The knock came as Severus fastened the final clasp on his cuff. Three precise taps, neither hesitant nor overeager. He already knew who stood on the other side.
He exhaled softly, smoothing down the lapel of his dark, high-collared robes. They were fine-cut, expensive, deliberately chosen. Appearances mattered tonight, even more than usual. The Ministry's Yule Ball was as much performance as politics.
He opened the door gently.
Penelope Clearwater stood just outside. She wore a gown the color of vintage champagne, the fabric fluid and glossy, catching light in soft flickers with every shift of her body. It hugged her in all the right places: the swell of her hips, the generous curve of her bust, the narrow indent of her waist. Her long blonde hair spilled over one shoulder in brushed curls, and the delicate shimmer across her collarbone made her skin look like it had been kissed by starlight.
Severus froze for the briefest second.
Not visibly — not outwardly. But inwardly, the predator stirred.
Merlin help me!
The incubus blood in him surged at the sight. A whisper of fire curled through his abdomen, dark and ancient and starving. It was not like ordinary desire — not a flicker of attraction or a teenage rush of hormones. This was something deeper, something primal. A pull, as though her body radiated heat and scent and energy only he could taste.
Two days ago, he'd given in. Fleur had been beautiful, impossibly so, and during the Yule Ball at Hogwarts, she had taken his hand and led him into a night of velvet darkness and satin limbs. The release had been devastating. Perfect. And addicting.
He had thought the urges would go. How wrong he was! Since then, it hadn't stopped. The hunger. The constant low burn in his veins. Fleur had awakened the incubus in full. And now?
Now it would not be satisfied with glances or thoughts or fantasy. He needed real deal.
It was maddening to think of the depravity his body craved! It was in his blood. Something he had no control over. How he hated, getting aroused and wishing to simply rip apart his clothes and bury himself inside her. It was maddening. Even he couldn't control the urges with his sheer control and it was frightening in nature.
"Penelope," he said smoothly, his voice like a blade sheathed in velvet. "You're early."
She smiled, almost bashful, but there was a glint in her eyes that told him she knew how she looked tonight. "You said seven."
He stepped aside, opening the door wider. "You're right on time. Come in."
She entered, heels clicking softly against the worn floorboards, leaving a faint trace of perfume behind, sweet citrus with an undertone of musk. Her movement was effortless, hips swaying in a way that wasn't quite intentional, but not accidental either.
Severus closed the door behind her, locking it with a casual flick of his hand.
He turned slowly to face her and allowed himself, for just a breath, to admire her.
No. Not admire. Devour.
The curve of her arse beneath the tight sheen of the gown. The smooth skin above the bodice, hinting at softness, warmth, heat. Her lips full and tinted a delicate rose. Her neck bare. Exposed.
His gaze dragged upward. It was deliberate, slow. Every inch of her body spoke to him, called to him like prey humming with life. The hunger in his blood pulsed hard. A reminder. A promise.
He clenched his jaw, reining it in.
"You look…" He paused, voice low. "Incredible."
Penelope flushed, eyes dancing as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you. You're too kind."
"I'm accurate," he said, walking past her, composing himself with each step. "And you're aware of it."
She laughed softly, brushing invisible lint from her dress. "You don't mind being seen with someone who isn't exactly… Ministry pedigree?"
His expression didn't shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. "They should be honoured. You raise the standard by showing up."
Her cheeks warmed even more. "You're good at that."
"At what?"
"Making a girl feel…" She glanced at him. "Noticed."
Severus allowed himself a faint smile. It was etiquette, nothing more. He handed her a drink from the desk, the firewhisky already poured.
She took it, her fingers brushing his with a warmth that lingered a heartbeat too long.
"I wasn't sure you'd ask me, you know," she admitted. "I mean, after… well. After Fleur."
Ah. Fleur.
He felt her name in his bloodstream. A phantom touch. A memory of silk sheets and silken limbs.
"She was a date for Hogwarts' event," he said coolly. "This is different."
Penelope sipped the whisky, then turned her body slightly. She was giving him a very deliberate view of her side. Her hip. The outline of her thigh beneath the fabric.
