Leanne returned with both watches, now boxed and ribboned in tasteful, understated black packaging. "Both are guaranteed and registered, Master Potter. Shall I send them to the delivery address, or will you be carrying them out personally?"
"I'll take them," Harry said, sliding a check across the polished counter with two fingers. "Pleasure doing business with you again, Leanne."
She inclined her head, elegant and efficient. "As always."
Stepping out of the salon and onto the marble curb of New Bond Street, Harry took a breath of the crisp evening air. The sky had dimmed further, just on the edge of true night. The streets gleamed under gaslight-style lamps, gold against glass and stone.
Pansy said nothing as she walked beside him. She had tucked the watch away in her own subspace pouch, arms crossed now, face unreadable. But there was something different in the way she moved—less brittle, more thoughtful. Harry didn't question it.
They slipped into an alleyway just off the main road, shadows pooling around their feet.
Without a word, Harry reached for her wrist. She let him. No complaints this time.
They vanished silently.
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A moment later, the familiar cobbles of Hogsmeade appeared beneath their feet and Harry quickly adjusted his glamour spell.
The two of them weaved through the crowd, back towards the welcoming lights of Hearth & Hollow.
Soon they were standing in front of their desk. The other's had clearly gotten comfortable—Butterbeers in hand, plates of half-cleared appetizers, and in the center of the table...
A cake.
It was a dark chocolate cake, with spun sugar orchids blooming at the top, and delicate chocolate runes on the sides. A single sparkling candle sat on top, hovering mid-air, flickering gently with a silver-blue flame.
The group cheered as soon as they saw them.
"About time!" Fred yelled. "We were about to eat your share, mate!"
Ginny grinned, scooting aside to make room. "What took you so long?"
Harry just dropped into his seat and set the sleek black bag beside Daphne's plate. "Had to get something."
Daphne blinked. "Harry, I told you—"
"Shut it," he said, echoing his earlier words to Pansy. But his voice was softer this time. "Just open it."
Daphne opened the sleek black pouch slowly, her fingers brushing over the smooth edges of the watch box. The lid clicked open with a whisper.
Inside, nestled in rich velvet, sat a gleaming white gold wristwatch—sleek, elegant, and minimal in its opulence. Her eyes widened. "Harry… you got me a watch?"
She smiled instantly, clearly delighted.
But then—
"Oh. My. God." Hermione's voice cut through the table like a spell gone wrong.
Everyone turned.
Hermione was staring at the open box like it contained a cursed artifact. Her eyes were wide. "Harry, is that—please tell me that's not Patek Philippe."
Daphne blinked. "A what?"
Hermione looked up at her, genuinely stunned. "That's a Patek Philippe 3796D. Do you have any idea what this is?! This isn't just a watch, Daphne—this is a collector's piece. Ultra-luxury. Hand-assembled. Only a handful are ever made, and they don't even offer it to new comers."
Ron leaned closer, squinting. "You mean it's, like… really expensive?"
"Try more than a thousand galleons expensive," Hermione said, shaking her head. "At minimum. Probably way more, depending on the model. Muggle luxury at its peak. That's a legacy piece."
Everyone turned to Harry at once. Everyone except Pansy, cause she knew.
Daphne immediately closed the box. "Harry, I can't accept this. It's too much. Way too much."
Harry just rolled his eyes and leaned back, Butterbeer in hand. "Relax. It's nothing."
Fred whistled. "Potter out here casually dropping vaults of gold on birthdays."
George nodded, mock-serious. "First Abigail, then Ginny, and now Daphne. Starting to see a pattern here."
Tonks retorted, "Hey, I'm a girl
Abigail snorted, grabbing a breadstick. "Excuse me—I was first. I'm the original girl brother spoils."
Ginny gave a dramatic sigh. "The rest of us are just cheap knock-offs, apparently."
Harry chuckled and reached over to ruffle her hair, ignoring the way she tried to swat his hand away with mock outrage. "Yes, you are, aren't you?"
Then he turned to Daphne with a soft smile. "Now, just take it. It's really not much—and considering it's the only thing I've given you so far, it had to be good."
