low. “Merlin knows I regret joining the Order when we were young. For all my eager participation, I thought that things would change. I thought that once we won, the Ministry would loosen the restrictions on those saddled with the full-moon curse and perhaps I could get some recognition, or at least breathing room…”

But no such thing had happened. If anything, the laws constraining werewolves had become harsher. Finding a job in Wizarding Britain was hard enough without any connections, doubly so if you were a werewolf. If you were one, even connections might not have helped much. The families who had werewolf relatives either disowned them or kept them hidden.

Moony continued with a heavy voice, “I feel that everything I did all those years ago, all the risks I took, was all for nothing. It doesn’t matter that I was the eyes and ears in some pack and maybe prevented… a single werewolf attack and a couple of deaths. Even now, werewolves are treated like pariahs.”

“As long as Greyback and those like him exist, they would be,” Sirius pointed out as he drained the rest of his butterbeer with a hiccup.

His friend looked at the bottle of rum as if it held all the answers in the universe.

“I used to think so too,” he muttered, eyes growing distant. “But I studied history in depth. Often, werewolves in one corner of the world or another were peaceful, but that never granted them any recognition. Everyone classifies us as beings but treats us like beasts, even when the moon isn’t full.”

Sirius opened his mouth to console Remus, but quickly closed it. What was he going to say? Empty platitudes would do his friend no good. Werewolves couldn’t even own property in Magical Britain—Remus couldn’t inherit his father’s house, and it had gone to a distant cousin, which was one of his greatest pains.

That was far from the biggest restriction werewolves faced, though.

“At least I have Liam and Selene to keep me strong.” Moony hid his face in his palms. “Damn it. I… I hate being a werewolf.”

Sirius poured himself some of the rum and took a heavy swig. “Could be worse,” he said.

A red-eyed Moony blinked at him.

“…How?” he rasped. “How could anything be worse?”

“At least you’re a wizard,” Sirius said. “If you were a Muggle turned werewolf, you wouldn’t even know how to use magic.”

“True enough,” his friend muttered with a groan and raised his own cup of rum. “Cheers to being born wizards!”

Sirius clicked his cup. “Cheers!”

They drank in silence until Moony decided it was enough, and hobbled away uneasily, intending to sleep the night away from school.

Sirius’s mood had soured, too. Meeting Remus was making him feel… miserable. There was no joy, only pale memories of old glories and new and deeper grievances.

24th of December 1993, Friday (13 days later)

Juno

Leaving Hogwarts unnoticed was quite the challenge—but one easily achieved with Harry’s help. She slipped out of the castle grounds and used the portkey she had made to arrive outside Black Manor. 

Now, she strode through the street down the wizarding quarter in Chelsea. It was deathly quiet—everyone had long since retreated to feast and celebrate Christmas Eve and Yule, even the Muggles. Juno prowled forward with her boots silenced and under the cover of her Disillusionment Charm. Even if anyone peeked through the window, they would see an empty street.

She paused before the townhouse at Number Seven, Merlin Way. It was a tall, wide building with red brick and white plaster decorations from the Victorian Era. An upscale place that a gossip writer shouldn’t have been able to afford. 

The reluctance lodged in Juno’s throat melted. She glanced around to confirm the street was empty and channelled magic into her eyes.

Her wand tugged at the ethereal yellowish knot wrapped around the door and gently pulled it apart. Her lips only curled in disdain. 

A single Alarm Charm as protection?

Shaking her head, she slipped inside the door and climbed the tiled staircase with rosy patterns. Juno climbed up to the fourth floor and went down a wide hallway until she reached a door numbered Forty-Five.

The door here was made out of metal.

There was another Alarm Charm, a purple tangle interwoven with a powerful Locking Spell. Juno took out one of her enchanted family knives and gently slipped the tip of her wand into the centre of the Alarm Charm, willing forth enough magic to keep it pressed in place. 

Then, she stabbed the slim knife into the keyhole and twisted, and the door slid open after a soft click, directly bypassing the locking spell without breaking it.

