The Board Room fell into a silence so complete; Harry could hear the dull thrum of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. His emerald gaze lingered on the man seated at the far end of the table. Everything about him—his tailored black suit, the crisp Windsor knot of his tie, the gold chain draped across his waistcoat—spoke of precision. Control. Discipline.
But it was the eyes that truly caught him. Not cold in the way of anger or cruelty, but lifeless. Hollow. The gaze of someone long since numbed to violence. Not just familiar with death, but its artisan. Harry had seen killers before. Plenty of them. Azkaban was full of Voldemort's scum. Men and women who took pleasure in torment, who reveled in power and pain. But this man was something different. Not a predator, but a professional. This was the kind of man who killed not for joy, but because it was required.
His eyes flicked briefly to Ron, catching the faint tick of his brow—the way his friend shifted in his seat.
He'd felt it too.
The man in black moved with deliberate ease, stepping around the table and sliding into the chair beside Kurosawa. He did not excuse himself. Did not speak. Simply sat. The lit cigarette still rested between his fingers, trailing thin spirals of smoke that twisted toward the ceiling like ghostly serpents. Robards cast a pointed glance in his direction but said nothing. Whether out of discomfort or deference, Harry couldn't say.
But one thing was certain.
Whoever this man was, he wasn't here to make friends.
Robards cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense air. "Per Mister Shaw's directive, Agent Ashford will be…" he hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward Shaw, "Joining you both on the Rookwood case. Effective immediately. I expect your full cooperation."
Ron gawked, his mouth parting in disbelief. "You're surely taking the piss," he blurted. "You can't honestly expect us to—"
"Any further discussion, Mister Weasley," Robards interrupted, his tone hardening by a notch, "can be voiced in the privacy of my office."
Robards turned to Harry. "Potter?" he asked.
Harry gave a slow shake of the head, but his gaze stayed fixed on Ryan, who returned it with that same unblinking, glacial stare.
"Well then," Shaw said, clapping his hands once as he rose to his feet, pushing his chair back with a low scrape. "That settles it."
Robards stood as well, offering his hand. Shaw shook it firmly, his grin quick and professional.
"I imagine we'll be in touch," Shaw added, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a quick word with my agents in private. No need to escort us out—we can manage."
"Of course, Mister Shaw," Robards replied with a polite nod. "Stay as long as you require."
As Robards made his way to the door, he cast a glance back at Harry and Ron.
The two exchanged a brief, wary look before rising from their chairs and moving toward the exit. They were halfway to the door when Shaw's voice rang out behind them.
"Oh—and one more thing, boys."
They paused, turning to face him.
"The Darkwatch operates under the strictest confidentiality. Which means, naturally, their existence must remain… non-existent." His smile tightened. "The Ministry has their ways of keeping secrets sealed." A beat. "So do we. Take that however you like."
Ron's throat bobbed as he swallowed, the color draining from his face. Harry's jaw clenched ever so slightly. Without another word, they followed Robards out of the room, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them.
"So, that's the famous Harry Potter," Ryan muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Thought he'd be taller."
Shaw let out a long, weary groan, shoulders sagging. "For once in your damned life, can't you at least try being civil?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're already tap-dancing around the Ministry, and now we've got Potter running point on the Rookwood case."
"I can handle this myself," Ryan said flatly, turning to face him, smoke curling from his nostrils. "I've been hunting Voldemort's flunkies since before they even knew how to hide."
"If this were just a simple smash and grab, we wouldn't be here," Kimiko cut in. "You're not the only one in Section Thirteen who works solo, you know."
"She's right," Shaw added, straightening up and folding his arms as he leaned against the table. "This isn't business as usual. Voldy liked to surround himself with psychos who'd kill for fun and couldn't spell their own names. Apart from maybe five of them, and that's being generous—the lot of 'em had the brains of a stale Cannoli."
He exhaled sharply. "But lately, someone's been pulling the strings. They're getting organized. Like there's a mind behind it now. One with actual patience. If what Frankenstein passed along has any truth to it, then we're in deep."
"And you think Rookwood's the thread?" Ryan asked, tapping ash onto the table before grinding the cigarette out, earning a sharp glare from Kimiko.
"Possibly. But we won't know until you squeeze every last drop of intel from the jackass," Shaw said, pushing off the table and straightening his jacket. "There's something here, kid. Hiding in plain sight. Normally, we'd play it quiet—but the game's changed. This time, your best chance is with the Aurors."