Daphne opened her mouth to protest again, but the look in Harry's eyes made her pause. She closed the box gently and nodded. "Fine. But I'm getting you something absurdly expensive for your birthday."
"You'll have to outdo Abigail, and that's a high bar," Harry replied, raising his mug again in her direction.
Hermione still looked like she was trying to make sense of it all. "How did you even get it?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "That's not something you walk into a Muggle shop and buy. Most of these models have waitlists that go on for years."
Harry leaned back in his chair, a relaxed smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Let's just say… I have an old relationship with Patek. That's how."
Harry leaned back in his chair, "I have an old relationship with Patek. That's how."
Hermione narrowed her eyes further, suspicious, but decided not to press.
The night slipped by like melted chocolate—rich, indulgent, and far too smooth to notice time passing.
Dinner came in waves. Fourteen courses, each more exquisite than the last—roasted acromantula leg served with a smoked garlic reduction (that had Ron pale visibly), lamb kissed with star anise and elderberry glaze, floating tarts that spun lightly before settling on their plates. Between laughter, teasing, and steady sips of butterbeer, time blurred. Even Hermione loosened up after the seventh course, reluctantly admitting that this was way better than any high end restaurant she had been anywhere in the world.
By the time dessert—a trio of enchanted éclairs with shifting flavors—vanished from their plates, it was nearing 11 p.m.
Fred leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. "I don't know who runs this place, but they're a bloody genius."
George raised his hand lazily. "Check, please. And don't even think about fighting us on it, Daphne."
The waiter returned with a smile, hands folded neatly in front of him. "Your check has already been taken care of."
That brought the entire table to silence.
"What?" Ginny blinked.
"By whom?" Daphne asked, sitting up straighter.
"The owner, miss," the waiter replied smoothly. "He requested the bill be transferred to his account."
There was a pause—ten seconds of shared confusion.
Fred and George exchanged glances. Ron frowned. Hermione turned to the waiter. "Who's the owner?"
"I'm afraid I can't say," the waiter replied, polite and impenetrable. "But he asked that you all enjoy the evening."
Well… at least the staff remembered to keep their mouths shut. Good. Harry thought to himself.
As the others digested this information, Pansy's eyes didn't move from Harry. She was watching him with narrowed eyes, head tilted just slightly in that way she did when she was thinking far too much.
Abigail, sitting beside Harry, caught the look too. With the ease of long practice, she schooled her face into mild curiosity, mirroring the others. "Well, whoever the owner is," she said casually, "they've got great taste."
"Still feels odd," Ron muttered. "Why would someone we don't know pay for us?"
"Maybe we're more famous than we think," George offered.
"Or cursed," Fred added.
Tonks was chuckling softly, but her eyes flicked toward Harry for just a second. A hint of curiosity, unspoken. She didn't voice it.
The group rose from their seats, laughter still trailing behind as they pushed back their chairs and began gathering their things. The hum of the restaurant surrounded them—warm lights, quiet music. It had been a night none of them expected, and one they wouldn't soon forget.
Tonks stretched, cracking her knuckles with a yawn. "Well, I'm headed home. Early shift tomorrow."
"Back to Hogwarts for the rest of us," Hermione murmured, already slipping into her school-mode posture.
Once outside, Tonks disapparated to her home leaving the group standing there.
"Same drill," Harry said. "Form a circle."
They gathered instinctively, forming a loose ring in the shadowed alley beside Hearth & Hollow. Abigail on Harry's right, Pansy on his left again. The rest closed in around him.
Tonks smirked. "I'd say try not to miss, Potter, but let's be honest—you're far too dramatic to mess this up."
"Appreciate the faith," Harry deadpanned.
Without another word, he reached out, fingers brushing the hands beside him—and the group vanished, silent as mist.
No pop. No crack. No lurching stomachs or twisting pressure.
Just the soft darkness of the alley…
…and then the dim, quiet stillness of the unused classroom deep within Hogwarts.
The group blinked, disoriented for just a second, then looked around. Exactly the same way they had left it. Not a paper out of place. Not that there were any papers to begin with anyway.
