The fire in my manor's study burned steady and blue, the wards humming softly in the walls like a low heartbeat. Sirius lounged on the leather sofa with his usual cocky swagger, boots crossed at the ankles. Remus stood by the window, calm and wired at the same time, hands clasped behind his back as dusk sank over the gardens.
"Short version," I said, closing the last of my notes and joining them at the ritual table in the center of the room. "I'm not 'curing' lycanthropy. I'm replacing it. Think of it as uninstalling a malicious program and installing a superior one."
Sirius arched a brow. "You know we don't know any of this muggle jargon. Is this like in those movies you showed me, a werewolf operating system upgrade? Is that what those nerds would've called it."
"Exactly." I tapped the etched circle—silver runes nested inside crimson sigils. In the middle rested a slender vial of silver-red serum. "This strain is stable and symbiotic. You keep the senses, strength, healing, stronger even...by a lot—and you gain control. No forced shifts under the moon. You choose. And as Alpha, your bite passes this strain on, purging the feral madness from anyone you turn."
Remus stepped closer, eyes on the vial. "And the risks?"
"The old curse fights on the way out," I said. "It'll hurt. But the circle suppresses blowback, and the serum bonds fast. I wouldn't offer this if I wasn't confident. Plus if all else fails I can guarantee you wont experience any lasting damage."
Aqua sitting in the corner eating potato chips piped in "We guarantee it!"
A breath. A nod. "Do it."
Sirius stood, clapped his shoulder, then moved to my side—watchful, a grin he couldn't quite hide tugging at his mouth. "If you start chewing furniture, I'm fetching the rolled-up Prophet."
I uncorked the vial, pricked Remus's forearm with a rune-etched blade, and injected the serum. The circle lit at once—silver and red threads lacing into his skin like living ink. Remus hissed, muscles corded; half-formed claws erupted and retracted; a ripple of fur crawled his arms and burned away; sweat beaded and fell. The old curse screamed—silent but palpable—and the runes drank it down.
Then the light dimmed. Remus pushed to his knees, breathing hard, eyes flashing steady scarlet before settling. He rose, rolling his shoulders—taller, centered, dangerous in a way that felt right. The guy went from looking like a malnourished hobo to a champion hobo. We know who would win in this version of bum fights.
Sirius let out a low whistle. "Moony, you look like you could bench-press a hippogriff."
Remus flexed his fingers; claws slid out and in as easy as breathing. "The moon's… quiet. If I lean toward it, it answers. If I don't, it doesn't." He met my eyes. "Thank you."
I handed him a slim silver charm. "Wear it until control is reflex. Next step: build a pack the right way. Voluntary only. Then we start rooting out ferals. Fenrir Greyback is the headline."
Remus's expression cooled to steel. "For every child he scarred."
"Good," I said. "We plan. We hunt. We finish it."
Sirius slung an arm around him. "First round's on me when we mount Greyback's head over your fireplace."
"Please don't," Remus said dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
—
Bones, Truth, and Old Sparks
The next morning, an official owl thunked a sealed letter onto my plate at breakfast. Amelia Bones's sigil in red wax. I broke it open.
Mr. Cross,I am willing to hear your full case for Sirius Black's exoneration. Bring verifiable evidence. If it holds, I will advocate for immediate action.—Amelia Bones, Head, DMLE.
Perfect.
We met that evening in one of my warded drawing rooms. Sirius arrived first—cocky on the surface, nervous at the edges. Remus followed, that new quiet pull of Alpha presence settling the room. The floo flared green; Amelia stepped through in precise black robes, monocle gleaming, posture like a verdict. Her face softened for a heartbeat when she saw Sirius.
"You're alive," she said simply.
"Still handsome," Sirius shot back, but his voice snagged on something real.
"Evidence," she said, business snapping into place.
Veritaserum. Oath-runes. Clean procedure. Sirius tipped the vial without flinching, and Amelia fired questions like a duelist: the Fidelius, Peter's betrayal and staged death, no trial, the escape, Harry. Sirius answered clear, unhesitating. The truth binding glowed steady the whole way.
When it was done, Amelia sat back a look of regret on her face as she looked at Sirius. "It holds. We were wrong. I will move to reopen the case, and I will back you in open court."
Sirius exhaled like he'd reached land after twelve years at sea. "Amy…"
She crossed the room in two strides and pulled him into a fierce hug. For once, he didn't joke. Neither did I. I stepped out and let the past catch up with them.
When I returned with tea, they were side by side on the sofa, hands close, eyes lighter. Amelia met my gaze. "When the hearing convenes—and it will—you'll testify. Thank you, Mr. Cross."
"Ethan," I said. "And you're welcome."
