Harry stood under the cold stream of water until his skin prickled and his breath came out in clouds. He told himself it was to wake up, but in truth he needed the numbness to steady the jumble in his head. Why that dream? Why now? The images of Arthur's last day still clung to him like smoke.
By the time he dressed and went downstairs, the smell of toast and eggs drifted through the Dursley Mansion. The long dining table looked almost festive; Petunia, Vernon, Sirius and Abigail were already seated, chatting over coffee.
He slipped into his chair silently. The food in front of him looked perfect but his stomach turned. Petunia's eyes flicked to him immediately.
"Harry, darling," she said, soft but probing, "what's the matter? You're hardly touching anything."
"I'm fine," Harry answered, forcing a smile. "Just… excited for the trip."
Her gaze lingered for a moment longer. She could always tell when he wasn't being honest. But after a small pause she simply reached for her cup again, choosing not to push.
"When are we leaving?" Harry asked, breaking the quiet.
"In two hours," Vernon replied with a grin. "Everything packed?"
"I've transferred enough changes into my pouch," Harry said, patting the small rune-marked satchel at his side. "It should cover me."
"Good lad. I've stored all our luggage in my subspace pouch as well," Vernon said, looking pleased with himself.
From further down the table Sirius raised an eyebrow. "And the private jet?" he asked, half-teasing.
Harry exhaled. "Still in the making. Give it a little more time."
Abigail leaned forward, excitement shining in her eyes. "So we're really going on a ship?"
"Not exactly," Vernon chuckled. "It's more of a two-day cruise—plenty of luxury, none of the hassle."
Harry turned to the others, "I'll see you guys at the airport."
And with that he just disapparated without a sound and without anyone being able to ask him where he was going.
Petunia blinked at the empty space he'd left and pressed her lips together. "That boy," she murmured.
Sirius just chuckled. "Typical."
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An hour later, the families had gathered at the private terminal.The Parkinsons had just stepped out of their car, Pansy adjusting her sunglasses, when a deep, predatory rumble rolled across the tarmac. Heads turned automatically.
From the far end of the lane a black Lamborghini Diablo slid into view, its engine growling like some sleek beast. The sun hit its polished body and the entire parking area seemed to freeze.
Harry eased it to a stop directly in front of the group. The gullwing door lifted with a hiss. Instead of the sharp black overalls he'd worn the last time, he stepped out casually dressed — a fitted T-shirt and dark joggers, hair slightly tousled, a faint, unreadable smile on his face.
For a heartbeat no one spoke. The Parkinson patriarch's eyebrows rose. Ted Tonks let out a low whistle. Even Ron forgot to close his mouth.
Most of the girls went pink, whispering behind their hands.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. Petunia sighed into her gloved fingers. The older women exchanged the same resigned look—a mixture of exasperation and affection at Harry's flair for making an entrance.
Harry simply shut the door of the Diablo, and handed the keys to a waiting attendant.
"A man named Victor will come later to pick up the car," Harry said evenly.
The attendant nodded briskly and hurried off with the keys.
Harry turned back to the group, his expression composed, and reached for Abigail's small hand. She smiled up at him but her eyes flickered with curiosity — she, like everyone else, could feel it. Something in Harry's energy had shifted; the usual playful edge was muted, replaced by a quiet weight.
No one spoke about it, but every adult and older teen noticed. Sirius tilted his head as if about to ask, then thought better of it. petunia's brow furrowed, yet she said nothing.
Together they walked into the private terminal, their collective presence nearly filling the lounge before boarding.
The first-class cabin on the plane had been booked almost entirely for their group. Plush seats, polished wood and soft lighting made the space feel more like a drawing room than an aircraft.
Unlike the last trip, Harry didn't sit at the centre of the chatter. He took a solitary seat by the window on the starboard side, Abigail now chatting with Petunia a few rows ahead. One elbow rested on the armrest, fingers idly tapping against his jaw, his eyes fixed on the shifting clouds beyond the glass.
He wasn't withdrawn enough to seem cold — he still answered politely when spoken to, still gave a faint smile when Abigail waved — but the others could feel it: something was gnawing at his mind.
Sirius caught Petunia's glance and shrugged. Hermione frowned thoughtfully, but kept silent. The buzz of conversation filled the cabin, yet around Harry there was a slight pocket of stillness, as though he were somewhere else entirely while sitting among them.
The hum of the engines filled the quiet between Harry and the world outside the window. He hadn't moved much, save for the rhythmic tap of his fingers on the armrest.
A soft shadow fell across him. Harry turned slightly and found Luna Lovegood standing there, her silvery eyes watching him with that unblinking calm that unsettled most but never felt intrusive.
"You're very loud right now," she said serenely, tilting her head.
Harry raised a brow. "I haven't said a word."
"Not with your mouth," Luna replied, sliding gracefully into the empty seat beside him. She folded her hands in her lap, gazing at the clouds as if they'd given her the answer already. "It's more like… thunder rumbling before a storm. Most people don't hear it, but I do."