Shaw paused, flashing a crooked grin. "And hey, maybe it's about time you made a few friends. Can't think of better company than Harry freakin' Potter."
Ryan scoffed. "Yeah, great. Exactly what I needed. Wizarding royalty and his redhead sidekick."
"Still, play nice. Follow the leads. And for God's sake, try not to scare the boys shitless," Shaw said with a smirk. "Just because they call you Nosferatu doesn't mean you have to play the part."
He gave a slight nod, and Kimiko rose from her chair, smooth and silent.
She cast Ryan a long, unimpressed look. "Fitting, really—considering Nosferatu is Romanian for 'the insufferable one,'" With that, she turned on her heel and followed Shaw to the door.
Ryan raised two fingers in a mock salute. "Be seeing you," he said dryly. "Try not to miss me too much."
The door shut behind them with a soft click, leaving Ryan alone in the pale light, the smoke from his last cigarette still curling lazily toward the ceiling.
****
"You've gone completely barmy, Chief," Ron burst out inside the confines of Robards' office, his hands thrown up in frustration. "Working with crooks is mad enough—but teaming up with some shadow lot that isn't even supposed to exist? That makes the patients at Saint Mungo's look downright reasonable."
Robards remained seated behind his heavy leather chair—dark and worn, its surface creased from decades of service under countless Auror chiefs before him. His office, the largest on the floor, was glass-walled on all four sides, though the aluminum blinds were drawn tightly shut, cloaking the space in privacy. His weathered green eyes fixed in cold consideration.
"I hate to say it, Chief," Harry added, folding his arms, "but Ron's not wrong. We don't know who they are, and we've no way of knowing if they can be trusted. For all we know, they could be imposters, waltzing in here with forged credentials and a polished lie."
Robards raised a hand. "Mister Potter. Mister Weasley." His tone was firm. "Your concerns are valid. And noted." A pause followed. "But this decision doesn't rest with me. Not even with the Head of Magical Law Enforcement."
His expression tightened. "This came from higher. Much higher."
He straightened in his chair, gaze hardening. "Which means everything they said—about the Darkwatch, about the Board—it's real. All of it."
"Not to mention," Robards said, pausing as if weighing his words, "that lad—Ryan. I've heard of him. Not directly. Just… whispers. Mostly from the deranged mutterings of dark wizards shipped off to Azkaban. The ones that didn't go quietly."
Harry's brow furrowed. "What sort of whispers?"
Robards leaned in, placing his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "They'd scream. Cower in corners. Always the same pattern—mad-eyed, trembling, barely coherent. The one thing they all had in common?" He exhaled. "They were the only ones left alive. Whole groups wiped out. Only a single survivor left behind. Almost as if… it was intentional."
Harry's frown deepened. "You mean, someone let them live?"
Robards gave a slow nod. "To spread the story, perhaps. A warning." He glanced at the blinds as though checking the room was truly sealed. "They spoke of something not entirely human. More wraith than wizard. Victims struck down before they could even lift their wands. No warning. No mercy. Just cold, efficient death."
"And every one of them, without fail, spoke the same name. The one that turned them from smug bastards into sobbing wrecks." He paused. "Nosferatu."
Ron blinked, before scoffing under his breath. "Nosferatu? What, like the old black-and-white film?" He tried for a chuckle, but it landed flat.
Robards didn't so much as twitch.
"And you reckon he's this… Nosferatu?" Harry asked with a note of hesitation.
Robards didn't answer at once. His gaze moved between the two of them, steady and unreadable. "I've been an Auror longer than either of you have been alive. Straight out of Hogwarts, into the Academy, and I've worn that badge ever since." He tapped the insignia on his chest. "I've built a career in these halls. Built a reputation. I'd like to think I've got a good sense for people. For danger."
He drew a slow breath. "But that lad in there?" He shook his head. "I didn't sense him. Not a sound. Not a shift in air. Nothing. Not until he wanted to be seen." He let the silence stretch. "In all my years, that's never happened before."
His gaze fixed on Harry. "And I'd wager you felt the same."
Harry's jaw tightened. He gave a small nod. "I did."
"Look, I'll be honest with you. I know next to nothing about the Darkwatch. Only what the conspiracy rags have printed over the years—shadow agents, rogue missions, all that cloak-and-dagger nonsense." He paused. "But those three in that room? They didn't walk like fantasists. They didn't sound like they were pretending. And trust me when I say this—they're more dangerous than anything we've ever gone up against."