She was flirting without saying a word. Women were so odd. If they didn't like you, they would make it clear. But if they like you, they will never say no to advances. It was like they acted completely different. Woman acted differently for the person they liked.
And he knew, thanks to his skill in legilimency, that she wanted him to look.
She knew he stared at her during lunch breaks. During briefings. During long hours at St. Mungo's when professionalism stretched thin. She'd caught his gaze on her chest. Her ass. The little moments when his control slipped.
But she didn't stop him.
She smiled. Shifted angles. Walked a little slower. Made it easier.
She wanted this. And she was pretending not to.
A part of him wanted to drag her mask away, to show her what real hunger looked like. Not yet. He controlled himself.
"How are we traveling?" she asked, setting down the glass. Her voice was sweet, casual.
He gestured toward the hearth. "Floo. The Ministry granted me access tonight."
"Of course they did," she murmured. "Golden boy of the hour."
Her eyes locked with his.
He stepped closer, voice quieter. "Are you ready?"
She tilted her head slightly, lips parting just enough. "I'm sure this is going to be a night to remember."
"That it will be." Severus replied with a smile.
_______________________________________
The marble floor of the ballroom gleamed like still water beneath the enchanted light. Gilded chandeliers threw warm gold across faces powdered and polished for the occasion. Wizards in deep emerald robes, witches in silks that whispered with every step — all part of the elite ecosystem of the Ministry's high society.
Severus walked with Penelope at his side, his hand lightly guiding the small of her back. Their path through the crowd was a ripple in calm water; eyes turned, whispers trailed after them like perfume. The young healer with the miracle potion and his unfamiliar, striking companion.
He could feel Penelope's posture tighten.
"They're staring," she murmured under her breath. Her voice carried the faintest tremor. It was not fear, but the kind of fluttering nervousness that came when one realised the spotlight had found them.
He leaned closer, his lips near her ear. "Let them. It's what they do."
Her shoulders eased, if only slightly. He let his tone drop, soft enough that no one else could hear. "It will be easy. Smile when you must, nod when spoken to, and if you do well…" His mouth curved faintly, unseen to people around him. "…perhaps you'll receive a prize."
She glanced at him sidelong, a blush beginning at her cheeks. "What kind of prize?" she whispered back, almost challenging.
The predator in him smiled before he did. "The sort that involves two consenting teenagers," he said smoothly, "alone in a room. In a bed."
Her blush deepened sharply, colour blooming across her skin. He caught the faint hitch in her breathing, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around his arm.
"For now," he added, voice dropping more lower, "you will be a good girl. The time for the bad girl comes after the ball."
She swallowed. It was almost audible, even in the music-laced air. She looked up at him with a mixture of shyness and something far more dangerous. "I didn't know you were so flirty."
"I don't showcase it often," he replied, tone calm, as though he were speaking of the weather. "Only when the company warrants it."
They walked further in, the music swelling around them — a waltz, strings and soft percussion. The crowd shifted, parting just enough to reveal a small knot of people in deep conversation. At the centre stood Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic himself, a broad smile fixed to his face like lacquer.
Fudge turned as though drawn by invisible thread. "Mr. Blackwood!" His voice carried across the music, the enthusiasm carefully measured. "Ah, splendid, splendid! Just the man I wanted to see."
Severus adjusted his stride, leading Penelope into the Minister's orbit. "Minister," he greeted smoothly. "An honour."
"And who is this?" Fudge's eyes darted to Penelope, taking in her gown, her poise, her presence. Severus could practically hear the mental notes being made.
"A colleague," Severus said, the introduction exact and deliberate. "Penelope Clearwater, healer-in-training at St Mungo's."
Fudge extended a hand. "Miss Clearwater, a pleasure. You've chosen an excellent escort for the evening."
"Thank you, Minister," she replied, her voice composed and calm.
The Minister's attention slid back to Severus. "It's good to have you here. Tonight is a gathering of many of our finest, a historic night for the wizarding world, I dare say."