"Alright, back to your work. I'm going home tonight." Harry replied.
Daphne gave him a strange look—hesitant, thoughtful—but didn't say a word. Harry raised an eyebrow, about to ask if something was wrong, when she suddenly stepped forward.
Without warning, she rose on her toes and pressed a swift kiss to his cheek.
Then she spun on her heel and bolted out the door.
Harry blinked, frozen for a moment, one hand still slightly raised as if to stop her—too slow, too surprised. A beat passed.
"...Alright then," he muttered, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Getting bold, are we?"
Abigail, still rooted in place beside him, looked thunderstruck. Her mouth hung open for a second before it twisted into a sharp pout, arms crossing over her chest like a fortress.
Harry turned to her, amusement dancing in his eyes. "What's that face for?"
She scowled. "I'm not sharing you."
That made Harry bark a laugh, sudden and real, echoing off the stone walls of the empty classroom.
He ruffled her hair, grinning. "Don't worry. Let's just get home."
"I mean it," she huffed, but her cheeks were already turning pink.
"I know, I know," he said, still chuckling. "Let's get you home before you start hexing people in their sleep."
He took her hand gently, warmth sparking at the contact.
A second later, they vanished—silent, clean, effortless.
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Thursday Evening
The corridor was quiet, bathed in the golden hues of torchlight. Dust motes hung suspended like secrets waiting to be disturbed.
Harry turned the corner, robes billowing faintly behind him, only to pause as he spotted her.
Lilith Lyralei.
Leaning against the wall beside the Gryffindor portrait hole, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other like she owned the corridor and was simply being generous enough to let it exist.
She straightened smoothly, lips curved in casual amusement. "Well, fancy meeting you here."
Harry's eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Yeah. Fancy that."
Lilith's smile didn't falter. "So, Professor Potter, how was class today?"
"Just like it was last week," Harry replied smoothly, stopping a few feet from her. "Students came in. I taught them things. Nobody's eyes were poked out. So I'd say it was a good day."
"How dreadfully mundane." Her voice was warm, velvety, with just a hint of teasing lilt. "I thought you were the type who attracted chaos like a lightning rod."
"Chaos is usually better dressed."
She laughed lightly, tilting her head. "Are you calling me underdressed?"
"I was calling you predictable." Harry said, tone calm, eyes sharp. "You've been waiting here for twenty-six minutes. Hoping I'd walk by."
Her brow arched. "Oh? You checked the portraits for a timeline?"
"I didn't have to," he said, stepping closer. "The Fat Lady told me. You made quite the impression."
The portrait in question huffed dramatically behind them. "She kept adjusting her hair and muttering Latin. Very suspicious."
Lilith didn't blink. "Old habits. Some of us like to look our best when running into war heroes."
Harry smiled, "But I don't remember being in any war, yet?"
"Just comparing your presence to one," she corrected lightly. "And if you noticed, then you're not half as oblivious as some would hope."
"Or maybe I just don't like being stalked."
She stepped closer—barely half an arm's length now. "Tell me, Harry... Why do you not like me?"
He tilted his head. "My heart just tells me not to."
Lilith's smile widened, but there was steel behind it now. "Fascinating. Mine tells me you're hiding something."
"Most people are," he said. "But I hide mine better."
"Mm. You say that like it's a badge of honor."
"No," he said, voice soft. "I say it like a warning."
They stood in silence for a beat—close enough to touch, yet surrounded by a tension that hummed like a live wire. Her perfume was sharp, floral, and cold. His magic still recoiled—quietly, instinctively, like a forest animal sniffing danger in the wind.
Finally, she asked, "You really don't trust me, do you?"
Harry's gaze didn't waver. "You're charming, beautiful, and calculating. I trust you about as far as I can throw the Astronomy Tower."
"Fair," she murmured. "But do remember, Potter—distrust can be thrilling in the right company."
"I prefer boring and safe. Like Dragons and Dementors."
She gave a soft, unbothered laugh and stepped back, re-crossing her arms. "You're going to be fun."
