Sirius strode into Blackmoor, the ancestral fortress of the Black family, his boots echoing against the polished marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and expensive cigars, a testament to the men awaiting him in the study. He wasn't nervous—Sirius Black didn't do nervous—but there was a weight in his chest that he couldn't shake.
As he entered the study, he found them exactly as he expected: Charlus lounging in a high-backed leather chair, swirling a tumbler of firewhisky with the casual elegance of a man who knew he was better than everyone else and didn't need to prove it. Arcturus, ever the imposing patriarch, sat straight-backed with a regal air, his hawkish gaze landing on Sirius with the weight of a thousand unspoken expectations.
"Sirius," Charlus greeted, not bothering to rise, though there was a glint of amusement in his sharp eyes. "To what do we owe the pleasure? Come to announce your impending marriage to a Muggle just to spite us?"
Sirius snorted and threw himself into the chair opposite them, stretching out with deliberate insolence. "You wound me, Uncle. If I were marrying a Muggle, you'd be the first to know. I'd send you the invitation personally—charmed so you couldn't set it on fire."
Arcturus exhaled sharply, the closest thing he ever gave to a laugh. "Spare me the theatrics, boy. You didn't come here just to waste my time with your usual nonsense. Speak."
Sirius leaned forward, suddenly serious. "I want to join the Black Dragon Legion."
A beat of silence.
Charlus raised a single eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his whisky. "I assume you're joking, but I must say, I do admire the sheer audacity of it."
Arcturus, however, did not look amused. His cold, calculating gaze bore into Sirius as if weighing his very soul. "And why, exactly, do you think you're fit for the Legion?"
Sirius met his father's gaze without flinching. "Because I want to do something that matters. Not play politics, not sit in some stuffy Ministry office collecting bribes like Malfoy. I want to fight for something worth fighting for."
Charlus exhaled, shaking his head. "Such noble idealism. How positively Gryffindor of you." He gave Arcturus a look. "Didn't we send him to Hogwarts to cure him of this nonsense?"
Arcturus sighed, rubbing his temple as if battling a migraine. "Clearly, we failed." His gaze flickered back to Sirius. "You do understand that the Legion isn't some noble crusade, yes? It's not some grand tale of heroism for you to live out your fantasies."
Sirius smirked. "You wound me, Grandfather. Do you think I'm that naive?"
Charlus hummed in consideration. "Not naive, per se. Just an idiot. A well-meaning idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."
Sirius barked a laugh. "And here I thought you two would be thrilled that I wanted to do something that actually benefits the family for once."
Arcturus's expression didn't change, but there was something imperceptible in his gaze. Approval, perhaps? "You think joining the Legion is a way to honor the Black name?"
"Yes," Sirius said without hesitation. "We're Black men. We're not meant to be sheep blindly following the Ministry or hiding behind our wealth like cowards. We shape history. We don't bow to it."
Charlus chuckled, shaking his head. "By Merlin, you do have a way with words when you're not making a fool of yourself."
Arcturus studied him for a long moment before nodding slightly. "Very well. If you wish to take this path, I will not stand in your way. But know this: once you enter the Legion, there is no turning back. You will not be coddled. You will not be given special treatment. You will either earn your place, or you will fail."
Sirius grinned, leaning back with a lazy confidence. "Oh, don't worry. I fully intend to be the best damn Black Dragon the Legion has ever seen."
Charlus smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Then here's to your inevitable failure, dear boy. It will be a most spectacular disaster to witness."
Sirius rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the grin tugging at his lips. "You'll be eating those words, Uncle."
Arcturus, however, remained as unreadable as ever. "We shall see."
And with that, the matter was settled. Sirius was ready to take his place among the Black Dragon Legion. Or die trying.
—
Peter Pettigrew—currently existing as the Weasley family's least appreciated pet, Scabbers—was having the worst night of his life. Which, frankly, was saying something, considering he'd once voluntarily chopped off his own finger and faked his death in an alleyway explosion. But as he lay under the floorboards of Percy Weasley's bedroom, listening to the distant crackle of the Wizarding Wireless and the hum of family chatter downstairs, he could feel his tiny, ratty heart threatening to burst right out of his matted fur.
Sirius Black had been exonerated.
Not only that, but the world now knew the truth: Peter Pettigrew was the real traitor. The gutless, sniveling rat who had sold out James and Lily Potter to Voldemort. And while Peter had always known that karma was a thing, he'd really hoped it was more of an abstract concept rather than an immediate, horrifying consequence barreling straight for him.
