After a long absence, Lord Blackfyre returned.
Harry deliberately took on the full appearance of Lord Blackfyre—older, sharper, cloaked in authority—because this time secrecy would not protect his investments. Visibility would.
Gothic Alley was not Knockturn Alley.
It was newer, rawer, and far more dangerous.
And in places like this, unknown owners invited attacks.
So Harry made sure everyone knew.
Word spread quickly through the underground networks of Britain's magical world: the shops recently purchased in Gothic Alley did not belong to faceless shell companies or disposable fronts.
They belonged to Lord Blackfyre.
That single name was enough to still many reckless hands.
For months, people had assumed Lord Blackfyre was gone—traveling the world, expanding his interests overseas, perhaps even settling temporarily in the States. He no longer walked Knockturn Alley. He rarely appeared at Zeus Hotel. The absence had bred rumors, then certainty.
Now, his return shattered all of it.
Harry made it clear to those who dealt with him under that name that he was merely passing through Britain, stopping in only to inspect assets and secure new ventures. His real base of operations, he implied, was abroad. Expansion. International dealings. Long-term plans.
A lie layered carefully over truth.
Because only a handful of people knew what no one else must ever learn:
That Harry Potter and Lord Blackfyre were the same person.
And that secret remained locked tighter than any Gringotts vault.
Gothic Alley was already boiling when he arrived.
Shouts echoed between crooked buildings. Shopkeepers argued in the open street. Wand hands twitched. A few curses had already been thrown—nothing lethal yet, but close enough to invite escalation.
Harry stepped into the center of it all.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply stood—and the pressure of his presence alone began to suffocate the chaos.
"This is a new alley," Lord Blackfyre said calmly, his voice cutting through the noise. "And you are all neighbors now."
People turned.
"Kill each other," he continued evenly, "and you'll only prove that this place isn't worth visiting. No customers. No profit. No future."
Silence followed.
Gothic Alley did not need another battlefield. It needed money, fear, and structure. Everyone there understood that.
Harry let his gaze sweep across the street—over cracked storefronts, half-renovated buildings, boarded windows marked with fresh purchase seals. His seals.
When the tension finally broke, it did so reluctantly. People backed away. Wands lowered. Arguments died down into muttered curses and glares.
Only then did Harry begin his real work.
He walked the length of the alley slowly, inspecting every property now bearing his name. Some buildings were solid, old structures that could be restored easily. Others were barely standing—perfect for businesses meant to disappear overnight if necessary.
As he walked, Harry's mind worked relentlessly.
This alley would not be clean.
It would not be safe.
And it would never be respectable.
So the businesses here could not pretend otherwise.
He needed grey-market ventures.
Places that dealt in questionable enchantments, rare components, restricted rituals, information brokering, curse mediation, identity alteration, artifact repair, shadow banking—services too dangerous, too illegal, or too morally ambiguous for Knockturn Alley.
Gothic Alley would become a pressure valve for the magical world.
And if it was going to be dangerous anyway, Harry would make sure it was dangerous under his control.
The alley was quieter now.
But Harry knew better.
This place would burn soon.
And when it did, he intended to be the one holding the fire.
As Harry continued his inspection of Gothic Alley, something felt wrong.
Tucked between two half-renovated buildings, hidden behind a warped wooden facade and old spell-scorched bricks, there was a door no one seemed to notice. No signage. No purchase seal. No wards of ownership.
Just a door.
Harry stopped in front of it.
Slowly, carefully, he activated [Observe].
The world shifted.
Layers peeled back.
And his breath caught.
This wasn't a shop.
It wasn't abandoned property.
It was a Dungeon.
A hidden one—embedded directly into the structure of Gothic Alley itself, masked so thoroughly that even Gringotts survey magic had missed it.
Harry's excitement surged instantly, sharp and electric, the familiar thrill of discovery running through him.
A dungeon… here.
Right beneath a newborn alley already soaked in ambition, conflict, and greed.
He almost reached for the handle.
Almost.
Then he stopped himself.
"No," he muttered quietly.
This wasn't something he could rush. And it wasn't something he could bring others into—not yet. Dungeons were unpredictable. Rules changed. Mechanics shifted. And more importantly, his gamer abilities were still a secret.
This would be his alone.
For now, Harry committed every detail of the door to memory—the angle of the hinges, the faint rune etched into the frame, the way the shadows bent unnaturally around it. Then he turned away, leaving it exactly as it was.