He leaned slightly closer as the portrait swung open behind him. "And you're going to be a problem."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint," she said sweetly.
He stepped through the portrait hole, but not before glancing back once with a smirk, his gaze unreadable. "Oh, you won't."
The hole swung shut, leaving Lilith alone in the hallway, the torchlight catching the gleam in her eyes.
She whispered to herself, "Let's see who unravels first, Potter."
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The warm scent of rosemary chicken and fresh bread filled the air, but the moment Harry stepped through the floo with Abigail, everything froze.
Petunia turned from the stove, wooden spoon still in hand. Her eyes narrowed the second they landed on him.
"You look ghastly," she said flatly. "How long ago did you sleep?"
Harry blinked, mildly disoriented by the smell of ice cream and civility. "I... last night, maybe. Or the night before."
Petunia set the spoon down with surgical precision. "Harry James Potter, when exactly?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I don't remember, mum..."
Petunia didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at him with that razor-sharp gaze that once could have cut glass in Privet Drive—and now had only been honed further with years of being a magical mother in a world that never stopped spinning.
"You don't remember," she repeated, voice low, measured. "Right. Abigail, be a dear and fetch your stupid brother a blanket."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Abigail had already vanished from the room, cheeks puffed in silent amusement.
"Sit," Petunia ordered, pointing to the dining chair as though it were a throne he had no right to refuse.
He sat.
She turned back to the stove, muttering something under her breath in a tone that sounded suspiciously like: "Can take down a dragon with just magical energy but can't take care of his own damn self."
Harry coughed lightly. "You know I've had a rough few weeks—"
"Rough?" she snapped, spinning back around. "Rough is a cold. Rough is having your Floo routed to Manchester by mistake. You, Harry, look like something a Dementor coughed out. I can see your cheekbones."
He chuckled, trying and failing to look innocent. "That's just how my face is now."
Petunia leveled him with a flat look. "Don't sass me."
"I'm not sassing—"
"You're absolutely sassing," she said, whipping her wand and summoning a tray from the counter. "Eat. And when you're done, you're going straight to bed."
"Don't I get dessert?"
She arched an eyebrow. "You'll get sleep. It's sweeter."
Harry leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. "You really are the best, you know."
"I know," she said dryly, sliding a full plate in front of him. "Now finish that before I levitate it down your throat."
Just then, Abigail returned, tossing a blanket onto his lap with a flourish.
Harry grinned at her. "Traitor."
"Snitch," she shot back. "You ratted yourself out."
Petunia was already bustling back toward the stove, muttering, "Honestly, this family would fall apart without me. Gods forbid one of you learns how to use a calendar."
Later that night...
Harry stood in the dark again.
That same desolate, mist-laden realm. Same surrounding where he has died multiple times before due to that damn dragon.
He knew this place really really well.
His breath hitched as the familiar sense of dread coiled through his stomach—but this time, something felt different. His hands curled into fists.
Not this time.
He didn't know how or why—whether it was desperation or some buried instinct—but as he focused, a thought burned bright in his mind: Elythral.
A pulse of light answered.
In his hand, silver-blue light shimmered into form. The hilt was warm, alive, whispering with a hum like starlight given shape.
Elythral. His wand.
But... how? He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming. Nothing ever worked here. Not in this dream. No matter how hard he'd tried in the past, this place had always been immune to will and magic.
And yet—there it was, solid and weightless in his grip.
He didn't stop to question it. He walked.
The shadowed surroundings parted before him. The twisted boughs gave way to the clearing he'd grown to dread—the same one where he had died, again and again.
There it was.
The white dragon.
Coiled like ancient wrath given flesh, its scales shimmering with light that was too clean, too pure. It's breath misted in the dead air like frost.
It's eye opened—golden and cold—and fixed on him.
Harry didn't hesitate.
"Aegis Maxima!" he roared, planting his feet, wand slashing a sigil of light.
A massive, golden dome of protective magic bloomed into being—runed, layered, reinforced with intent and desperation.
The dragon opened its maw.
Light poured forth.
A beam of pure elemental annihilation—cold, radiant, absolute.