His whiskers twitched violently as he chewed on a crumb of stale bread, his beady eyes darting around his dim hideout. He needed to get out. He needed to disappear. But where? The Weasley home had been his sanctuary, his little nest of warmth and food scraps, his perfectly curated life of glorious mediocrity. But now, all he could think about was the terrifying certainty that Sirius—his old friend, now turned personal grim reaper—was going to find him. And when that happened? Well… he doubted Sirius was in a particularly forgiving mood.
He shuddered. "Oh, Merlin, I'm so dead," he muttered under his breath, his tiny paws trembling as he gnawed anxiously at his tail. "Okay, okay, Pete, pull it together, buddy. Think. THINK. You're smart. You survived this long, didn't you?"
A small, manic laugh escaped him before he immediately regretted it. He'd survived this long by being the world's greatest coward. His entire skill set revolved around being invisible, underestimated, and just pathetic enough that people didn't feel like wasting their energy killing him. But that strategy only worked when the world didn't know you existed. Now? He was the wizarding world's most wanted. And not in the cool, mysterious way. More in the 'everyone wants to see your body in a ditch' way.
"Maybe I should turn myself in?" he thought aloud, then immediately slapped his own furry face. "No, no, bad idea, terrible idea. I'd be chucked into Azkaban before I could even say 'I can explain!'"
He froze as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. His breath hitched. Was it Percy? No, Percy had that heavy, self-important stomp. This was lighter. Could've been one of the twins, or maybe Ron. Either way, he wasn't sticking around to find out. With a desperate scramble, he squeezed himself through the small gap in the floorboards and scurried towards the shadows, his mind racing.
If he stayed, he was dead. If he left, he was dead. But, like… different kinds of dead. And Peter preferred the kind where he at least had a slim chance of making it out alive.
Decision made, he darted towards the nearest exit, his tiny claws skittering across the wooden floors as he slipped into the darkness. He'd find somewhere else to hide, somewhere Sirius wouldn't think to look. Maybe go full rat and live in a sewer for a while. Yeah, sure, it was gross, but dignity had never really been his strong suit anyway.
As he slipped out of The Burrow and into the night, heart hammering in his tiny chest, Peter Pettigrew could only hope that for once in his miserable existence, luck was on his side.
Spoiler alert: it probably wasn't.
—
Harry strode into the grand library of the Potter Estate, the scent of aged parchment and polished mahogany filling his senses. He had just returned from a day out shopping with Grandma Dorea and Melania, and while he enjoyed their company, the trip had been exhausting. Navigating between stern but indulgent Dorea and sharp-tongued but equally kind Melania was like trying to outmaneuver a pair of particularly stylish Hungarian Horntails.
His grandfather, Charlus Potter, sat in his usual high-backed leather chair by the tall windows, a book in one hand and a crystal tumbler of firewhisky in the other. The afternoon sun cast long golden rays across the richly adorned study, highlighting the flecks of silver in Charlus's otherwise dark hair. His piercing gaze flicked up from his book the moment Harry entered.
"Ah, there you are," Charlus said, closing his book with a decisive snap. "I assume your grandmother and Melania have not completely spent my fortune in one afternoon?"
Harry smirked as he collapsed into the chair opposite. "No, but I think they considered it."
Charlus chuckled. "Good. I'd hate for them to lose their edge. Come here, boy—I have something for you."
Curious, Harry stood and approached. Charlus reached to his side, producing a small, ornate chest. With a measured grace, he placed it on the table between them and, with a flick of his wand, undid the locking mechanism. The lid opened with a soft click, revealing a bundle wrapped in deep velvet.
Harry watched, eyes wide with intrigue, as his grandfather peeled back the fabric to reveal a cloak of deep midnight blue, the fine weave catching the light with a subtle shimmer. It was elegant, timeless, and—somehow—powerful.
"This," Charlus declared, his voice edged with pride, "is the Potter Family Cloak. Passed down through our line for centuries, from father to son, as a symbol of our legacy."
Harry hesitated for a moment before reaching out, fingers brushing against the fine fabric. It was softer than he expected, yet there was an undeniable weight to it—something beyond mere cloth.
"Blimey," he breathed. "It's… it's brilliant."
Charlus smirked. "Of course it is. You didn't think I was going to show you some common rag, did you?"
Harry grinned but then looked up, his expression curious. "Why now?"