The lively Four Seasons of Vivaldi greeted her in a small foyer, softly slithering through a door.

It was perfect. Skeeter was here.

Juno softly closed the door and tapped it, adding a Muffling Charm for good measure. 

With a slight push, she opened the door to what was a cosy, sprawling living room, where a woman with blonde hair set in eccentric curls was humming over a large desk sprawled with all sorts of paper and parchment. 

Without hesitation, Juno’s wand spun, and a powerful Stunner streaked at Rita Skeeter. The spell struck the unsuspecting witch in the head, and she slumped into her sofa.

Resisting the urge to jump in joy, Juno quickly got to work. Rita’s wand was pocketed, and she was searched for Portkeys and other magical items. Juno couldn’t help but study her prey, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Rita Skeeter looked rather plain, now that the make-up was removed in the privacy of her own home. There was nothing special about her figure, and even her chest was two sizes smaller than Juno’s own. 

Scratch that, the slag was flatter than a washboard and was even using padding!

A witch of questionable quality in all aspects, surviving by being a leech that thrived on manufactured controversies. 

For a heartbeat, Juno was just tempted to fling a cutting curse, ending Skeeter on the spot and be done with it. Or perhaps a Killing Curse. It would be cleaner. The body could be easily disposed of, the vile woman would be declared missing, and none would be the wiser.

But the thought was gone as quickly as it had come. The reporter was more useful to her alive than dead. House Black was a family of cunning and finesse, not brute force and profitless cruelty.

Juno’s eyes darted around. No signs of forced entry, no signs of fighting, just a half-messy room expected from a gossip reporter—everything was arranged to her satisfaction. It would be days before anyone noticed Skeeter was missing. Her family was either dead or estranged, scattered over America, so they wouldn’t care to check up on her. The reporter had no friends, and she had even taken the next week off, according to Juno’s research.

It was perfect.

She caught Skeeter by the hand and palmed her Portkey, whispering, “Iustum!”

The world spun, and she gracefully landed right in front of Black Manor’s gate as the older witch’s face smacked the driveway.

In half an hour, Rita Skeeter was in the special dungeon that was just as hard to leave as Azkaban, even for Animagi, and Juno was sipping a cup of honeyed peppermint tea in her study.

“Keeping Skeeter in the dungeons without her knowing the Secret will mess with her mind terribly,” Arcturus noted from the portrait on the wall. 

“That’s the point,” said Juno, not sparing him a glance. “In a week or so, on half a cup of water to see her through each day, she will be very eager to get out.”

“Eager enough to willingly sign a heavy magical contract for a bite of food?” he asked knowingly. “Cunning! No need to even use torture—I quite like it!”

“That is torture, but far more refined,” Juno said. The expected triumph never came… instead, her heart felt hollow. 

Ambushing unsuspecting people in their homes… Could she truly feel proud of something like that, even with the drivel Skeeter wrote about her? Did she not advise Harry to do the same against their enemies?

Revenge was in her grasp, but she couldn’t feel any happiness or satisfaction. Perhaps Harry was righter than she would ever dare admit aloud. 

“Something troubles you,” her grand-uncle rasped out knowingly. “Speak.”

Juno raised her wand to freeze the irritating portrait, but she hesitated. As irksome as Arcturus Black was, he still cared about her in his own, cold-hearted way, even if it was mostly because she was the head of House Black. Wasn’t Arcturus perfect to confide in, even if he was a pale shadow of his living self?

Even better, he was confined to the portraits inside this manor and would keep her secrets. 

Juno lowered her hand, returning the wand to the holster. But it wasn’t Skeeter that troubled her. The woman was no less vile than some of the wretches rotting in Azkaban, and Juno would not shed a tear for her. No, it was something else that weighed on her mind, something that dominated her each waking moment to the point it drove her up the wall.

“…I like Harry Potter,” she whispered. “But I do not know what to do.”