Ron folded his arms, exhaling hard as he leaned back against the shuttered window. "Still doesn't add up, Chief. Let's just say, for argument's sake, this is all real. That we've not completely lost the plot." He frowned. "Why would a global spook outfit give a damn about Rookwood? Bloke's just another washed-up Death Eater. Wasn't even close to Voldemort's inner circle."
"Well, considering most of the old Death Eater lot are either pushing up daisies or vanished off the map, I'd say it is rather suspicious," Harry said, his gaze flicking to Ron before settling on Robards. "And if I'm honest, I don't like the direction this is heading."
"You and me both, lad," Robards replied grimly. "But orders are orders. And yours are simple—keep an eye on him. Keep him in line. The last thing we need is some rogue spook tearing through London and making a spectacle of things."
He gave a tired shrug. "I'm sorry to lay this on you, Harry, but I'm putting you on his leash. Do your best not to let go."
"Wait—me?" Harry blinked, clearly caught off guard. "You saw the bloke. He doesn't strike me as someone who takes kindly to being managed."
"You're not his handler," Robards said. "But in this arrangement, you're the senior field officer. Like it or not, he'll have to follow your lead. And frankly, I doubt he's daft enough to risk blowing the lid off both our worlds. Even the Darkwatch—shadowy as they are—must follow rules. Likely stricter than ours, if I had to guess."
Harry opened his mouth to speak but stopped short, furrowing his brow as he turned to Ron. Robards reached for a parchment and slipped on a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.
"As per your latest report, Mister Weasley," he said, scanning the page, "you mentioned receiving a tip-off."
"Right," Ron nodded, pushing off the window frame. "We were supposed to head down to the Leaky Cauldron. Little birdie's willing to sing—said he's heard something worth our time."
Robards raised a brow. "A 'birdie,' was it?"
Ron scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. "Something like that."
The Chief gave him a look as flat as pressed parchment. "As I said, Mister Weasley, I've been in this game longer than you've been shaving. Spare me the euphemisms. Real life's not some Muggle detective drama off the telly you've grown so bloody fond of."
"Yes, sir," Ron muttered with a shrug, earning the faintest smile from Harry.
"Well then, off you go," Robards said, removing his glasses and waving them towards the door. Harry and Ron both nodded and turned to leave. Ron opened the door and stepped through, but just as Harry followed, Robards called after him.
"And Potter—"
Harry paused.
The Chief's gaze remained firm. "The lad may know about us, may understand magic… but he's not one of us. I don't say that to insult the man's blood or background. I say it because he and you come from different worlds—in more ways than one. Keep that in mind. I trust your judgement."
Harry held his eyes for a beat, then gave a short nod before stepping out and letting the door click shut behind him.
****
Harry and Ron descended the stone staircase, the polished soles of their loafers clicking against the worn surface as figures moved past them—fellow Aurors, harried administrators, and clerks from other departments, all flowing through the Ministry's lifeblood. The air was thick with the hum of motion: the shrill ringing of phones, the low murmur of conversation, the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys striking parchment, punctuated by the occasional metallic ding at the end of a line.
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly as he took it all in. The chaos was oddly comforting. A far cry from the candlelit corridors of Hogwarts—though no less turbulent in its own way. But even amid the noise, the grown-up dullness, and the political rot, he wouldn't have traded it for anything.
"So," Ron began as they reached the foot of the stairs, "what do you reckon, mate? This whole circus. Darkwatch, Rookwood, some shadowy agent now stalking our heels like a lost krup. It stinks, Harry—like my old cauldron after a double with Snape."
"You can say that again," Harry said, glancing at him with a grin. "Speaking of which, you left the dorms smelling like something had died. Took weeks to get the stench out. Can't say we ever quite forgave you."
"Oh, sod off," Ron groaned. "I was busy."
"Busy snogging Hermione, that's what you were."
Ron rolled his eyes. "I said sod off."
Harry laughed, but the moment passed quickly. His hands slipped into his coat pockets. "Still… you're right. None of this feels right. It's too tidy. Like the plot of a film—just missing the title card and dramatic music."
"Exactly," Ron said, nodding. "All we're missing now is 'M' giving us briefing orders in a bunker somewhere."
Harry exhaled slowly, his smile fading. "Yeah… just hope this story doesn't end like a bloody tragedy."