Charlus's eyes softened just a fraction. "Because, Harry, one day, this will be yours. When you turn eleven and go off to Hogwarts, the cloak will be passed on to you, as it was to me when I was your age."
Harry blinked, caught somewhere between excitement and disbelief. "Mine?"
Charlus inclined his head. "Yes. Though I trust you won't wear it to sneak out to Honeydukes like your father did."
Harry's lips twitched. "I make no promises."
Charlus snorted, a rare moment of amusement breaking through his usual severe demeanor. "At least be clever about it. If you're going to disgrace the family name, do it with some ingenuity."
Harry traced a hand over the fabric again, feeling the history woven into every thread. "Thank you, Grandpa," he said, voice quieter now, more reverent. "I'll take care of it."
Charlus regarded him for a moment before nodding, satisfied. "I have no doubt you will, lad. But for now, we shall keep it safe." He rewrapped the cloak with precise movements and closed the chest. "Legacy is not just about what is given, but what is earned. And I have no doubt you will earn your place among the Potters before long."
Harry straightened, feeling an odd warmth settle in his chest. It wasn't just about receiving an heirloom—it was about being trusted with it, about being seen as worthy.
Charlus lifted his tumbler of firewhisky, regarding Harry over the rim. "Now, tell me, did your grandmother at least have the good sense to buy you something practical, or are you about to show me an abomination of a hat that I'll have to pretend to like?"
Harry laughed. "Depends on your definition of 'practical.'"
Charlus sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "I am too old for this."
As Harry left the library, he felt the weight of history settling around his shoulders—not as a burden, but as a promise. A promise he fully intended to keep.
—
The afternoon sun cast golden beams through the tall windows of the Potter Estate, illuminating floating motes of dust as Harry wandered through a corridor he hadn't yet explored. It had been an ordinary day—shopping with Grandma Dorea and Aunt Melania, followed by an impromptu game of wizard's chess with Grandpa Charlus—but now, curiosity tugged at him like an insistent hand. He had heard whispers about the room at the end of the west wing, a place where the most ancient and powerful artifacts of the Potter family were kept. Today, he would finally see it for himself.
The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and polished wood. The room was a vast treasure trove of history—shelves lined with ancient tomes bound in dragonhide, display cases filled with gleaming heirlooms, and towering portraits of Potter ancestors whose eyes followed Harry's every move.
"Harry, be careful in there," Dorea's voice rang out from the doorway, cool and measured. "Some of these artifacts have been known to bite."
Harry turned and grinned at her. "Bite? That's oddly specific."
"Your great-great-uncle Magnus lost a finger to a cursed goblet in this very room," she remarked dryly, stepping inside. The silver streaks in her raven hair caught the light, making her look as regal as ever.
"Did he get it back?" Harry asked, intrigued.
Dorea arched an elegant brow. "No, but he learned a valuable lesson about drinking from mysterious cups."
Harry chuckled and continued his exploration. His gaze landed on a large, ornate mirror at the far end of the room. Unlike any mirror he had ever seen, its polished surface shimmered with an ethereal glow, as though it were alive.
"What's this?" he asked, stepping toward it.
Dorea's expression darkened slightly. "That," she said, "is the Mirror of Shadows. It reveals… things."
Charlus, who had just entered, crossed his arms over his chest. "Dorea, if you're about to tell him not to look, you may as well be handing him an engraved invitation."
Harry, ignoring their exchange, peered into the mirror. For a moment, he saw only his own reflection, but then the image wavered, and his heart lurched as his reflection disappeared. In its place stood a tall, shadowy figure with eyes like burning embers—slitted, red, and filled with malice. A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine as pain erupted in his scar.
He stumbled backward, clutching his forehead. "Ah—!"
Dorea was at his side in an instant, her long fingers gently gripping his shoulders. "Charlus—"
"I see it," Charlus interrupted grimly, his face set in a mask of stone. "Get him away from that thing."
But before Dorea could pull him back, the mirror's glow intensified, bathing the room in a pale, eerie light. The shadow in the glass solidified, and then, with a cruel sneer, it spoke.
"Part of me lives within the boy."
Dorea stiffened, her nails digging slightly into Harry's arms. Charlus took a step closer, his expression one of controlled fury.
"What in Merlin's name does that mean?" Dorea demanded, her voice sharp and precise.
Charlus exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to summon his wand. "It means, my dear, that Voldemort did more than just try to kill our grandson." His gaze locked onto Harry's scar. "He left a piece of himself behind."
