Barty Crouch Jr. lay sprawled on the threadbare armchair in the dimly lit sitting room of his father's ancestral home, his body still and compliant, but his mind a seething, writhing mass of rebellion beneath the weight of the Imperius Curse. His fingers twitched against the armrest, his jaw clenched, his thoughts coiling like a viper poised to strike.
How had it come to this?
A son betrayed by his father. A loyal servant shackled in the house of the man who had sent him to rot in Azkaban. A Death Eater muzzled, his wand taken, his very will tethered by a man who still thought himself just and righteous.
The irony was delicious. If only he could laugh.
The door creaked open, and Winky, his father's long-suffering house-elf, shuffled in, a tray wobbling precariously in her tiny hands. "Master Barty," she huffed, her northern accent thick with exasperation, "it's time for your supper. Again."
Barty's head lolled to the side, his hazel eyes locking onto the elf with sharp, unnatural intensity. The Imperius kept his movements slow, heavy, but it could not dull the sheer force of his glare.
"Ah, Winky, my dear, dear jailer," he drawled, his voice a silken mockery of gratitude. "What delightful gruel have you brought me tonight? Something to make me stronger, perhaps? Fortify me? Give me the strength to—oh, I don't know—stand up and throttle my father?"
Winky flinched, nearly dropping the tray. "Oh no, no, no! Master must not be saying such things! Master must eat and be good, yes, be good like a proper boy—"
Barty let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, Winky, you poor, deluded creature. Do I look like a 'proper boy' to you?" He flexed his fingers sluggishly, his movements just a fraction behind his intent, a bitter reminder of the curse's hold on him. "I was a good boy once, wasn't I? Such a good little Ministry brat, eager to please, eager to serve. But that wasn't enough, was it? No, no, no, Daddy dearest had to throw his only son into the depths of hell to keep his precious reputation spotless."
Winky's large ears drooped, her lip trembling. "Master Barty's father did what was right, what was just—"
"JUST?" The word exploded from Barty's lips like a curse of its own. "Is that what we're calling it now, Winky? Justice?" His voice dropped, eyes gleaming fever-bright. "Do you know what real justice is? It's me watching as my father begs for mercy while I pour every last drop of his precious dignity into the dirt."
Winky stomped her foot, her tiny hands balled into fists. "Master Barty will not talk like that! Winky loves Master Barty! Winky will look after him, always, no matter what bad thoughts he has!"
For a moment, Barty simply stared at her. Then, slowly, his lips curled into something that might have been a smile if not for the razor-sharp madness lurking behind it.
"Winky, my dear, deluded elf," he murmured, voice almost affectionate. "You are a most loyal little thing, aren't you?"
Winky nodded, chin quivering. "Winky is loyal! Winky takes care of Master Barty!"
Barty tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Then prove it."
Winky blinked. "What?"
"Prove it," Barty repeated, his voice slipping into something soft, coaxing, almost hypnotic. "Take off the charm, Winky. Let me be me again."
The house-elf recoiled as though struck. "Oh, no, no, no! Winky cannot! Winky must not! Master Barty's father—"
"Doesn't care about you," Barty cut in smoothly. "Oh, he'll shout, he'll threaten, but you and I both know he'd never truly punish you. He needs you. I need you." He leaned forward as much as the Imperius would allow, his grin widening. "Be a good elf, Winky. Help your master."
Winky shook her head so violently her ears flapped. "Winky cannot! Winky must keep Master safe! Master must stay here, be good, be safe!"
Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. He had expected resistance. Winky was his father's creature, bound by old magics and older loyalties. But she was also weak. Fractured. Terrified of losing him. If he could break her just a little more…
He forced a smile, softer this time, almost gentle. "Very well, Winky. I shall eat my supper, like a good boy."
The house-elf hesitated, wary, but eventually nodded, placing the tray beside him. "Good, Master Barty. Good boy."
Barty Crouch Jr. leaned back, lifting his spoon with slow, deliberate movements. He had time. Time to wear her down. Time to plant the seeds of doubt. Time to twist her love into something useful.
One way or another, he would be free.
And when he was—
His father would regret ever thinking he could leash a wolf.
—
The ancient forests of Albania stretched out in endless, suffocating darkness, where the gnarled roots of trees clawed at the damp earth like skeletal fingers, and the wind whispered secrets too terrible for mortal ears. It was a place that belonged to the forgotten and the forsaken, where the living dared not tread for fear of what lurked in the shadows. And in those shadows, something did lurk—something that had once been a man, once been the most feared sorcerer in the world.