Severus inclined his head, the perfect image of polite engagement.
"I imagine," Fudge went on, "you'll have no shortage of conversations tonight. Many here are… most interested in your work. And of course," he added with a politician's easy chuckle, "your… remarkable potion. Such a contribution, Severus. Truly, you've given the wizarding world something invaluable."
There it was — the gilded flattery, the careful rope weaving itself around him. Severus listened, but behind the mask of his expression, his thoughts were sharper.
Fudge was smiling because the Wolfsbane cure had done more than heal lycanthropy in this world. It had given the Minister something far rarer: political capital. Every cured werewolf was a voter, a potential loyalist, a voice in the chorus of approval. And Fudge would cling to that like a drowning man to driftwood. The entire wizarding world was in uproar and he was the one who could bask in fame.
Severus had no illusions about the man's motives. Fudge was a politician afterall.
______________________________________
From his vantage point above the atrium floor, Severus could see the vast sweep of people gathered: high-backed chairs in neat rows for Ministry officials, standing space for dignitaries, and beyond them, the press — quills poised like drawn weapons, waiting to catch every word. Enchanted banners rippled overhead, projecting the stylised insignia of the Ministry, a rotating silver crescent moon — the new emblem for the Wolfsbane initiative.
Cornelius Fudge stood at the podium, his emerald robes shimmering faintly under the magical lights, voice amplified by charm.
"…and so," the Minister declared, his words polished, "the Ministry of Magic is proud to announce that two hundred acres of Ministry-owned land will be leased to Mr. Severus Blackwood for the cultivation of rare potion ingredients necessary for his groundbreaking cure."
Polite applause followed, the kind that was more social requirement than genuine enthusiasm. Severus kept his expression neutral, his posture a study in calm professionalism, but behind that mask, he observed. He watched the way various members of the Wizengamot nodded as if already calculating how this might affect their influence. He noted which family representatives avoided clapping, their interest masked as indifference.
Fudge continued, voice dipping into the rhythm of political assurance. "In addition," he said, "we will be amending the Werewolf Code of Conduct and associated restrictions. This invention, this gift to our world, makes it necessary to ensure our laws reflect the reality of this medical breakthrough."
Another round of polite clapping rose. Severus let his gaze travel the crowd — assessing, cataloguing, remembering faces.
And then he saw her.
Lily.
Auburn hair catching the light, green eyes that seemed to hold their own illumination, a figure still arresting in its beauty despite two childbirths. Her gown traced her curves with effortless elegance, the neckline drawing the eye without vulgarity. This was not his Lily. This Lily Potter was a widow in this world, a mother of two. Harry Potter, and the little sister, Iris Potter, both alive, both strangers to the life he had once known.
Still… the sight of her pulled at something deep within him. A faint ache, softer than before, yes, but not gone. Not yet.
Time, he told himself silently. A little more time.
Fudge's voice snapped him back to the present. "And now… I believe it is time you meet the inventor of the miraculous Wolfsbane potion himself — Mr. Severus Blackwood!"
Applause swelled, this time with more genuine energy. Severus stepped forward, his boots striking the enchanted stage with a muted echo, and positioned himself before the microphone stand. The murmurs quieted.
"It is an honour," he began, voice smooth, each word precise, "to stand before you this evening."
He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before continuing. "My thanks to the Minister for his unwavering support throughout the trials and development of the Wolfsbane potion. This endeavour would not have been possible without his personal involvement — not only in facilitating ingredient supply, but in granting me the land to cultivate the rarer components. And of course, for agreeing to the amendment of the werewolf legislation, ensuring that those affected by this condition are treated as the citizens they are."
Fudge inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment, a faint smile lingering.
Severus scanned the room — meeting eyes, allowing his presence to settle on them. "This potion is more than a brew. It is a shift in what we, as a society, are willing to believe is possible."
He paused deliberately. "I will now take questions."
The crowd shifted. A witch from the Daily Prophet rose, her hat adorned with a quill charm that kept twitching. "Mr. Blackwood," she called, "is this Wolfsbane formula the final variant, or do you intend further experimentation?"