That evening, Harry returned to Zeus Hotel and immediately called for a meeting.
The Serpent Court gathered once more in the private suite—familiar faces, familiar tension, but this time with something new hanging in the air.
Opportunity.
Harry stood at the head of the room, no hood, no mask—just authority.
"Gothic Alley is going to explode," he said plainly. "Whether we like it or not."
Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "It already is. Too many factions, not enough structure."
"Exactly," Harry replied. "Which is why we decide what kind of power grows there."
He looked around the room.
"I own property there now. That makes me a target. But it also gives us leverage."
Cassandra spoke first. "Illegal magic?"
"Grey magic," Harry corrected. "Legal enough to exist. Dangerous enough to matter."
David nodded slowly. "Artifact repair. The kind people don't want traced back to them."
Joseph added, "Information brokering. Names, movements, debts. That alley will attract secrets."
Sam scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Potion distribution too. Not Dark—just… specialized. Things people don't ask questions about."
Regina's eyes gleamed. "Identity services. Glamours, forged papers, travel wards. People will need to disappear."
Harry listened to all of it, absorbing every suggestion.
Then he asked the real question.
"Who among you wants to be more than muscle?"
Silence followed.
This wasn't about loyalty.
It was about commitment.
Finally, David spoke. "I'll run a front. Something respectable enough to stand during the day, flexible enough to operate at night."
Joseph nodded. "I'll help. Logistics, supply lines."
Sam hesitated, then said quietly, "I'll keep my store clean—but I can watch. Hear things. Gothic Alley will talk."
Cassandra met Harry's eyes. "I can't officially be involved. But unofficially? I'll make sure no one pushes too hard too fast."
Harry smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "Because Gothic Alley isn't just a business venture."
He paused.
"It's a test."
By the end of the week, the plan was no longer a collection of ideas.
It was structure.
Harry stood inside the smallest property he owned in Gothic Alley—a narrow building wedged between two half-renovated shops, its brickwork old and scarred by spells long since faded. What it lacked in size, it made up for in location. Anyone who walked the alley had to pass it.
"This one," Harry said, tapping the doorframe lightly, "becomes the front."
Jason smiled slowly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The sign that went up the next morning was simple, clean, and deliberately boring:
CURSE BREAKERS FOR HIRE
Wards Artifacts Ancient Locks
Jason and Cassia would run it.
Neither of them had an official career anymore. Their work for Gringotts had always been temporary—contract jobs, dangerous digs, places the bank wanted deniability from. They had no Ministry titles, no licenses worth mentioning, and no permanent base.
Now they had one.
Jason handled negotiations and diagnostics, his sharp mind and calm voice perfect for reassuring clients with dangerous problems. Cassia designed and rebuilt wards, layered protections, and defensive runes—some legal, some… creatively interpreted. Together, they were exactly what Gothic Alley needed.
And exactly what Gringotts had lost.
Sam and Regina were exempt.
They already had their place in Knockturn Alley—legitimate, stable, and protected. Moving them into Gothic Alley would only paint targets on their backs. Harry made that decision without debate.
"You two keep doing what you're doing," Harry told them. "If Gothic Alley burns, Knockturn shouldn't."
They didn't argue, they understood.
From the outside, it looked like a modest potion distributor—shelves of labeled bottles, neat rows, polite service. Mostly legal brews. Some grey ones. A few darker concoctions kept behind a locked cabinet, sold only to people who already knew what they were asking for.
What no one saw was beneath it.
A ritual chamber.
Hidden underground, sealed with layered wards, sound-dampening enchantments. Ritual magic was banned in Britain—too slow, too powerful, too uncontrollable.
Which made it valuable.
The room wasn't flashy. No blood circles. No chanting altars carved with madness. Just clean stone, etched runes, and space to work.
Only trusted clients would ever learn it existed.
Only trusted members would ever step inside.
Harry made that rule absolute.
The third operation was larger.
David, Joseph, and Charles took over a wider storefront closer to the heart of the alley. Publicly, it was an Artifact Repair and Appraisal Shop—old wands, cracked amulets, cursed heirlooms brought back from the brink.
Unofficially…
It was identity.
Forged documents.
Travel permits.
Background alterations.
Clean histories for people who needed to disappear—or reappear as someone new.
David handled negotiations. Joseph ran logistics and supply chains. Charles worked the magic itself, repairing, altering, and reconstructing artifacts so cleanly that even Ministry inspectors would struggle to find fault.
They didn't advertise.