Voldemort.
He was no longer a man, no longer even a creature of flesh and bone. He was something less and yet so much more—an echo of himself, a lingering wraith of malice and vengeance. His essence clung to the darkness, feeding off the vermin that skittered through the undergrowth, sapping what little life he could from the feeble minds of creatures that knew nothing of the horror that gripped them. They were his sustenance, his unwilling vessels, and they were pitiful things—unworthy, undeserving, but necessary.
And he hated them for it.
Oh, how he hated everything.
It burned within him, hotter than Fiendfyre, deeper than any abyss. Hatred for Dumbledore, who had always sought to thwart him. Hatred for his Death Eaters, who had failed him. Hatred for that insufferable half-giant Hagrid, for the old fool Ollivander, for the entire pitiful, crawling, wretched wizarding world. But above all, above all else—
Potter.
The name itself was a wound that refused to close, a festering reminder of the single greatest insult ever dealt to him. That night. That boy. That infant who should have died screaming in his crib, and yet had lived.
He had been so certain. So certain of his power, so certain of his invincibility, so certain that a child, a mewling brat barely old enough to speak, could not possibly stand against him. And yet the Dark Lord had fallen. Reduced to this—this insufferable, miserable half-existence.
But not forever.
No, not forever.
He would rise again. He would return to his true form. And when he did, the world would tremble.
Voldemort's fragmented spirit drifted through the twisted woodland, seething, scheming. He had patience; he had always had patience. He had spent years carefully assembling his immortality, ensuring that no force—no spell, no wizard, no force of nature—could ever truly destroy him. His survival had not been an accident. It had been fate.
And fate, he knew, was not kind to those who stood in his way.
The rats and snakes he possessed barely lasted a few days before their bodies withered under the weight of his presence. They were weak, unworthy. The day would come when a true servant, one of his faithful, would hear the whispers that drifted through the dark corners of the world—the whispers of his name. Someone would come. Someone would bow before him again.
And then, oh, then, the world would remember.
He imagined it. His fingers closing around a wand once more, his voice ringing out in the incantations that had brought kingdoms to their knees. He would look into the eyes of those who had dared to defy him, and he would watch as the light left them. He would carve his name into history in blood and fire, and he would take what was rightfully his.
The boy would be first.
Harry Potter.
He would find him. He would destroy him. Slowly. Painfully. He would make an example of him, and the world would understand—Lord Voldemort was not a name to be spoken lightly.
The trees rustled in the night, their branches swaying like spectral limbs, and Voldemort's spectral form flickered with the movement of the wind. He would wait. He would endure. He would bide his time in the darkness, watching, listening, waiting for the call that would summon him back to the land of the living.
And when that day came, there would be no mercy. Only vengeance.
—
The corridors of Malfoy Manor stretched before Narcissa Black-Malfoy, silent and endless, their grandeur marred by the weight pressing upon her shoulders. The flickering candlelight barely reached the high-arched ceilings, casting long shadows that moved like specters in her periphery. Her steps, precise and measured, barely disturbed the hush that clung to the air like an omen. This was a house of whispers, of secrets buried in the cold stone walls.
She reached a secluded chamber, a place untouched by the influence of Lucius Malfoy. Inside, seated by a crackling fireplace, was Melania Black—regal, poised, and exuding an effortless command of the space. The years had only refined her beauty, her presence as sharp and intoxicating as the finest French wine. She lifted a crystal goblet to her lips, her dark eyes appraising Narcissa as if seeing beyond mere flesh and bone.
"Cissy," Melania murmured, setting down her drink with an elegant flourish. "What brings you slinking through corridors like a thief in your own home?"
Narcissa exhaled softly, smoothing the folds of her silk gown before sitting across from her grandmother. "I have news."
Melania arched a perfectly sculpted brow, waiting.
Narcissa hesitated, choosing her words with precision. "I've been observing Lucius. Closely." Her voice was a whisper, just above the crackling flames. "He's deep in their circles. The Death Eaters. The meetings are increasing—plans, schemes, maneuvering."
Melania hummed, swirling the deep red liquid in her goblet, her expression unreadable. "And what are they scheming now?"
"The Ministry," Narcissa admitted, eyes darting to the doorway before returning to Melania. "A strike is coming. Soon."