Severus's expression remained measured. "There is always more to be done. The current brew is effective for one lunar cycle at a time, requiring the subject to ingest it before each full moon to maintain control. My goal is to develop a variant that requires a single ingestion to provide permanent control over transformation for life. That work is… ongoing."
Another quill scratched frantically. A man from The Wizarding Times spoke next.
"Are there risks in attempting to extend the potion's effects permanently?"
"Any advancement in magical medicine carries risk," Severus replied evenly. "But risk is no excuse for inaction. The trials will continue under controlled conditions."
There were more questions on brewing complexities, ingredient sustainability, international licensing and he answered each with the precision of a man who understood not just the potion, but the politics wrapped around it.
The applause from his previous answers had barely died before a hand shot up near the front. "Mr. Blackwood!" a wizard in a pinstripe robe called, his voice carrying above the shuffling quills. "Where were you born?"
Severus's gaze drifted to him, the barest flicker of acknowledgment. "I was born in Britain," he said evenly, "though I was raised… in secrecy."
That, of course, was all the bait they needed.
A witch from The Daily Prophet leaned forward, eyes glinting. "In secrecy? For what reason?"
Severus let the pause hang, just long enough to feel intentional. "Health reasons," he said finally. No elaboration, no change in tone. Just enough truth to keep it believable, just enough vagueness to invite speculation.
The next question came almost before the last syllable faded. "Are the Blackwoods a wizarding family?"
Severus had been expecting that. He'd known it would come and he had prepared for it, the same way he prepared for a duel: know your weapons, know your opponent, and know the theatre you are performing in.
He smoothed his expression into mild professionalism. "They are," he said. "Though… not under that name. My family changed its name many generations ago."
That drew a hum through the gathered press, the way bees shift when the hive is disturbed.
And then like the strike of a viper — Rita Skeeter stood. The quicksilver gleam of her jewel-green robes caught the enchanted lights, and her acid-bright smile locked on him. Her enchanted quill hovered above her notebook like a predator's poised claw.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said in a voice meant to carry, "what are your thoughts on the Triwizard Tournament? And —" her smile sharpened — "do you believe your girlfriend, the Beauxbatons Champion, Miss Fleur Delacour, will avenge her loss against the likes of Viktor Krum and…" she let the pause drag for effect, "the Boy Who Lived?"
There was a ripple through the crowd. It was a mix of titters, murmurs, and the faint rustle of quickened note-taking. She had laid the trap neatly: personal life, international politics, and the most volatile public symbol in one breath.
Severus, however, did not walk into trap directly. He knew it was his golden chance too. A trap which he had waited to use for his advantage. If the future played out like his previous world, the Dark Lord would rise and the wizarding world won't believe it for another year. Better lay some traps for the Dark Lord so that his return may not be as quiet like the previous time.
His dark eyes fixed on her, cool and faintly disinterested. "Who," he asked, voice utterly flat, "is the Boy Who Lived?"
The effect was instantaneous.
The murmur became a buzz — some incredulous, some scandalised. Skeeter's quill twitched in midair like it could barely keep up with her glee.
"Oh, come now," she said, feigning laughter that didn't touch her eyes. "Surely you know of Harry Potter — the boy who vanquished You-Know-Who?"
Severus tilted his head slightly, as though considering something of very minor interest. "Vanquished him, did he?" His tone was dry enough to parch the air. "I… wasn't aware."
That landed. The sarcasm wasn't subtle, and it rippled outward — a low tide of whispered speculation. Several members of the press shifted forward in their seats; others scribbled with renewed fervor.
Skeeter's smile widened like a shark tasting blood. "Why would you say that, Mr. Blackwood? Do you have some… grievance with Mr. Potter?"
From the corner of his vision, Severus saw Fudge stir — the Minister stepping forward, mouth opening — but Severus didn't look at him. Instead, he gave Skeeter the faintest curve of a smile.
"Pardon me, Miss Skeeter," he said, voice calm as a glassy lake, "it's simply that I've always found the whole thing… odd."