The two friends stepped into the main hall of the Auror Office, the clamor of workday chatter and rustling parchment dimming as Harry's gaze locked onto a familiar figure near the far end of the room.
Ryan stood with his back leaned against a desk, a steaming mug in hand—courtesy of one of the secretaries, who had already retreated behind a stack of files. He gave a casual nod in their direction, lifting the mug in a half-hearted gesture of greeting before taking a long sip.
The effect was immediate.
Ryan froze, eyes widening in disbelief before narrowing in silent offence. He straightened abruptly, grabbed the nearest waste bin, and spat the liquid out with a violent hack. Without missing a beat, he poured the rest of the coffee straight in after it and set the mug back down with a grimace.
"Gotta hand it to the Brits," Ryan muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "If there's one thing they consistently screw up, it's coffee. Christ—that was awful."
Ron blinked. "Well, he's charming."
Harry let out a quiet snort. "And subtle."
As the two friends approached, Ryan turned to face them. His posture relaxed, but his eyes held no trace of warmth—only a flat, unreadable calm.
"Good day," Harry began. "You already know who we are, but a proper introduction's in order. Harry Potter." He extended a hand. "And this is my partner, Ronald Weasley."
"Call me Ron," Ron added with a nod.
Ryan glanced at the offered hand, then shook it once—firm, impersonal. "Pleasure," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. He let go and reached into his coat, producing a slim metal case.
"Before we get started," he continued, tapping a cigarette loose with one hand and catching it between his teeth, "let's clear a few things up."
He tucked the case away and lit up, the flick of his silver lighter sharp in the air. "First—teamwork's not really my style. I work alone. Always have. But desperate times and all that." He took a slow drag, exhaled. "Second—whatever rules, laws, or little ministry protocols you live by? They don't apply to me. My mission comes first. I do what's necessary."
His eyes flicked between them. "And third—spare me the noble act. I'm not here to save the day. I'm not one of the good guys. Long as we understand that, we'll get along just fine."
"Cute," Ron said flatly, his brow knitting into a glare. "Suppose it's true what they say about Yanks."
Ryan raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
"Maybe things run a bit differently where you're from," Ron went on. "But you're in London now. Like it or not, you're under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic. And we—" he gestured between himself and Harry, "we're in charge of the Rookwood case. So unless you fancy getting tossed out on your arse, you take orders from us."
Ryan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And it's true what they say about Weasleys. All bark, no teeth."
Ron's ears flushed red. He stepped forward; finger pointed. "Oi! You listen here, you smug little—"
Harry caught Ron with an outstretched arm. "That'll do."
He turned his gaze to Ryan. "Point taken, Mister Ashford. But let's be perfectly clear—this is our investigation. You might be here on special assignment, but the moment you start throwing your weight around like some cowboy out of a bad Muggle film, you're off the case. I'll send you packing myself."
Ryan stared, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them.
"Fair enough," he said. "Name your terms."
Without a word, Harry reached up, plucked the cigarette from Ryan's mouth, and crushed it between his fingers. Ash flaked to the floor.
Ryan blinked, caught off guard.
"First," Harry said, dropping the crushed remains into a nearby bin, "no smoking inside the Ministry. You want to puff, take it outside like everyone else."
He stepped in, just enough to close the distance. "Second, you're here to observe and assist. Until Rookwood's in custody, you follow our lead."
His tone dipped colder. "And third—don't you ever insult my friend or his family again. Am I understood?"
Ryan held his stare for a long moment. Then, he nodded. "Crystal."
Harry gave Ryan a once-over. Then he drew a slow breath. "Good. Now that we're all on the same page, let's—"
"Ron!"
All three turned at the sound of the voice cutting through the office din.
A man was striding toward them—clearly older, though not by much. His fiery red hair, now thinning at the temples, was carefully combed back, but the retreat of his hairline was unmistakable. He wore a grey three-piece suit with muted vertical pinstripes, crisp and immaculate. His polished black loafers clicked neatly against the marble floor, matching the precision of his gait. His face was lean, proper, clean-shaven save for a shadow that hinted at a hurried morning.
"Percy," Ron called out with a grin, lifting a hand.
But Ryan's demeanor shifted. Subtly, instantly. The light in his eyes dimmed, and his body tensed—not outwardly, but enough for Harry to notice. His gaze narrowed, lips tightening around a breath he didn't seem to take. It was the stillness that unnerved Harry most—like a predator coiling in silence, measuring the room.
