By the next morning, chaos reigned across the Ministry.
News spread fast — Walden McNair, senior Ministry executioner and pure-blood patriarch, had perished in the fire that consumed his manor.
Gringotts confirmed the death first; their ledgers automatically sealed his vault upon magical confirmation of life cessation. Minutes later, the Ministry's own Life Registry flared crimson — an undeniable mark that McNair's magical core had been extinguished.
Senior Auror Amelia Bones sat in her office, eyes sharp and furious. Reports covered her desk: autopsy requests, press inquiries, and diplomatic complaints. Every pure-blood family with influence had already sent a letter demanding answers.
"A Ministry employee, dead under our noses," she muttered. "And by Fiendfyre, no less."
Across the room, Auror John Dawlish shook his head. "There's no trace of who cast it. No residue, no signature pattern. Whoever did this covered their tracks better than any dark wizard I've ever seen."
Amelia tapped the parchment listing the eight unidentified individuals found near the manor.
"And those eight?"
"Still at St. Mungo's," Joan replied. "Every one of them was poisoned. A paralytic mist — not fatal, but potent. Healers say they'll recover, but none of them are conscious yet."
Amelia's expression hardened.
"So they weren't the ones who killed McNair. Someone else was there… someone clever enough to use them as a distraction."
She stood, pacing toward the window where the morning sun burned over London. Her mind was already racing — Fiendfyre wasn't just dangerous; it was deliberate. Whoever unleashed it had power, precision, and purpose.
"Find out everything about these eight," she ordered quietly. "And keep this case off the public record. The last thing I need is the Prophet turning this into another pure-blood martyr story."
As John hurried out, Amelia turned back to the window. The reflection in the glass showed the faintest frown.
"McNair dead, Fiendfyre in Wiltshire, and poisoned strangers with blank masks…"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Whatever happened last night — it wasn't random."
Inside her office, Amelia Bones had barely begun sorting through the McNair reports when her fireplace flared emerald green. The urgent Floo Call came from St. Mungo's.
"Director Bones," the Healer's face appeared in the flames, pale and tense.
"One of the prisoners you brought in last night—he's awake."
Amelia didn't waste a second. Grabbing her cloak, she strode straight into the flames.
The antiseptic scent of St. Mungo's greeted her as she stepped out into the Secure Ward, followed by Auror John Dawlish.
Inside, on the farthest bed, lay one of the eight masked men — pale, shaking, and still recovering from the poison that had rendered him unconscious the previous night.
Amelia's voice was calm but carried an unmistakable edge.
"Name?"
The man swallowed hard. "T–Thomas Greaves, ma'am."
"Thomas Greaves," Amelia repeated. "You were found outside McNair Manor, poisoned, wearing a serpent mask, while the entire estate burned to the ground in Fiendfyre. You'd better start explaining why."
Thomas hesitated, eyes darting between Amelia and Dawlish. "I—I don't know. We were told to arrive at the manor… I swear, that's all I know."
Dawlish stepped forward, folding his arms.
"You were told by whom?"
No answer.
Amelia's tone turned icy.
"McNair is dead. The Ministry confirmed it this morning. If you don't talk, Mr. Greaves, you'll be charged as an accomplice to arson, murder, and illegal use of cursed fire. Azkaban will be your next home."
The man froze — and something in his expression cracked. "We… we didn't kill him," he said quickly. "Someone dropped from the sky — like he fell out of thin air! Then everything went green, this thick mist everywhere. I blacked out."
Amelia exchanged a glance with Dawlish. "Green mist?"
The man nodded weakly. "When I woke up again, there were people around me — people wearing serpent masks. One of them was… short. Short like a child. He asked about the lots of questions."
That made Amelia straighten sharply. "What kind of questions?"
"About what we were doing there and such," Thomas whispered. "That's all I know. They wanted to know about Midnight Auction, who runs it. When I didn't answer, they… knocked me out again. I swear it, Director, I don't know anything else!"
"Then why were you there?" Dawlish pressed.
Thomas hesitated for a moment, then exhaled shakily. "Because… because I serve Lord Celtigar," he admitted. "He sent us there to collect something. That's all I know."
Amelia's expression hardened.