The room shifted. The word odd was a spark thrown into dry tinder. Skeeter's quill jerked forward, desperate to catch every word.
"Odd? How so?" she pressed, eyes alight.
Severus let the moment stretch. Then, in that same measured tone, he asked:
"If You Know Who truly casted the Killing Curse and Mr. Potter truly survived the Killing Curse from You-Know-Who, and if that curse truly rebounded, then where is You-Know-Who's body?"
The reaction was immediate.
A wave of murmurs rolled through the room, faster and sharper than before. The sound of quills scratching became frantic, punctuated by the flare of camera flashes that made the air strobe. Fudge's pace quickened but he was too slow. The ship had already sailed. It was his chance now.
Severus went on, unhurried, his voice a scalpel slicing cleanly through the noise.
"It is well documented in every reputable text on the subject — that the Killing Curse, the deadliest of the Unforgivable leaves a body. It does not disintegrate, it does not vanish — it kills and leaves a body. If it truly rebounded, as you call claim, then where… precisely… is the corpse of You Know Who?"
Gasps punctuated his words. Someone whispered too loudly, "He's right…" and another voice hissed, "Dangerous talk…"
Skeeter was alight now, almost jumping on her feet now. "Then what are you implying, Mr. Blackwood? That Harry Potter did not survive the Killing Curse at all?"
Severus's gaze cut to her, and the barest hint of a smirk touched his lips. "I am implying," he said, "that the event has been… mischaracterised. Likely it was not the Killing Curse at all. Perhaps another spell entirely — one that vaporised You-Know-Who without striking Potter directly."
That only fed the frenzy. Quills darted like spears; whispers became overlapping voices; flashes burst in bright clusters.
"And what spell would that be? And how do you think Mr Potter survived?" Skeeter demanded instantly.
Severus inclined his head faintly, as though answering a child's question. "Possibly… an exploding spell and for Mr Potter. It was form of family magic. Blood-based. The kind that shields one family member from another's attack."
The implications hit instantly. The crowd didn't murmur now — they broke into low exclamations, threads of speculation weaving together audibly. Fudge tried to speak — "Now see here—!" — but he was drowned out.
One reporter near the back called out, "Are you saying Harry Potter and You-Know-Who are related?"
And there it was — the opening he had been waiting for.
He looked directly at the man. "I am saying," he replied, "that Harry Potter, You-Know-Who, and I are all related."
Silence — sharp and total fell over the atrium. Noone had expected that.
Even Skeeter froze for a fraction of a second before her quill shot into furious motion.
"My family," Severus continued, "before we changed our name, were not the Blackwoods at all. We were… the Peverells."
The name landed like a dropped stone into deep water, the ripples immediate and unmistakable. Several of the older reporters straightened sharply. The Peverell name carried history. It was old, tangled and powerful when it came to rumours.
"I am," Severus went on, his voice carrying with deliberate clarity, "a direct descendant of Antioch Peverell. You-Know-Who was the last surviving member of the line descending from Antioch's brother, Cadmus Peverell. And Harry Potter… is the last of the line of Ignatius Peverell, the youngest brother."
The noise that followed was chaos.
It wasn't just murmuring now. It was gasps, hurried questions flung toward neighbours, overlapping shouts toward the stage. Camera flashes came so fast they seemed almost like lightning strikes.
Skeeter's voice cut through it, pitched high with excitement. "So you're claiming all three of you share a bloodline? That the so-called Boy Who Lived is kin to the Dark Lord himself?"
"That," Severus said, calm against the storm, "is precisely what I am claiming."
Fudge reached the podium at last, face flushed, hands half-lifted in an appeal for calm. "That's enough for now — questions will be taken at a later—"
But no one was listening. Reporters were shouting over each other now, each desperate to be the one to land the next scandalous quote.
"Mr. Blackwood, are you saying—"
"Do you have proof—"
"Will you submit to magical lineage testing—"
"What does Miss Delacour think of—"
"Does Harry Potter know—"
Severus had dropped his stones into the pond. Now he would watch the ripples spread.