A slow smirk curved Melania's lips, but there was no amusement in it. "Men," she mused, reclining into her chair, fingers tapping against the armrest. "Forever thinking brute force is the answer to all things. It's so…tedious."
Narcissa's own mouth twitched. "Quite."
Melania tilted her head. "And what do you intend to do about your husband's unfortunate taste in friends?"
"I will do what I must." Narcissa's voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Lucius may be convinced that power is taken with blood and war, but we both know true power is something far more…delicate."
Melania's expression softened, ever so slightly. "You are a Black through and through."
A small, knowing smile from Narcissa. "A compliment of the highest order."
Melania inclined her head before setting down her goblet, folding her hands in her lap. "And Draco?"
Narcissa's gaze flickered, her only tell. "He's still a boy."
"A boy, yes. But a boy who is watching his father."
Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin line. "I am ensuring he learns more than just Lucius's perspective."
"Good," Melania murmured, leaning forward slightly. "The Black blood in him will serve him well—provided it is cultivated properly. We do not breed pawns, Narcissa."
"I would never allow my son to be a pawn," Narcissa stated with quiet ferocity. "Not for Lucius. Not for the Dark Lord. Not for anyone."
Melania's gaze lingered on her granddaughter's face, searching. Then, satisfied, she gave a slow nod. "Then I suppose I shall have to trust you to do what is necessary."
Narcissa inclined her head in silent gratitude. "Always."
Melania took another sip of her wine, then exhaled a soft, almost wistful sigh. "Ah, the men in our lives. Always making a mess of things, and we, the eternal custodians, left to clean up after them."
Narcissa chuckled, the sound as light as it was knowing. "It does seem to be a pattern, doesn't it?"
Melania smirked. "Indeed. And what a shame it would be if that pattern were to be broken."
A charged silence stretched between them before Narcissa rose, smoothing her dress once more. "Thank you, Grandmother."
"Cissy."
Narcissa paused at the door, turning her head slightly.
Melania's voice was soft, but edged with steel. "Be careful. And do not let sentimentality dull your blade."
Narcissa glanced over her shoulder, her ice-blue eyes glittering in the firelight. "I never do."
With that, she disappeared into the dimly lit corridors, the shadows shifting around her like silent sentinels, the weight of legacy pressing upon her every step.
—
As Sirius Black stepped out of St. Mungo's, the chill of the evening air wrapped around him like an old, familiar embrace. The world felt different—sharper, brighter, as if he were seeing it for the first time. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of damp cobblestones and distant chimney smoke. Freedom. It still tasted foreign on his tongue, but he intended to get used to it.
His boots clicked against the street as he walked, his mind a tangle of old ghosts and unresolved anger. He had just begun to relish the quiet when a shadow detached itself from the alley ahead. Sirius stopped, every muscle coiled. The figure stepped into the glow of a flickering streetlamp, and the tension in his shoulders shifted from battle-ready to something far more complicated.
Remus Lupin.
Sirius exhaled sharply, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, well, if it isn't the prodigal Marauder."
"Sirius," Remus greeted, his voice cautious, measured. His eyes, those ever-observant, weary eyes, searched Sirius' face as if looking for something—absolution, maybe.
Sirius tilted his head, arms crossing over his chest. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Oh, wait. That's right. You thought I was one, didn't you? Or worse—a traitor."
Remus flinched, barely, but Sirius caught it. Good.
"I deserve that," Remus admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, a familiar nervous habit. "And probably much worse."
"Oh, no argument there." Sirius smirked, sharp and biting. "I should hex you into next week, but then again, you'd probably just spend it feeling guilty and brooding into your tea, so what's the point?"
Remus sighed. "I came to apologize."
Sirius scoffed. "You're gonna have to be more specific, Moony. Are we talking about the part where you thought I murdered James and Lily? The part where you left Harry with those miserable Muggle bastards? Or the part where you let Dumbledore keep me rotting in Azkaban without so much as a 'Hey, maybe we should double-check this whole best-friend-is-a-murderer thing'?"
Remus flinched again, but to his credit, he held Sirius' gaze. "All of it."
Sirius huffed, shaking his head. "Damn right."
Remus took a step closer. "I was a coward, Sirius. I should have fought for you. For Harry. I should have known you'd never betray James. But I was lost. After their deaths, after your—" He hesitated. "—supposed betrayal, I didn't know who to trust. And then, when I finally knew the truth, I was ashamed."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Right. Because shame is a great excuse for abandoning a kid who needed you."