Harry felt cold seep into his bones. "You mean… he's inside me?"
Dorea's grip on him tightened ever so slightly, as if she could physically shield him from the horror of the truth. "Charlus," she said, her voice eerily calm. "I would very much like an explanation. Immediately."
Charlus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's a Horcrux," he said, his voice weighted with centuries of knowledge. "A fragment of Voldemort's soul… lodged in our grandson."
Harry felt his stomach churn. "That's—disgusting."
Charlus gave a humorless chuckle. "I'd use stronger words."
Dorea turned to him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "And how do we rid him of it?"
"That," Charlus said, "is the problem. Destroying a Horcrux is no simple feat. And given that this one happens to be nestled inside Harry's head, we need to tread carefully."
Dorea inhaled deeply, composing herself. Then she turned to Harry, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We will fix this," she said, her dark eyes burning with determination. "You are not him, Harry. You are our grandson, and we will find a way."
Charlus nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at Harry. "You have my word on that, lad."
Harry, still reeling from what he had just learned, managed a small, shaky smile. He didn't know how they would do it, but if anyone could find a way to rid him of Voldemort's unwanted presence, it was Charlus and Dorea Potter. And for now, that was enough.
—
Charlus Potter sat in his study, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone. Across from him, Dorea lounged in her armchair with the effortless grace of a queen, one eyebrow arched as she swirled a glass of wine between her fingers.
"Egypt," Charlus declared at last, his voice carrying the weight of decision.
Dorea exhaled slowly. "Egypt." She let the word settle between them like a coiled serpent before taking a measured sip of her wine. "Not exactly a leisurely holiday, darling."
Charlus cast her a pointed look. "I am quite aware. This is no pleasure trip, Dorea. Harry has a piece of that monster inside him, and I'll be damned if I leave my grandson to be a walking tomb for Voldemort's filth. We need answers. We need expertise. And there is only one man who understands Horcruxes better than any living wizard."
"Ammon Raza," Dorea murmured, setting her glass down. "That old serpent is still breathing, then?"
Charlus smirked. "Breathing, scheming, and charging exorbitant fees for his wisdom. But if there is anyone who understands the depths of Herpo the Foul's madness, it is Raza."
Dorea tilted her head, her dark eyes calculating. "You do realize he's just as likely to sell us a cursed artifact as he is to offer assistance?"
"Which is why you're coming with me," Charlus said smoothly, his lips curling ever so slightly at the edges. "Between the two of us, you have the more refined touch when it comes to dealing with snakes."
Dorea laughed softly, a rich, velvety sound. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my love. But fine, I suppose I can't let you run off to Egypt unsupervised. Merlin knows what trouble you'll stir up without me."
Charlus's expression turned serious once more. "I want Harry kept out of this. He knows something is wrong, but I will not have him tangled up in these matters until we know how to fix it."
Dorea nodded. "Agreed. Melania can keep him occupied, and Fleamont has been itching for an excuse to dote on the boy. But we must move swiftly, Charlus. If Voldemort left a piece of himself in our grandson, the consequences could be dire."
Charlus stood, smoothing down his waistcoat. "Then we leave at first light."
Dorea rose as well, meeting his gaze with quiet determination. "Then let's make sure we return with what we need. Harry will not be a vessel for darkness. Not while we draw breath."
Charlus allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "That, my dear, is precisely why I married you."
—
Blackmoor Manor had always exuded an air of quiet menace, an ancestral stronghold where whispered secrets clung to the walls like dust. In the grand drawing room, where ancient portraits observed with silent judgment, Arcturus Black sat like a king upon his throne, his piercing gaze fixed upon Charlus. Melania Black stood beside him, draped in an elegant black gown, her beauty sharp enough to cut. Sirius, lounging near the fireplace with an air of restless energy, looked as though he had half a mind to throttle someone. Preferably someone named Voldemort.
Charlus, ever the picture of cold precision, spoke first. "We have a problem."
Arcturus raised a single, aristocratic brow. "Only one? How refreshing."
Dorea, standing beside her husband, shot Arcturus a look before continuing. "It concerns Harry. The Mirror of Shadows revealed that he carries a piece of Voldemort's soul."
Silence. The kind that could make lesser men sweat.
Arcturus tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "A Horcrux," he said finally, his voice deep and measured. "Tell me, Charlus, when did our family traditions expand to include storing dark lords in our heirs?"
Charlus's mouth curled in distaste. "I assure you, Arcturus, it was not my idea."