It hit the shield with a scream of magic—
—and tore through it like parchment.
The dome shattered. The air imploded. For a second, Harry felt everything—heat, pain, magic peeling off his bones.
And then—
He shot up in bed with a choked scream.
The room was still dark, moonlight spilling in pale bands across the stone floor. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving as sweat clung to his skin, cold and sharp against the night air.
His sheets were twisted, damp. His heart hammered like war drums in his chest.
For a moment, Harry sat there—fists clenched in the bedding, jaw locked—eyes darting around the room like the dragon might still be lurking in the shadows, just waiting for him to close his eyes again.
He forced a hand through his hair, pushing the soaked strands back, and exhaled slowly through his nose. Once. Twice.
Steady. Steady.
Then, under his breath—low, venomous, and burning with fury—he muttered:
"I'm going to skin that overgrown snow lizard alive."
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he just sat there, watching the floor, breath finally slowing.
Getting up from bed, he took a glass from the table and pulled out the Johnnie Walker Blue Label from his pouch.
The bottle clinked softly as he poured a glass. As he picked up the glass, the whiskey got chilled instantly.
He raised it to his lips, enjoying the flavours on his tongue before downing the entire thing in one go.
He poured himself another. This one disappeared just as quickly.
"Bloody dragon," he muttered, setting the glass down with a thud.
With that he disapparated silently to the living room.
The living room was dim, firelight casting long shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of old books, pine, and faint tobacco clung to the space.
Harry paused.
There, seated in his favourite leather armchair, was Vernon. A half-filled tumbler of whiskey glinted in one hand, untouched for the last several minutes.
Harry didn't say a word as he approached, only dropped into the seat beside him with a soft sigh.
They sat for a beat, the warmth of the fire at their feet, the silence stretching comfortably between them—until Harry asked, low and steady:
"What's wrong, Dad?"
Vernon didn't answer at first. He took a slow sip, rolled the whiskey across his tongue, swallowed. Then he spoke—voice quiet, but tight.
"You asked me to build a bleeding miracle, Harry."
Harry glanced sideways. "And I meant it."
"I know," Vernon said, gaze locked on the flames. "And I'm doing it. The site's secured. Layers of wards, masking enchantments, layered subspace anchors—it's an underground fortress. I've got over a dozen magical researchers onboard already. Artificers, enchanters, wardmasters, a bloody transmutation specialist from the old Beauxbatons division."
"That's a hell of a start," Harry murmured, nodding. "So what's the hold-up?"
Vernon exhaled, rubbing the glass against his temple before setting it down on the side table. "Muggle engineers. We need minds that think like the modern world. Electronics, interface design, quantum-level processors. Stuff our people barely understand, let alone build."
Harry nodded as he understood the core of the issue.
Getting them exposed to magic and then getting them to work for them... it was not easy. Heck, not even probable in most cases, since no one knew how they'd react to magic.
Harry nodded, gaze locked on the fire as the flames danced quietly in the hearth, licking at the shadows along the stone.
A long moment passed.
Then another.
He didn't speak.
Instead, his fingers tightened slightly around the crystal tumbler in his hand, the amber whiskey inside catching the flickers of firelight. Something weighed heavy in his mind, dragging at him—pressing behind his eyes like a secret he'd buried too deep, too long.
He glanced sideways at Vernon.
The man was still watching the flames, brow furrowed, features set in that calm, calculating focus that Harry had come to rely on more times than he could count.
He deserved to know.Harry sighed. Damn it. This man was his father—adoptive or not, blood or not. He'd raised him, trained him, stood by him. If there was one person in the world Harry could trust with this, it was him.
He took a slow breath, turned fully toward him, and murmured, "Dad."
Vernon looked up, instinctively straightening. "Yeah?"
Harry's voice was quieter now, serious in a way that drew the attention of the room itself. "I'm going to tell you something. But before I do, you have to promise me it never—never—surfaces again. Not in a casual chat. Not even with Mum. Not ever."
Vernon's eyes narrowed slightly, catching the undercurrent of weight in Harry's words. He studied his son for a long beat, then gave a single nod.