"I know." Remus' voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. "You have every right to hate me."
Sirius studied him, the fire in his eyes flickering, but not extinguishing. Then, after a beat, he sighed dramatically. "Oh, Moony, I don't hate you. That would require far too much energy. And honestly, I'm saving most of my murderous rage for Peter. You're just a disappointment."
Remus winced, the words hitting their mark.
"Look," Sirius continued, his voice softer but no less sharp. "I don't have time for your guilt trip. Harry needs people in his corner. Real ones. Not ones who run the moment things get hard."
"I won't run again," Remus vowed. "I swear it."
Sirius stared at him, assessing, then let out a slow breath. "Well, you've always been a man of your word. When you actually decide to use it." He smirked. "Fine, Moony. You want forgiveness? Prove it. Show up. Be there for Harry. And for me, if I ever decide I can stand the sight of you for more than five minutes."
Remus exhaled, relief flickering in his tired eyes. "I will."
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, then stepped past him. "Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a whole life to reclaim. And possibly some pranks to plan." He turned back, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Oh, and Moony?"
Remus raised a brow.
Sirius grinned. "Next time, bring firewhisky. Apologies are easier to stomach with a drink."
Remus chuckled, shaking his head. "Noted."
Sirius winked and walked off into the night, leaving Remus standing under the streetlamp, watching his old friend disappear into the darkness. But this time, he wouldn't let him walk alone.
—
The grand study of Blackmoor Manor was a place of whispered legacies and quiet power. The heavy mahogany bookshelves lined with ancient tomes seemed to breathe with the weight of history, while the fire in the ornate hearth cast long, flickering shadows that danced along the dark-paneled walls. Between these two forces—knowledge and fire—sat Arcturus Black and Charlus Potter, men who had shaped the course of wizarding Britain in ways most would never comprehend.
Arcturus leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled, his sharp gaze resting on Charlus with the kind of calculating intensity that made lesser men wither. His features, carved from the same unyielding marble as his ancestors, betrayed nothing but the cold logic of a mind ever ten steps ahead.
Charlus, for his part, met Arcturus's gaze with the same casual, effortless confidence that had made him both revered and reviled in equal measure. He swirled the brandy in his glass with an air of practiced ease, his aristocratic features arranged in a smirk that suggested he knew exactly how this conversation would play out before it even began.
"The news Narcissa brought is troubling," Arcturus finally said, his voice like the scrape of steel against stone. "Not surprising, but troubling. I was rather hoping Lucius would be too busy admiring his own reflection to orchestrate anything of real significance, but alas, vanity and idiocy are not mutually exclusive."
Charlus exhaled sharply, amused. "Yes, well, I imagine Lucius still believes subtlety is something that happens to other people."
"An unfortunate affliction of the Malfoy bloodline," Arcturus agreed, lifting his glass to his lips. "And yet, for all their ineptitude, they remain useful to the Dark Lord. That, my dear Charlus, is the problem."
Charlus set his brandy down, his amusement fading into something colder. "The safety of our families is at stake. We can't afford to sit back and hope Lucius overestimates his own brilliance into a fatal mistake."
Arcturus inclined his head. "Quite. The question remains: How do we act without alerting the Ministry's more… conveniently blind leadership?"
Charlus scoffed. "You mean the collection of spineless bureaucrats who would rather debate the ethical implications of a Cruciatus Curse than actually prevent one? I'm sure they'll be delighted to form a subcommittee on the matter."
Arcturus allowed a rare smirk to ghost across his lips. "And the Wizengamot would likely need three sessions just to argue over whether they should hold an inquiry at all."
"With a recess in between, of course," Charlus added dryly.
"Naturally. Can't have them overexerting themselves with something as tiresome as doing their jobs."
Charlus leaned forward, his expression darkening. "I have contacts in the Ministry—real ones, not those sycophantic twits Fudge keeps in his pocket. I'll start there. If I push in the right places, I might be able to root out something useful."
Arcturus nodded approvingly. "A prudent course of action. I'll reach out to the older families, those who still remember what true power looks like. There are those who despise the Dark Lord not for his ideals, but for his utter lack of refinement. They may be willing to act, given the right… incentives."
Charlus quirked a brow. "A bribe, you mean."
Arcturus took a measured sip of his drink. "Bribery is such a vulgar term. I prefer to think of it as strategic philanthropy."
