The Leaky Cauldron was alive with noise that morning. Wizards leaned across tables whispering rumors of McNair's death — theories of assassins, spell misfire, even vengeful inferi. The fire roared, filling the smoky air with warmth and tension alike.
Cassandra Vale pushed through the crowd, followed closely by Amelia Bones and Alastor Moody. Their cloaks swept through puddles of spilled ale, and all conversation dimmed as the trio made their way to the bar.
"Morning, Tom," Cassandra said curtly. "We're looking for Lord Blackfyre."
The old innkeeper looked up from polishing a glass. "Aye, he's here," Tom said, lowering his voice. "Room twelve, second floor. Been keepin' to himself. Paid in gold, never caused a fuss."
"Good," Amelia replied shortly, and together the three ascended the creaking staircase.
They stopped before Room 12, where Cassandra knocked twice. For a moment, there was only silence — then the sound of footsteps and the faint click of a lock.
The door opened.
Harry — in his Lord Blackfyre persona, the short, dark-robed man with emerald eyes and an air of quiet confidence — stood before them. He looked entirely unfazed by the arrival of three of Britain's most powerful Aurors.
"Ah," he said mildly, stepping aside. "You came faster than I expected. Please, come in."
The room was small but immaculate. A single trunk sat by the bed, a teapot steamed faintly on the side table, and parchment filled with neat runic diagrams lay open beside a wand of dark wood. Harry gestured for them to sit, and Cassandra closed the door behind her.
"So," Harry said, folding his hands together. "Have you decided?"
Amelia Bones met his gaze evenly. "You said you'd give us the location of the Midnight Auction — in exchange for us classifying Walden McNair's death as accidental."
"That's correct," Harry said calmly. "The Ministry gains a case so massive that is going to be the talk for centuries to come. In return, you let a dead man stay dead. There's no proof linking anyone to his death anyway — and I believe your forensics have already confirmed that, haven't they?"
Amelia's jaw tightened. "We don't take kindly to being blackmailed, Lord Blackfyre."
Harry's tone remained level. "And I don't take kindly to bureaucrats wasting chances to end slavery. You want justice? I'm offering you the entire trafficking ring on a silver platter. But if you insist on digging up McNair's ashes, the trail to Celtigar will vanish before sunset."
Moody's magical eye whirled in its socket. "You've got nerve. What's stoppin' us from dragging you in for obstruction?"
Harry's faint smile didn't waver. "Because you need me. None of your Aurors know where the Midnight Auction is held. I do. And unlike McNair, I don't deal in chains — I break them."
Cassandra shot a glance at Amelia. The head of the DMLE remained silent for several seconds before finally exhaling through her nose.
"Fine," Amelia said, voice clipped. "You'll get your silence. McNair's death will be ruled an accident pending lack of evidence. But in exchange, you'll give us the exact location and every name you have connected to the auction."
Harry nodded once. "Done."
He reached into his cloak and slid a folded parchment across the table. "The Midnight Auction will be held near Hartland, western coast, hidden beneath the old smugglers' warehouse. The entrance is a shipwreck chained to the shore — looks abandoned from the outside, but it's enchanted to act as the gateway. Tomorrow midnight sharp."
Cassandra took the parchment carefully. "You're sure?"
"Positive," Harry said. "And if you want it to succeed, you'll bring only trusted Aurors. No Ministry leaks. No pure-blood lords in command. Otherwise, you'll be arresting shadows."
Moody gave a low growl. "You're playin' a dangerous game."
Harry's eyes gleamed. "Dangerous games are the only kind worth playing."
Amelia's eyes narrowed until they became thin slits. "So when we're raiding the Midnight Auction," she asked, voice icy with authority, "what exactly are you planning to do, Lord Blackfyre? Are you—staying behind?"
Harry met her gaze without flinching. "I'm going to be there at the same time," he said simply.
Amelia snapped up from her chair as if the words were a provocation. "Not a chance. This is going to be a Ministry operation. You gave us the location—nothing more. The Auror Department does not need—will not consent—to have a civilian interfering."