Sirius, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly straightened. "That bloody bastard put a part of himself inside my godson?" His fists clenched. "I say we find whatever's left of him and remove another piece. Preferably his head."
Melania sighed, her voice like silk over steel. "Crude, but not entirely without merit."
Dorea cut in smoothly, "Charlus has a plan."
Arcturus inclined his head. "Naturally. He always does."
Charlus ignored the implied condescension. "I have an old acquaintance in Egypt—Ammon Raza. He's one of the foremost experts on dark magic and ancient curses. If anyone can help us extract the Horcrux without… permanent consequences, it's him."
Arcturus folded his hands together, considering. "Ammon Raza. That madman? The one who once outwitted a coven of necromancers and stole a cursed scepter from under their noses?"
"Which," Charlus said dryly, "was only necessary because those necromancers were planning to use said scepter to raise an undead army."
Melania tilted her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "And here I thought we'd be in for a dull season."
Sirius pushed off the fireplace, rolling his shoulders. "I'm coming with you."
Charlus turned to him, unimpressed. "No, you're not."
Sirius scoffed. "And what, pray tell, will you do to stop me? Duel me? I'd like to see you try."
Charlus exhaled through his nose. "I don't need to duel you, Sirius. I simply need to inform your mother's portrait of your whereabouts."
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "That's low, even for you."
Arcturus smirked. "And effective."
Dorea placed a calming hand on Charlus's arm. "Sirius should come."
Charlus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But if you get yourself killed, I will personally haunt your sorry remains."
Sirius grinned, unfazed. "Wouldn't be the first time someone's threatened me with the afterlife."
Arcturus stood, his long robes sweeping the floor as he walked toward the fireplace. "Charlus, you have my support. But mark my words, you are stepping into shadows darker than you realize."
Charlus met his gaze, unflinching. "Then it's a good thing I know how to walk in the dark."
—
The journey to Cairo was swift but hardly pleasant. Charlus, Dorea, and Sirius arrived in the heart of Egypt's bustling capital under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm. The city, alive with voices, the scent of spice-laden air, and the calls of merchants hawking their wares, was a stark contrast to the quiet elegance of the Potter Estate or the austere grandeur of Blackmoor Manor.
Charlus took in the surroundings with the air of a man who had seen it all before but had never been particularly impressed. "Ah, Cairo," he murmured dryly. "A city of ancient wonders, timeless magic, and an utterly confounding lack of punctuality."
Dorea adjusted her silk shawl, casting a glance at the lively crowd. "Charming as always, Charlus. Do try to keep your contempt to a dull roar. We are guests, after all."
Sirius, stretching his arms, smirked. "I dunno, I think the chaos suits us. Makes me feel right at home."
Charlus gave him a withering look. "Your threshold for disorder is exactly why you should never be left unsupervised."
The three of them made their way through the maze of alleyways, past towering sandstone buildings and intricate archways, until they arrived at a grand, if somewhat foreboding, residence near the old city. The house of Ammon Raza.
Massive, weathered wooden doors loomed before them, their iron inlays etched with protective enchantments in ancient Egyptian script. Charlus rapped his knuckles against the door, his patience already thinning. Within seconds, the door creaked open, revealing Ammon Raza, a man whose presence was as commanding as the legends he studied.
Ammon Raza was a towering figure draped in deep crimson robes, his sharp, eagle-like gaze assessing them in an instant. He had the air of a man who had dined with pharaohs and walked away unimpressed.
"Charlus," Ammon greeted, his deep voice laced with both warmth and steel. "You are late."
Charlus raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we had an appointment, Ammon."
Ammon's lips curled into the faintest smirk. "With you, it is always safe to assume arrogance will dictate your schedule."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "I like him already."
Charlus sighed. "Yes, delightful. May we come in, or shall we continue this display of verbal swordplay in the street like common street performers?"
Ammon stepped aside, motioning them in. "Come, then. Let us speak of why you have darkened my doorstep."
The interior of the house was a museum of arcane knowledge. Artifacts, scrolls, and ancient tomes lined the walls, their magic humming faintly in the air. The scent of sandalwood and parchment lingered, a testament to the centuries of wisdom housed within.
Dorea took a seat with effortless grace, her gaze sweeping over the relics with mild interest. "You've redecorated, Ammon."
Ammon inclined his head. "A necessity. The last fool who thought to steal from me left rather… permanent remains."