The air between them changed.
Harry felt it settle over his shoulders like a draft through a graveyard. Cold. Heavy. Instinctive. He glanced sideways at Ryan, who hadn't moved, but radiated something sharp, something lethal. And Harry knew, in that moment, Ryan Ashford wasn't looking at Percy Weasley.
He was calculating him.
"You seem to be in quite a rush," Ron remarked, giving his brother a once-over. "What's the occasion?"
Percy straightened his lapels with habitual precision. "On my way to brief the Minister. Yet again, our progress with the wizarding tube has… stalled. Third disruption in as many months."
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, folding his arms. "Aren't you already months behind schedule?"
"Don't remind me," Percy sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "To make matters worse, I've received my third owl from Mum this morning alone. Still no word from Ginny. It's driving her mad. Dad's doing what he can to keep her from filing an official missing persons report."
"She's tougher than all of us put together," Harry said reassuringly. "Told Ron the same—she'll be all right. Maybe Charlie can check in, put your mum at ease. He is in Romania, after all."
Percy blinked. "That's… actually a brilliant idea. I'll send him an owl once I'm done with the Minister."
It was then that he finally noticed the unfamiliar face among them. "My word—who's this?"
Ron turned awkwardly toward Ryan. "He's… an Auror. From MACUSA. He's here to assist us on the Rookwood case."
Percy arched a brow. "MACUSA? What interest would the Americans have in Rookwood?"
"Politics," Harry replied with a shrug. "You know how it goes."
"Hmph. Unfortunately." Percy adjusted his cuffs, then offered a polite hand. "Percy Weasley. Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister…?"
Ryan didn't shake it. His gaze darkened, and his tone turned razor-sharp.
"So you're Percy Weasley," he said coldly. "Didn't recognise you without Fudge's ass on your lips."
Harry, Ron, and Percy froze.
"I—I beg your pardon?" Percy managed, brittle with disbelief rather than fury.
"You heard me," Ryan replied. "Percy Ignatius Weasley. Age twenty-five. Former Head Boy. Graduated top of his class. Ministry's golden boy. Promised. Polished. Perfect." He stepped forward, his shoes echoing faintly on the polished floor. "That is, until you got in bed with Cornelius Fudge."
Percy's composure wavered. "I—"
"Turned your back on your family. Cut ties with everyone who mattered. And why?" Ryan tilted his head. "Because Fudge tossed you a title and a pat on the head?"
Ron's fists clenched, jaw twitching with restrained fury, but Harry caught his arm and shook his head. The look in his eyes said enough: Not here. Not now.
Ryan didn't stop. "You stood at the feet of a man who let the world burn. And you helped him light the match. You did what he did. Waited until the corpses piled up high enough to finally remember your spine."
He took another step closer. Percy instinctively stepped back. "Sure, you showed up at Hogwarts in the end. Swinging a wand for a battle you helped set in motion."
Percy's mouth opened slightly. No words came.
Ryan's words laced with ice. "Tell me, Weasley… what was it like? Standing over your brother's body?"
The color drained from Percy's face.
"Knowing you're still breathing, strutting around, pretending you're one of the good ones, while he's stone cold in the ground?" Ryan's lip curled, seething with contempt. "You don't deserve to be here. You don't deserve the air in your lungs. Hell, you don't deserve peace, not after what you did. What you stood by and let happen."
He leaned in, eyes like flint. "You chose your side. And if it were up to me, your name would've been on that Goddamned list—right next to Fudge!"
"Bastard!" Ron lunged, fist cocked, eyes burning—but Ryan moved before the punch ever came close.
In a blink, Ron was slammed onto the cold floor, his arm twisted behind his back, face pinned hard against the stone.
"Let me go, you bloody—!"
"Here's the thing about you wizarding types," Ryan cut in. "You're hopeless without a wand. Stick to your sticks, Weasley."
A high, clear whine filled the air—the unmistakable hum of a wand charging.
"Let him go," Harry said sharply.
Ryan turned his head slightly. The tip of Harry's wand hovered inches from his cheek, glowing a dangerous, pulsing red.
"I won't ask again."
Ryan met his gaze with a smirk. "You want to find out who's quicker, Potter? Been wondering that myself."
The two locked eyes—neither blinking, neither budging. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then, Ryan let go.