Charlus chuckled, shaking his head. "And they say the Blacks lack humor."
Arcturus regarded him with amusement. "It is not that we lack humor, Charlus. It is simply that we prefer our wit like our curses—sharp and fatal."
Charlus raised his glass. "To wit and curses, then."
Arcturus clinked his glass against Charlus's. "And to ensuring that our enemies regret underestimating us."
As the fire crackled in the hearth, they set their plans in motion, knowing that the path ahead was treacherous. But between the cunning of Arcturus Black and the audacity of Charlus Potter, the Death Eaters had just gained two new nightmares to contend with.
—
Dorea Potter and Melania Black glided through the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley with the grace of queens surveying their domain. Even among the throngs of witches and wizards bustling about, the two women stood out—Dorea with her imperious bearing and sharp, intelligent eyes, and Melania with an effortless allure that turned heads wherever she walked. Between them, six-year-old Harry Potter trotted eagerly, his emerald eyes wide with wonder at the sights around him.
"Look at that, Harry," Dorea gestured toward the magnificent broomsticks gleaming in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. "One day, you'll be soaring through the air like a true Potter. It's in the blood."
Harry pressed his nose against the glass, utterly enthralled. "Can I get one now?" he asked hopefully.
Dorea arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Unless you've mastered mid-air levitation since breakfast, I think not."
Melania chuckled, her dark eyes twinkling. "Patience, piccolo falco. First, let's ensure you live long enough to reach a proper flying age."
They continued their stroll, weaving through the bustling alleyway, pausing now and then to inspect a particularly fine set of dragon-hide gloves or admire a display of enchanted books. Just as they were passing Madam Malkin's, a familiar figure approached—Augusta Longbottom, her posture as rigid as ever, with young Neville clinging hesitantly to her side. The boy, though the same age as Harry, had none of his companion's wide-eyed enthusiasm. His expression was cautious, as if expecting to be scolded simply for existing.
"Augusta," Dorea greeted, inclining her head with just the right amount of civility. "What a surprise."
"Dorea," Augusta returned with a clipped nod. "Melania. And young Harry, I presume?"
"You presume correctly," Dorea replied smoothly. "And this must be Neville."
Melania crouched slightly to meet Neville's gaze, her voice honeyed and inviting. "Ciao, piccolo. You have the most beautiful eyes, did you know? They remind me of a forest after the rain."
Neville flushed, unused to such direct kindness. He managed a small nod but said nothing.
Dorea's sharp gaze flicked to Augusta. "He's quite reserved, isn't he?"
Augusta sniffed. "He simply needs to learn to be braver. His father was a great Auror, after all. It's important he understands the weight of that legacy."
Dorea's lips thinned. "Ah, yes. Because nothing fosters courage like the crushing burden of expectation. I seem to recall that tactic working wonders on your classmates back in the day."
Melania hummed in agreement, adjusting the elegant lace gloves on her hands. "I do wonder, Augusta, did anyone ever tell you that a child's spirit is like a delicate bloom? It withers under too much frost."
Augusta's expression hardened. "Discipline is necessary. The world is not kind, and I will not have him growing up coddled."
Dorea sighed, shaking her head. "No one is asking you to coddle him, Augusta. But forcing him into his father's shadow will not make him stronger—it will only make him smaller. If you wish for him to stand tall, you must give him room to grow."
Augusta pursed her lips, clearly unwilling to concede the point but aware she was outmatched in verbal sparring. She settled for a stiff, "I will take your thoughts under advisement."
"Oh, how generous," Dorea murmured dryly.
Before Augusta could muster a retort, Harry tugged at Dorea's sleeve. "Can Neville come with us? We're going to get ice cream, and it's always more fun with friends!"
Dorea cast Augusta a knowing look, her expression daring her to refuse.
Augusta hesitated, glancing at Neville, who was looking up at her with cautious hope. Finally, she exhaled. "Fine. But no sweets before lunch."
Harry grinned, and for the first time that day, Neville smiled—a small thing, barely there, but genuine.
"Excellent," Melania purred, slipping an arm through Augusta's. "Come along then, mia cara. Let's make an afternoon of it."
As the group moved toward Florean Fortescue's, Augusta found herself uncharacteristically quiet, her mind turning over Dorea and Melania's words. And perhaps, just perhaps, she entertained the thought that there might be another way to prepare Neville for the world ahead—one that didn't require making him feel like he was never enough.