"Lord Celtigar," she repeated quietly. "The same name that keeps coming up in every trafficking report we've had for the last two years."
She turned toward Dawlish.
"Put this on record. Notify Magical Intelligence — we've just confirmed a link between the Midnight Auction and the Celtigar syndicate."
As Dawlish hurried out, Amelia looked back at Thomas, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear.
"You just painted a very large target on your master's back, Mr. Greaves."
Cassandra's eyes darted toward Amelia as she finished retelling what the St. Mungo's patient had confessed.
"There's something else," Cassandra said, leaning forward. "That man—Greaves—mentioned someone short who dropped from the sky, cloaked in green mist. I think… that might be Lord Blackfyre."
Alastor Moody's magical eye swiveled toward her with a low hum.
"The same Blackfyre you mentioned earlier? The one looking for a missing Veela?"
Cassandra nodded. "Yes. I told you about him. He said one of his staff from Zeus Hotel disappeared—the same Veela that's now confirmed to have been kidnapped."
Moody grunted, scratching the side of his scarred face. "Short man, serpent mask, and green mist… Sounds like the same person, alright. If he's tracking these traffickers, he's operating outside Ministry sanction."
Amelia, who had been silent until then, folded her arms and stared into the flickering firelight of the Auror Office hearth. "Then it's time we found out who this Lord Blackfyre really is. If he's involved in McNair's death or in any vigilante operations, we'll need answers."
Cassandra hesitated. "He said he runs Zeus Hotel in Knockturn Alley."
Moody's eyebrow twitched. "Sounds like a trap."
But Amelia had already made up her mind. She turned to both of them sharply.
"Get your cloaks. We're going to Knockturn Alley."
Within moments, the three stepped into the Ministry's Floo Chamber. Amelia tossed a pinch of glittering green powder into the fire and called out, her voice clear and firm:
"Zeus Hotel!"
The flames roared higher, swallowing her whole before flaring down. Moody followed next, his magical eye whirring violently as if protesting the trip, and Cassandra came last.
WHOOSH—
They stepped out into a polished, marble-floored lobby illuminated by floating crystal lanterns. The Zeus Hotel was like nothing they'd expected — elegant, refined, and unmistakably alive with magic.
A Veela in silver robes stood behind the reception desk, smiling with practiced warmth. Goblins in immaculate suits conversed with witches over enchanted ledgers. A vampire in the far corner playing card game with a well dressed house elf. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and starlight.
Cassandra exhaled softly. "This… this can't be Knockturn Alley."
Moody's magical eye spun in every direction. "Oh, it's Knockturn all right. Just the prettiest layer of hell I've ever seen."
Then Amelia stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the grand hall, voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"Let's see what secrets this Lord Blackfyre is hiding."
The Zeus Hotel lobby shimmered under enchanted lights as Amelia Bones, Alastor Moody, and Cassandra Vale approached the front desk. The Veela receptionist straightened, her silver hair catching the light as she smiled politely.
Amelia produced her identification badge and spoke in her firm, measured tone.
"Chief Auror Amelia Bones, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We need to speak with Lord Blackfyre immediately."
The Veela inclined her head gracefully. "I'm afraid Lord Blackfyre has returned to his manor, Madam Bones. I don't know when he'll be back, but I can deliver your message as soon as he returns."
Amelia's eyes narrowed slightly. "And where exactly is this manor located?"
The receptionist's expression didn't falter — her smile remained practiced and polite. "I'm sorry, Chief Auror. I'm not permitted to disclose that information. Lord Blackfyre values his privacy."
Moody muttered under his breath, "Convenient." His magical eye whirred, scanning the upper floors of the hotel before focusing back on the receptionist.
Cassandra stepped forward. "Then perhaps you can tell us about one of your employees — a Veela named Leora. Heard she went missing."
The receptionist hesitated only for a second before replying smoothly.
"Oh, Leora isn't missing. She simply traveled to Paris to visit her mother. She left in a hurry and forgot to inform us properly. We were worried at first, but everything's fine now."
Cassandra exchanged a look with Moody. "Paris, you say?"
"Yes, Miss Vale," the Veela replied sweetly. "If you'd like, I can show you the travel note she sent once she arrived."