Ron shoved himself up, teeth gritted and breathing hard, rubbing his shoulder with a grimace. Ryan stepped back smoothly, brushing imaginary dust from his coat.
"Well then," he said, casting a glance between the three. "When you're ready to work, I'll be outside." As he passed Percy, he added without looking, "Apparently there's no smoking in the Ministry."
And with that, he walked off, the weight of his presence dragging behind him like smoke in the air.
Harry lowered his wand, his bright green eyes tracking Ryan's retreating figure until he vanished out the wooden doors. The tension in the air didn't ease—it simply shifted.
Ron cracked his back with a wince. "Bloody hell. I didn't even see him move."
Harry turned to Percy, who stood pale and motionless, as though Ryan's words had pulled ghosts from the past and laid them bare. His eyes were glazed, lost somewhere far away.
"You alright, Percy?"
Percy blinked hard, as if waking from a bad dream. "Yes… yes, I—" He rubbed his temple. "It's just… what he said. Every damned word. George said the exact same thing. Last Christmas. The one where…"
A hush settled between them as Percy spoke, and both Harry and Ron's expressions softened. The anger in Ron's jaw eased, and Harry's gaze lowered slightly.
He let out a brittle, joyless laugh. "By Merlin, I can still hear the shouting. Mum sobbing in the kitchen. Dad's face—disappointment, not anger, and somehow that hurt more. Bill and Charlie trying to tear us apart. You two and everyone else just… standing there. Frozen. Frightened. Broken glass, overturned chairs… blood on the floor. Teeth scattered like dice. We spent the night in the hospital, looking like we'd gone three rounds with a troll."
He drew a shaky breath. "Three years on, and it still hangs over me like a blade just waiting to fall." He folded his arms tightly, fingers digging into his sleeves. "Everyone's moved on, or at least they pretend to. But George..." He shook his head.
Ron stepped forward and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We know," he said quietly. "We do. And I reckon, somewhere down the line, George will come round too."
Harry's gaze lingered on the corridor where Ryan had vanished, his jaw tightening. "Look, Percy… don't let that prick get to you. He's just a loudmouth Yank with no sense of where he's standing. The sooner we wrap up this Rookwood mess, the sooner he buggers off back to the States."
He turned back, more gently. "And we don't speak for George. No one can, not really. He lost a twin. Half of him vanished that day, and nothing we say will ever fill that space. But you were there, in the end. That matters."
Percy nodded. "You're right. Both of you." He straightened his collar, collecting himself. "Well... I'd best be off. Minister Shacklebolt's waiting, and I've already kept him long enough."
Percy offered them both a faint, grateful glance before hurrying down the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly until they disappeared around the bend. Harry slid his wand back into the inner pocket of his coat, his eyes scanning the hall. Dozens of faces stared, frozen mid-task, their expressions painted with the aftermath of what they'd just witnessed. With a nod from Harry, they slowly returned to their work, the hum of the Ministry breathing back to life.
"Cheers for the help, mate," Ron muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "But I had him."
"You were face-down on the floor," Harry replied with a grin. "There's no shame in needing backup."
Ron huffed. "Still had him. Just… giving the floor a closer look, that's all. But I'll give you this—he's one hell of a piece of work. Bloke moves like smoke. And I reckon he's holding back more than he's letting on."
Harry's expression darkened. "I'm more interested in what he said."
Ron glanced over. "What part?"
"To Percy," Harry murmured. "He mentioned… a list."
Ron frowned, brow creasing. "Probably just a figure of speech. You know how these Yanks are—always got a flair for the dramatic."
"Maybe." Harry rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "But think back—before we joined the Aurors. When we were still at the Academy. Remember those news reports on the Wireless? About wizards found dead. Ex-Death Eaters. Pureblood supremacists. Some Ministry officials too."
Ron's eyes widened slightly. "And all of 'em tied to Voldemort's lot. Or at least helped him in some way."
"And did you hear how he spoke about Fudge?" Harry muttered as his brow creased. "Didn't sound like your usual bitterness. It was personal… far too personal, if you ask me."
Ron leaned in. "You don't think…?"
"I'm not jumping to conclusions," Harry said quickly, shaking his head. "Not yet. But something's not adding up. And if there really is a list… we'll find out soon enough."
Ron gave a nod. "Right. Well… I'll follow your lead."
Harry glanced toward the corridor where Ryan had vanished. "Then let's get moving. We've got work to do."
Together, the two of them turned and made for the exit.