—
Lake, 4 A.M.
"Explain to me," Harry said flatly, "why I'm in swim trunks at four in the morning standing in a freezing Scottish lake."
"Because no one's watching at four in the morning," I said, handing him the golden egg. "Under the water."
He stared. "You dragged me down here for a bath with a screaming egg?"
"Just dunk it."
He waded in, teeth already chattering, sucked in a breath, and plunged the egg under.
The screech twisted—muffled, then melodic, voices rising clear through the water: Come seek us where our voices sound… We cannot sing above the ground…
Harry popped up, sputtering, eyes wide. "Merpeople. Okay. That's… okay! Why couldn't we do this at not four a.m.?"
"Because at not four a.m., you have an audience," I said, hauling him out with a towel. "We'll drill underwater breathing and cold-water aura control after classes. You're in good shape."
He grinned through a shiver. "You're a menace."
"You'll thank me when you keep your lungs."
—
The Announcement, and Complications
McGonagall announced the Yule Ball at dinner—cue shrieks, scheming, and a blizzard of invitations. I became a moving target for three separate storms.
Hermione caught me first, after hours in the Room of Requirement. "Ethan… about the Ball."
I closed the book, gave her the real smile. "I can't appear with a student. You know that."
The brave little nod, the flicker of hurt. I cupped her cheek and kissed her—soft at first, then warmer when she melted forward. "But you and I? We're real," I murmured. "We don't need the Great Hall to sign off on it. We can dance when and where we like."
She pulled me into another kiss, deeper, breath hitching when my hand slid to her waist. We broke only when sense—and the ticking of curfew—nudged us apart.
"Outside the spotlight," she whispered, dazed and happy.
"Anytime you want," I said, and meant it. We took a minute longer than we should've. Worth it.
Daphne sent a crisp emerald-sealed note suggesting "mutually advantageous optics." I sent back a polite refusal and an offer of a private spar and strategy session instead. Her return stamp somehow conveyed both acceptance and a promise to collect interest later.
Fleur cornered me after Charms, pout and spark both weaponized. "One dance," she insisted.
"After the Tournament," I said, and her slow smile said she would absolutely hold me to it.
Tonks waylaid me outside the staff room, hair a playful storm-blue tonight. "Since I'm assigned to Hogwarts after Crouch's little corpse-in-the-woods incident, I'm chaperoning the Ball." She nudged my shoulder. "Thought maybe we spend some time together there. Strictly professional. Obviously."
"Obviously," I deadpanned, and she grinned like the cat who'd already stolen the cream.
—
It was a cold February morning at the beginning of the the second task, not sure who thought this genius task up. The only thing the spectators would see was the champions jumping in waiting around for around an hour and them swimming back out. Good thing I had my multiversal phone to catch up on the latest series on the webnovel website.
The stands shook with cold and cheers. The lake lay black and mirror-still until the whistle blew.
Harry dove first—utilizing the Animorphs technology to turn into a crocodile; aura humming in a neat sheath to keep the chill from biting too deep. He moved like a spear through the murk, hit the chorus, and tracked fast. Clean rescue, clean return. Time: blistering. First place.
Fleur went second—no Grindylow hassle this time. We'd drilled her aura to sting like pepper when anything grabbed on. She cut a pale ribbon through the weeds and came up smooth, holding her hostage high. Second place by a mile.
Krum and Cedric followed—solid showings. Third and fourth. All four breathing, all four upright. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
From the staff dais, Tonks tipped an imaginary hat at me, hair shifting to match the lake's steel color. The look she shot over the rim of her cocoa was… not strictly professional. The corner of my mouth answered without asking permission.
—
Night of the Ball.
The Great Hall became a winter cathedral—icicles like chandeliers, snow that never touched the floor, a wash of silver and ice-blue light that made every robe and dress look sharper. I arrived in formal black with slate accents; Tonks matched me in midnight silk that left inked sigils peeking at collarbone and wrist—tattoos like constellations on skin. She looked unfairly good, hair the exact silver of the floating frost.
"Thought I'd try to keep up," she said, spinning once so the slit flashed a scandalous amount of leg. "Professional chaperone attire, right?"
"You're going to cause incidents," I said, offering my arm. She took it, fingers warm against my sleeve, smile wicked.
Across the hall: Hermione in starlight-white, Daphne in serpent-green, Fleur in something liquid and lethal. All three glanced over—a stutter of jealousy, curiosity, claim—and then turned back to their orbits, careful, begrudgingly understanding. We played it how we had to in public.
The strings struck the opening note.
I leaned toward Tonks. "Shall we?"
The look she gave me said oh, we shall. And just as we stepped forward—