Amelia watched every movement, her sharp gaze catching the faint flicker of unease in the receptionist's eyes — the subtle tension in her posture. It was a lie. A well-practiced, magically reinforced lie, but a lie nonetheless.
Moody leaned closer to Amelia and muttered, "She's covering for him. I've seen that look too many times."
Amelia didn't respond right away. Her mind was racing — every instinct screaming that Lord Blackfyre had been behind Leora's rescue and McNair's fiery death. But without evidence, even the Wizengamot couldn't act.
Cassandra folded her arms. "Do you have any record of her departure? A portkey registration, Floo log, anything?"
"I'm sorry," the Veela said again, her tone a touch colder now. "Everything was arranged privately."
That told Amelia all she needed to know.
She gave a curt nod. "Very well. Inform Lord Blackfyre that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would like to speak with him regarding a sensitive matter. If he values his… business reputation, I suggest he cooperate."
The receptionist bowed slightly. "Of course, Madam Bones."
As the three Aurors turned and walked toward the exit, Cassandra whispered, "She was lying."
Amelia's expression remained unreadable. "Yes. And I think Lord Blackfyre just became a very interesting man."
The three Aurors continued walking through Knockturn Alley, their boots echoing lightly on the cobblestone path. But what they saw next wasn't the dark, cursed alley they remembered.
Shops that once dealt in poisons and dark relics were now selling potions, charms, and magical trinkets. A goblin café stood proudly at the corner. Even the shadows felt less heavy. People—ordinary witches, wizards, even a few werewolves—walked openly through the streets without fear.
Moody growled lowly, scanning with his spinning blue eye. "This place shouldn't look this clean. Someone's been pouring money into it."
Amelia nodded slightly. "Yes… someone's changing Knockturn Alley."
Cassandra added, "It almost feels… safe. Which is terrifying in itself."
They moved deeper into the alley, past the newly renovated storefronts, until Amelia suddenly stopped. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a boy working at a smithy, hammering metal against an anvil with precision unusual for his age. He couldn't have been older than 9. His hair was messy and black, his face streaked with soot, but there was something familiar about him—something that tugged at Amelia's memory.
She approached. "You there—boy!"
The child stopped, wiping sweat from his brow before turning. His green eyes met hers—bright, intelligent, but calm, too calm for a child working in such a place.
"Yes, ma'am?" he asked politely, his tone respectful yet steady.
Amelia's eyes softened slightly. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The boy blinked, as though the question surprised him. "I'm Harry Potter, ma'am. Apprentice to Master Garrick, the smith."
Amelia froze.
"Potter?" she repeated quietly.
Moody turned sharply. "What did he say?"
But Amelia barely heard them. Her mind flooded with old memories—of a mischievous boy with untidy hair and an infectious grin, laughing beside her brother Edgar during their school days. James Potter.
She cleared her throat, her voice tight. "You said… Potter?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, ma'am. My parents were… James and Lily Potter."
Amelia's chest constricted. "I knew your father," she said softly. "He was a few years behind me at Hogwarts. A troublemaker, but a good heart. My brother Edgar used to duel him for fun in the Great Hall when we were students."
Harry smiled faintly, unsure what to say. "I didn't know that. Thank you, ma'am."
Moody crossed his arms. "And what's a Potter doing hammering tools in Knockturn Alley, eh?"
Harry shrugged lightly. "Learning. I like making things with my hands."
Amelia studied him quietly—his calm poise, the faint magical aura she could almost feel radiating from him. This was no ordinary boy.
"Does your guardian know you're here?" she asked.
Harry nodded again, meeting her gaze evenly. "Yes, ma'am. I work part-time here, and part-time at Zeus Hotel."
That made all three Aurors exchange looks.
Amelia felt the chill creep down her spine. Zeus Hotel… Lord Blackfyre… and now, a Potter?
She straightened, her voice turning professional again. "Thank you, Harry. You've been very helpful. Stay safe."
As they turned to leave, Moody muttered under his breath, "Potter working under Blackfyre? This is getting murkier by the minute."
Cassandra frowned. "Or more dangerous."
Amelia didn't respond, but her thoughts were already racing.
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