People came to them because someone else whispered their name.
That was enough.
Harry made one more decision before the week ended.
Several unused storefronts were offered—quietly—to werewolves who had no work, no stability, no future beyond survival. Small businesses. Repair shops. Night cafés. Courier services.
Nothing illegal.
But everything loyal.
They paid rent.
They paid on time.
And they knew exactly who had given them a chance when no one else would.
Gothic Alley began to change.
Harry stood at the end of the alley one night, watching lights flicker on one by one as shops closed for the evening. Jason and Cassia locked their door. David's shop dimmed its windows. Somewhere underground, wards hummed softly.
This wasn't a criminal empire.
It was infrastructure.
Harry's excitement over Gothic Alley dimmed the moment his thoughts returned to the ritual chamber.
It was the one piece that didn't fit.
Ritual magic wasn't just illegal in Britain—it was hunted. The moment whispers began, the Ministry would descend like vultures, and anyone connected to it would be dragged into inquiries, trials, and quiet disappearances. Harry knew that better than most.
And that was the problem.
Everyone in the Serpent Court had lives now.
Jason and Cassia had reputations to rebuild, families that could be traced.
David, Joseph, and Charles had networks, contacts, and relatives scattered across Europe.
Sam and Regina already lived under enough scrutiny as werewolves.
If the ritual chamber was exposed, it wouldn't be Harry who suffered first.
It would be them.
Harry stood alone in the empty shop that hid the underground chamber, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the clean, unmarked counter. The wards hummed softly beneath his feet, layered and perfect. Too perfect.
Someone capable…
Someone dangerous…
Someone who wouldn't be traced back to the Court.
He had already hired a werewolf to act as the frontman—quiet, respectful, grateful for steady work. The public-facing potion distribution would be clean, boring, legitimate. No one would suspect a thing.
But the ritual chamber itself?
Harry exhaled slowly.
He knew ritual magic. Enough to be dangerous. Enough to know he shouldn't be the one running it openly. He already carried too many secrets. Too many identities. Adding illegal ritual practitioner to the list would eventually catch up to him.
"I need someone older," Harry murmured to himself.
"Someone the Ministry didn't suspect."
As if the world had been waiting for the thought to fully form—
The wards of Zeus Hotel chimed.
Harry froze.
That particular chime was old magic—ancient, deliberate, and unmistakable.
Only one person used wards like that.
He didn't bother walking.
He ran.
The moment Harry entered the lobby, he nearly collided with a tall, robed figure leaning casually on a carved obsidian staff. The man's presence bent the air around him, shadows clinging to his boots like loyal hounds.
"Grandpa Theo!" Harry exclaimed.
The necromancer turned, his sharp, ancient eyes softening the instant they landed on the boy. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"There you are," Theo said calmly. "You've grown."
Harry didn't even hesitate—he threw himself forward and hugged the old man tightly.
Theo chuckled, patting Harry's head with a gloved hand. "Careful. I still have bones older than your country."
Only then did Harry notice the small bundle in Theo's other arm.
It wriggled.
A tiny, jet-black puppy poked its head out, red eyes blinking sleepily. Wisps of shadow curled around its paws, and the air around it carried the unmistakable chill of death magic.
Harry gasped.
"A Grim puppy?!"
Theo placed the puppy into Harry's arms without ceremony. The little creature yawned, then immediately curled against Harry's chest, tail wagging once.
"A birthday gift," Theo said. "An omen of death, yes—but loyal, intelligent, and very good at biting idiots."
Harry laughed despite himself, stroking the puppy's ears. "I love him."
"I knew you would," Theo replied. "I came on your birthday, you know. Found out you'd run off to Italy instead. Very rude of you."
Harry winced. "Sorry… things got complicated."
Theo's eyes gleamed knowingly. "They always do around you."
They moved to one of the private lounges, warded against eavesdropping. Theo settled into a chair like a king claiming a throne, staff resting across his knees.
"So," Theo said casually, "how are you?"
Harry hesitated—then sighed and told him everything.
Lord Blackfyre.
The businesses.
The Serpent Court.
The ritual chamber.
By the time he finished, Theo was smiling like a man who had just solved a puzzle.
"And you don't know who to trust with the ritual work," Theo concluded.
Harry nodded. "Whoever runs it will be hunted the moment someone talks. I can't put my people in that position."
Theo leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"Good," he said. "That means you're better man than many."
Then he tapped his staff once against the floor.
"Let me run it."
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