Sirius grinned. "Sounds like my kind of security system."
Charlus, unbothered by the theatrics, got straight to the point. "It's about my grandson, Harry. He has a piece of Voldemort's soul inside him. A Horcrux."
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Ammon's expression darkened, his fingers steepling together. "A Horcrux," he echoed. "Foul magic indeed."
Dorea's voice was even but firm. "We need to remove it. Safely."
Ammon studied them, his gaze lingering on Charlus before settling on Sirius. "And what is the Black heir doing here? Hoping to smash the Horcrux out with reckless abandon?"
Sirius smirked. "Wouldn't be my first choice, but I'm open to suggestions."
Charlus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sirius, do be quiet before I transfigure you into something less exhausting."
Ammon exhaled slowly, eyes calculating. "This is no simple task. The removal of a Horcrux is perilous. If done incorrectly, the boy's soul could be… damaged."
Charlus met Ammon's gaze evenly. "Then we'll do it correctly."
Ammon leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. "I will help you, Charlus. But you must understand—this will not be easy, nor will it be swift. There are rituals, ancient magics, preparations that must be made."
Dorea nodded, her expression unreadable. "Then we begin immediately."
Ammon regarded them for a long moment before nodding. "Very well. Then let us see if we can undo the sins of a monster."
Sirius cracked his knuckles. "And if we can't, we'll make sure Voldemort regrets ever thinking he could cheat death."
Charlus sighed, standing. "Let's not be overly dramatic, Sirius." He paused. "Though I wouldn't mind making that wretched snake think twice."
With that, the planning began.
—
Ammon Raza leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he studied Charlus with an intensity that could have melted stone. "Herpo the Foul was the first to create a Horcrux," he said, his deep, sonorous voice carrying the weight of centuries. "His knowledge is ancient, dark, and vile, but there is wisdom to be gleaned even from filth."
Charlus, ever the picture of cold calculation, merely arched an imperious brow. "Spare me the history lesson, Ammon. I'm aware of Herpo's depravity. What I need to know is how to undo this particular brand of insanity."
Dorea, reclining elegantly in her chair, regarded Ammon with her usual inscrutable poise. "If I recall correctly, Herpo's methods were designed to preserve life indefinitely. We wish to do the opposite."
Ammon inclined his head. "Indeed. A Horcrux is meant to anchor a soul fragment to the mortal plane. To remove it without destroying the host is—how shall I put this—like extracting a serpent's fangs while it is still very much alive."
Sirius, who had thus far been leaning against a nearby column, arms crossed, let out a low whistle. "Lovely. So, what you're saying is, if we get this wrong, Harry explodes?"
Ammon gave him a dry look. "A crude summary, but not entirely inaccurate."
Charlus exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "I trust you have a means of ensuring that does not happen."
Ammon gestured to an ancient scroll laid out before them, its parchment so old it looked as though a single touch might turn it to dust. "This ritual," he said, tapping the center of the delicate script, "is one of the few documented methods to forcibly separate a soul fragment from its vessel. It is dangerous. Complex. And should any step be performed incorrectly..."
Dorea completed his thought with the faintest hint of amusement. "We all die rather gruesomely, I presume?"
"At best," Ammon replied with a slight smirk.
Sirius let out a barking laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, well, that's reassuring. Any chance we could find a safer option, one that doesn't involve ancient death magic and a high probability of us becoming a cautionary tale?"
Charlus shot him a look that could have frozen hell itself. "Do you know of one?"
Sirius, never one to back down from a challenge, smirked right back. "No, but I figured I'd ask. Optimism, you know."
Ammon, amused by the exchange, folded his hands atop the scroll. "The ritual must be performed precisely. No deviation, no hesitation. You will need specific artifacts, each one integral to stabilizing the magic. And most importantly, you will need an anchor—someone to tether Harry's soul while the fragment is extracted. Otherwise... well, let's just say his soul might slip away with it."
Charlus set his jaw, determination gleaming in his sharp eyes. "We do not have the luxury of failure. Whatever it takes, we will see it done."
Dorea inclined her head, her expression softer but no less resolute. "Harry is our grandson, Ammon. We did not come all this way to leave empty-handed."
Ammon studied them for a long moment, then exhaled, reaching into his robes. From within, he pulled out a small, obsidian dagger inscribed with glowing runes. "Then let us begin the preparations. Time is not on our side."
Sirius cracked his knuckles, grinning. "Oh, good. I was worried this trip might be boring."
---
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