But for now, there was ice cream to be had, and the laughter of children to be heard. And in the warmth of Diagon Alley, under the watchful eyes of two formidable witches, two young boys were allowed—for just a little while—to simply be children.
—
Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor was a haven of sugary delights, its air rich with the scents of honeycomb, chocolate, and fresh fruit. The shop bustled with cheerful customers, the warm afternoon sun streaming through the windows, catching in the glistening swirls of ice cream piled high in glass dishes.
At a small table by the window, six-year-old Harry Potter sat across from Neville Longbottom, both boys savoring their respective treats. Harry, his fingers already sticky, attacked his towering scoop of chocolate fudge ice cream with unrestrained glee, while Neville, ever cautious, took careful spoonfuls of his strawberry sundae, his eyes darting around nervously as though expecting Augusta to reprimand him for dripping ice cream onto his shirt.
"This is brilliant!" Harry declared through a mouthful of chocolate, his green eyes gleaming with delight. "I think this is the best thing I've ever eaten."
Neville gave a small, shy smile, licking his spoon before murmuring, "It is really good." He paused before adding hesitantly, "My gran doesn't let me have too many sweets."
Harry frowned at that. "That's just cruel. Sweets make life better." He took another bite, then tilted his head. "What else doesn't she let you do?"
Neville hesitated. "Lots of things."
Harry's expression darkened in a way that was too old for a child his age. "That's not fair."
Meanwhile, across the parlor, Dorea Potter, Melania Black, and Augusta Longbottom sat at a more refined table, their cups of tea untouched as they engaged in conversation. Dorea, regal as ever, exuded an effortless command over the space, her dark gaze sharp with observation. Melania, with her feline grace and rich, velvety voice, stirred her tea idly, casting a glance toward the boys every now and then. Augusta, rigid in her emerald-green robes and signature vulture-topped hat, sat with an air of resigned dignity, though there was a twitch to her mouth that suggested she was bracing herself for one of Dorea's pointed remarks.
Dorea set her teacup down with a quiet clink, her dark brows arching as she fixed Augusta with a piercing gaze. "Neville is a sweet child," she observed, her voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of undeniable authority. "But he carries himself as though he expects the ground to vanish beneath his feet at any moment."
Augusta stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "He needs to learn resilience."
"He needs to learn confidence," Dorea countered, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. "And there is a rather significant difference between the two."
Melania hummed in agreement, swirling the spoon in her tea, her dark eyes languidly moving to Augusta. "You compare him to Frank too much," she mused, her Italian accent giving her words an air of measured contemplation. "It's quite unfair, really. A child should be nurtured, not forced into a mold that does not fit."
Augusta's jaw tightened. "I am doing what is best for him."
Dorea leaned forward, her eyes flashing. "What is best for him, or what is best for your grief?"
Silence stretched between them. Augusta, never one to be easily cowed, looked away first, adjusting the brooch at her throat with unnecessary precision. "I only want him to be strong," she muttered, almost defensively.
Dorea softened—slightly. "Strength does not come from shadowboxing the ghost of a father he never knew." She glanced toward the boys, who were now giggling as Harry attempted to balance a cherry on his nose. Neville, for the first time in her observation, looked genuinely at ease. "Let him be a child, Augusta. Merlin knows we don't get enough of those years before the world starts demanding more from us than we're ready to give."
Augusta's expression flickered, something in Dorea's words settling deep. She exhaled through her nose, watching Neville for a long moment. "You always were too perceptive for your own good, Dorea."
Dorea smiled—slow, victorious. "It's why people either adore me or fear me. And sometimes both."
Melania smirked behind her teacup. "Quite like a queen."
"Precisely."
Augusta huffed, but there was no real bite to it. "I'll try," she conceded, though she said it as though the very words tasted foreign in her mouth.
"That's all I ask," Dorea replied, lifting her teacup in a subtle toast. "And if you find yourself struggling, Augusta, do remember—you are not alone."
A beat passed before Augusta gave a short nod, her gaze softening ever so slightly. "Thank you."
Melania reached out and tapped Augusta's hand once, a simple gesture, but one that spoke volumes. "Now, let's rescue those boys before they eat themselves into a sugar coma."
With that, the three formidable women rose, making their way to the boys—who, at that moment, were engaged in an intense debate over whether a Hippogriff could eat an entire ice cream parlor's worth of desserts in one sitting.
Dorea merely shook her head. "Merlin help us all."
---
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