"On my magic," he said, voice steady, "and on your name—I swear."
Harry snapped his fingers, and a shimmer of layered spells surrounded them—silent and invisible, but absolute.
A sound-dampening ward.A visual illusion.
Anyone who walked in would see nothing more than a quiet father and son reading by the fire, no conversation, no tension—just peace.
Harry exhaled again. Then spoke, low.
"You need to meet the Muggle engineers and scientists in person," he said. "Interview them. Shake their hands. Smile. All that."
Vernon nodded once, waiting.
"And when you do," Harry continued, "cast a spell. Non-verbal. Wandless. Subtle. It's called Imperias Veritas."
Vernon blinked, head tilting slightly. "That's... not a spell I know."
Harry smiled faintly. "You wouldn't. I only came across it by chance."
Vernon's brows shot up, but he didn't interrupt.
"It's an advanced derivative of the Imperius Curse," Harry explained. "But it doesn't seize the victim's will like the original. It slips into the subconscious. Latches onto the core identity—buries itself so deep that the victim thinks your will is their own."
Vernon slowly set his glass down, eyes narrowing. "Explain."
"When you cast it," Harry said, "you give a mental directive—just one. Something simple. Like 'Keep this job a secret. Don't tell anyone. This is your dream project.' That's it."
"And they believe it's their idea?"
"To the marrow," Harry said quietly. "They don't even question it. It's not like they're walking around hypnotized. They function perfectly. They live their lives. But when the order you gave them applies… they execute it like it was their own desire."
"And no one can detect it?" Vernon asked sharply, his voice almost a whisper now.
Harry shook his head. "No spell signature. No behavioral markers. They don't even show up under Veritaserum or Mind Probes. The only way to break it is with another spell that was built specifically to counter Imperius Veritas or the caster willingly recalls the tether."
Vernon stared.
Then leaned back into the couch, slowly processing.
"This is how," Harry said, "I made Fudge step down voluntarily. How I now control all the death eaters that roam free. How half of the Hogwarts Board of Governors now quietly vote in whatever favor I want without ever realizing they were nudged."
The glass felt heavier in his hand.
Vernon stared into the fire, but the flames offered no comfort now—only reflection. Warped images flickered in the glass, in the hearth, in the depths of memory.
Fudge stepped down.The Death Eater families complied.Half of Hogwarts' Board.
He'd heard the stories. Everyone had. He was confused forever on how Harry got Fudge to step down voluntarily and elect Amelia as the next MoM. And no one resisted that decision.
The political shift. The sudden turn of tides. The smooth restructuring of the Ministry with no war, no blood, no headlines. Just order—calm, terrifying order.
And now, sitting beside him, was the architect.
His son.
His jaw clenched slowly. "You control the entire Ministry of Magic..." he said quietly. Not a question. Just a truth he now had to say aloud, as if doing so would make it less surreal.
Harry didn't deny it. Just looked on ahead into the fire, eyes calm. "Yes, I do."
"And the Death Eater families?" Vernon asked, still watching the fire, voice lower now.
"They hold their wealth for now," Harry replied. "But I now control them so that they can't even think about harming anymore innocents. Even if Voldemort comes back."
Vernon's fingers curled tightly around the armrest. His voice dropped to a hush. "And the Hogwarts governors?"
Harry looked at him now, gaze flat and even. "I needed control. Real control. Over the one place that shapes wizarding Britain's future. Over the one place that taught children to worship names like Yaxley and Malfoy and Lestrange."
Vernon let out a breath that felt more like a release of pressure than relief. "Christ, Harry."
"I am not idealistic, Dad" Harry said simply. "I only care about how to improve our society, not the methods used in the dark."
Vernon turned to look at him properly now. His son—twelve years old, and already holding the reins of a country. Not in title, but in influence. Through spells that no Department of Mysteries had ever recorded. Through force of will, precision, and ruthless, quiet strategy.
"You're not afraid of what this'll make you?" Vernon asked after a pause.
Harry considered that. Then answered, "No. I'm afraid of what happens if I don't do it."