Harry's smile was faint, but there was steel underneath it. "I am not going there to help the Aurors," he said. "I am going there for the creatures—those who will be sold. You can deny me that if you like, but you know what will happen the moment some of your superiors walk into that harbour." He let the words hang in the warm Leaky Cauldron air. "You will see relatives, patrons, names you owe fealty to. People freeze when they meet their betters in the dirt. They forget why they came. I don't forget."
Moody's magical eye rolled, regarding Harry as though appraising some peculiar creature. Cassandra's jaw clenched; she looked at Harry as if deciding whether to call his bluff or arrest it.
"You can't—" Cassandra began. "It's reckless, you will get yourself killed."
Harry's tone did not rise. "Then I'll die doing what's right," he said. "But I don't plan to die tomorrow. If you insist on going as a Ministry raid, go. I will be there to take care of the enslaved. If you come, we can watch each other's backs—protect the innocent, capture the guilty. But I do not expect the Aurors to save what the auction sells. That will be my job."
Silence gathered like a storm cloud. Amelia stared at him for a long, hard moment. He was not offering assistance so much as declaring intent. That stubbornness—dangerous and admirable all at once—stayed her tongue.
Harry raised his hand as if signaling something ordinary. A faint hum rippled through the air above the table. The light inside the little room wavered. For a heart-stopping second nothing definite happened; then a circle of blue opened in the ceiling, petals of light widening into a shimmering ring.
Moody's hand went to his wand. Cassandra inhaled sharply. Even Amelia's face betrayed a flicker of surprise.
The blue portal spun slowly, a depthless aperture that smelled faintly of ozone and high tides. It hovered there, silent and impossibly calm, a ring of sky stitched into the room's low roof. Without a tremor, the portal reached for Harry.
He didn't step toward it—he was drawn into it as if gravity itself had turned on. The room saw only the last fold of his cloak, pale as a shadow, then nothing. The circle of blue winked closed.
Moody exhaled, an odd half-laugh escaping him. "By Merlin," he breathed. "I haven't seen that in my life."
Cassandra's voice, small but very real, said, "Whoever he is… he is powerful."
Amelia lowered her hands and let out a sound that might have been a sigh or might have been resignation. "He'll be useful," she said at last. "Because we still don't know how many will be at that auction, and we're going to need every advantage we have."
Outside, in the corridor, the Leaky Cauldron went on with its daily noise and heat. Inside Room Twelve, only a cup of gone-cooling tea and three Ministry officials remained, all suddenly, quietly aware that they had just made a pact with a dangerous man—one who would go into the night on his own terms, for his own reasons, and return with his hands stained for a cause he would not explain.
Albus Dumbledore's office shimmered with its usual warm glow — brass instruments ticking softly, books whispering secrets from their shelves, and Fawkes perched proudly beside a bowl of grapes. The calm atmosphere didn't match the man who stepped through the fireplace, brushing off ash with a grunt.
"Ah, Alastor," Dumbledore greeted, without turning from his phoenix. "I wasn't expecting you today."
Moody's reply came short and rough. "Didn't have a choice. We've got word — the Midnight Auction is happening tomorrow, near Hartland."
Dumbledore turned, his expression unreadable behind his half-moon glasses. "That's rather sudden. Where did you get such information?"
"The same man I told you about last time," Moody said, lowering himself into the chair opposite the headmaster. "A man calling himself Lord Blackfyre. Said he knows the exact location. I need to know what you can tell me about that name."
At that, Dumbledore sat back, fingers steepled. The firelight flickered across his face, and his eyes darkened with memory. "House Blackfyre…" he began slowly. "A name out of legend — and infamy. They were practitioners of shadowfire, the ancient Black Flame that burns for seven days and seven nights. Dangerous, unstable magic — once revered, later forbidden."
He rose and walked toward the high window, gazing out at the sleeping grounds of Hogwarts. "They vanished around the time of the Founders. The Blacks claimed descent from them, though the connection was never proven. Some records say the last Blackfyres were wiped out — others, that they simply… disappeared."