“And does he like you back?”

“I think so,” Juno said, shuffling uneasily.

Arcturus scoffed. “You foolish thing, do you think Potter would have murdered his way through thugs in Diagon Alley for someone he didn’t care about?”

“He would have done it for any friend.”

“Putting that aside, friendship between wizards and witches is folly.” He gave her his patented patronising smile. “Not something that can exist for long. In a close relationship, feelings will inevitably develop. I thought Melania was my friend too, at school. The truth was, I liked her. I liked her enough to make her the mother of my children and Lady Black.”

Juno frowned. Harry had a lot of friends, and all of them were witches.

“That’s not what bothers you, though,” Arcturus continued with that irksome nasal laughter of his. “You must fear that if you make a move, your friendship might suffer for it. Or perhaps you fear success, for failure might be swift to follow in a year or two, and you would lose a friend and a suitor for it. And flings… flings are unacceptable to the head of House Black.”

For all of his churlish temper, Arcturus Black’s words rang true. The old grouch had read her like an open book. 

“It’s exactly that,” she admitted, mouth twisting. “What are my options?”

Arcturus hummed, stroking his chin. “He’s quite powerful with a mild temper to boot, no? A good match for a consort.”

Juno clenched her jaw. “I. Know. That.”

“Potion him. Do the deed, get pregnant, and he’s yours—” 

“We’re still bloody children, you lout!” Juno shrieked.

“Then wait another year or three, and do it then,” Arcturus said bluntly. “Using Potions is frowned upon, but far less when witches do it. Potters are the responsible sort, and you have no reprisal to fear from them.”

Just for a moment, she considered it. Having Harry by her side for life… it wasn’t so bad. But not like this, never like this.

“The moment I do that, I will lose his trust forever,” she spat out at last. Harry Potter could be scarily ruthless when angered, and what he hated the most was lies and betrayal. 

And after that ritual in the Chamber, she wondered whether harmful potions and poison would even work on him any longer. As intriguing as the idea was, Juno did not want to be the one to find out, not like this.

“That righteous, eh? Then offer him a marriage contract—no clauses, merely a written proposal of marriage upon adulthood. Take it slowly. Court each other and take your joy with all those insipid matters.”

Juno frowned. “Unlike you and your wife, we have no time for inane things like courtship and romance. All my plans are coming to fruition, and we’ll only be busier in the future.”

“Then wait until you have time for it,” Arcturus said with a lazy shrug. “Your last option is to keep going as you have right now. As his closest friend, you have an advantage and can… deter future competitors until you’re ready.” 

Juno tugged on her hair in frustration, and Mrs Norris faithfully jumped on the table, rubbing Juno’s fingers against her head. 

The grey cat soothed her nerves, but failed to dispel the worry in her heart. Could she just… bury the feelings deep inside, now that she knew they were there?

The moment she thought about it, she knew deep down she could never do it. Juno was a greedy, ambitious witch, and she wanted Harry Potter by her side forever. Now that the idea had settled in her head, it would never disappear.

But he was sharp and had surely noticed her distance since All Hallow’s Eve, even though he had said nothing about it. 

Juno could only feel the frustration lodge itself in her throat like some irritating fishbone. 

To act now or to wait?

No, Arcturus was a terrible influence. It would be better to seek further advice from someone trustworthy, but the only soul Juno trusted enough was Harry…

“Hey Harry, hypothetically speaking, if I liked a boy, should I propose, or Potion him, or try to court him normally?” 

Yep, that would work wonders. And for the briefest moment, Juno weighed going to Sirius for advice before she crushed that thought the moment she thought of its consequences.

She could already imagine her dog of a cousin laughing in her face or, worse, taking her too seriously and telling Harry.

Author’s Endnote: A bit of a scatterbrained chapter. Some stuff happened, and honestly, for the longest time, I was uncertain how to proceed with the mid-level set-up of year 3, but I think this is good enough. Now, we’re finally approaching the juicier parts.