Moody leaned forward, one scarred hand on the desk. "Then this man is either lying or dangerous."
"Did he show any sign of proof?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
Moody nodded. "He wore a sigil — three snakes devouring each other's tails. Said to be the crest of the house, right?"
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Yes… the Ouroboros of Serpents. The symbol of eternal hunger and rebirth."
Fawkes gave a low, uneasy trill.
"I don't like it, Albus," Moody muttered. "The man's powerful. I saw him vanish out of Diagon Alley — through wards. Not Apparition. Not a Portkey. Just… gone."
Dumbledore turned back, his tone calm but wary. "Then perhaps, Alastor, House Blackfyre isn't as extinct as we believed."
The office fell silent save for the faint rustle of phoenix feathers. Dumbledore looked toward the fire — and for a fleeting moment, his blue eyes reflected something ancient and uncertain.
The green flames in Dumbledore's fireplace shimmered, and within them appeared the sharp-featured visage of a goblin. Goldtail, his long, burnished ears glinting in the light, inclined his head politely.
"Chief Warlock," he greeted in his gravelly voice. "It is not often I receive a call from you directly."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "A pleasure as always, Goldtail. I require some discreet information concerning an ancient family — House Blackfyre."
The goblin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Blackfyre… That name has not crossed our ledgers in many centuries. Give me a few moments."
The connection shimmered and faded. Moody shifted in his chair, impatience thick in his voice. "You really think the goblins will tell you something like that?"
"I think," Dumbledore said calmly, "that if anyone knows the truth about long-dead bloodlines and vaults untouched by time, it is the goblins."
A few minutes later, the fire reignited, and Goldtail's face reappeared — this time with a look of surprise bordering on disbelief.
"I have news," the goblin said, his tone more guarded. "The Blackfyre account is active. Someone has claimed the vault and the title of Lord Blackfyre."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed. "Impossible. That house vanished before Hogwarts even began."
"Not impossible," Goldtail said. "Unlikely, yes. But the vault recognized his blood claim — and the wards around it responded. Whoever he is, his magic was accepted as true Blackfyre lineage."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "What else can you tell me?"
Goldtail hesitated. "The same individual now holds possession of Slytherin Castle. Our records confirm a transfer of ownership weeks ago. It was… unusual. The wards, thought dormant, recognized him as heir. That means—"
"He is a Parselmouth," Dumbledore finished, his voice quieter now.
Moody's head jerked up. "A Parselmouth? Is he related to Voldermort?"
Goldtail gave a small, toothy grin. "You wizards assume too much. Voldemort never proved descent from House Slytherin — he merely spoke Parseltongue. That talent alone doesn't make one a Slytherin heir. But this one…" The goblin's crimson eyes gleamed. "This one is accepted by the castle itself."
"So he's Lord Slytherin," Dumbledore murmured.
"In all but title," Goldtail confirmed. "The goblins have no record of political claim — only magical recognition. But yes, you could say he is Slytherin's heir in the truest sense."
Moody's growl rumbled in the quiet office. "Then what about Voldemort? You mean we've been chasing a fraud all these years?"
Goldtail snorted softly. "You Europeans have a very limited view of Parselmouths. In India, in Egypt, even in parts of Africa — they are not uncommon. Many bloodlines carry the gift. You fear what you do not understand, and so most left your continent long ago."
The room fell silent. Fawkes gave a low, uneasy cry.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers again, his expression grave. "Thank you, Goldtail. You have been most helpful."
The goblin bowed his head. "One more thing, Headmaster. The one who calls himself Lord Blackfyre — he deals fairly. Pays in gold, honors his word. That is rare among wizards. I would… watch him closely."
The flames dimmed, and the connection ended.
Moody turned toward Dumbledore, his face dark and thoughtful. "So," he muttered. "He's not Voldemort — but something older."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered toward the window, where dawn's first light brushed the towers of Hogwarts.
"Older," he said softly, "and perhaps far more dangerous."