Harry stared at her for a moment, then chuckled quietly under his breath. "You always did have a strange way of putting things."
"Strange," she said, shrugging lightly, "but not wrong."
For a long pause, neither spoke. Then Harry glanced back at the window, voice low, almost thoughtful. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there's a storm."
Luna didn't push further. She simply gave a small nod, as if that was enough, and rose to drift back to her own seat. The conversation left behind a faint stillness — but it also left Harry with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
About three hours into the flight, the seatbelt sign blinked overhead, but before anyone could react, the plane lurched violently. Drinks spilled, and stuff rattled, and the startled cries filled the cabin. The muggle passengers further down screamed, while even the first-class attendants went pale, gripping onto their seats and rails.
The wizarding families, however, moved differently. Almost instinctively, hands slipped into robes and bags, wands appearing discreetly under blankets and behind menus. Eyes darted, nerves taut, but none of them dared cast openly yet.
Except Harry.
He hadn't even looked away from the window. His cheek rested on his knuckles, his gaze lost in the sea of clouds beyond the glass. Then — with a calmness that made the chaos around him feel surreal — he tapped his foot twice against the floor.
A pulse spread invisibly from him, subtle but absolute. The shaking stopped. Not lessened, not gradually eased — it ceased as though the turbulence had never existed. The entire plane seemed to float in perfect stillness, cocooned in something unseen.
Harry exhaled softly, leaning back in his seat. Outside, the clouds still swirled, but the jet cut through them as if wrapped in glass, untouchable by the world's whims.
Around him, whispers rose. The attendants blinked in disbelief, clutching their clipboards. The Muggles looked around, dazed, murmuring about lucky breaks in the weather.
But the wizarding folk… they stared. Every last one of them. Wands slowly lowered, confusion and awe mixing on their faces. Because none of them had done it. And yet the atmosphere of magic hung heavy, undeniable.
Harry didn't so much as glance their way. His eyes stayed on the clouds, unreadable. The only sign of strain was the steady rhythm of his foot tapping once more against the carpet, like a silent metronome.
After two and a half hours later, the jet touched down in Cairo, wheels kissing the runway with a smooth hiss. The cabin erupted in chatter as everyone stood to gather their things. Once through customs, the group spilled out into the balmy Egyptian air.
Waiting for them was a small convoy of luxurious black SUVs and town cars, their polished exteriors gleaming under the desert sun. Drivers in crisp suits stood at attention, holding placards with their names. It was clear that the twins had planned everything meticulously.
The group began boarding in clusters, laughter and chatter echoing as luggage was loaded. Harry, however, remained at the edge, hands tucked in his pockets, scanning the line of vehicles. His expression was unreadable.
The ride into Cairo was smooth, the cars gliding through bustling streets that blurred with vendors, honking horns, and the vibrant pulse of the city. As they neared the city's heart, the view opened up — and towering above everything else, their destination came into sight.
The hotel. Moreris
Harry recognised it. It was the same hotel he had stayed in many times in his past life, although the hotel was built anew. He had stayed at the hotel once before it was taken down and rebuilt with the modern style back then. But even now they were the largest hotel in Cairo, one of the most beautiful hotels in entirety of Egypt. A place built for the top elites of society, not tourists.
Inside the grand lobby, the others immediately began checking in, clustered together as their names were sorted and suites arranged. The air hummed with laughter, the rustle of luggage wheels, and the faint notes of a piano drifting from the far end of the hall.
Harry, however, drifted slightly to the side. His gaze swept upward, tracing the curve of the golden chandeliers to the distant mirrored ceiling, before following the line of elevators that led toward the uppermost floors. He knew this place. Every marble column, every piece of artwork. And more particularly — he knew his room. The penthouse that had almost always gone unused.
He approached the front desk with his usual quiet confidence. The receptionist — a neatly dressed young man with nervous energy — straightened immediately.
"Good afternoon, sir" the man greeted politely in English, asking how he could help.
Harry's reply came smoothly in flawless Egyptian Arabic, his accent natural enough to make the man blink twice. "I'd like to book the top penthouse suite," he said evenly. "The one that's currently unoccupied."
The receptionist hesitated, his polite smile faltering. "Maalesh… I don't understand," he stammered, switching languages mid-sentence. "Do you speak English"
Harry didn't even pause. "Yes. I want the penthouse suite, the empty one. Not the presidential one, the other one."
The young man blinked, clearly thrown off by the seamless transition. "Ah—one moment please sir," he muttered, flustered, before hurrying away toward a side door.
Harry watched him go, then exhaled softly and leaned against the counter, glancing around the vast lobby. He could see the others at a distance — Sirius chatting animatedly with Vernon, Mr. Parkinson double-checking everyone's tickets — but his mind wasn't there. His thoughts lingered on the memory of this very building in another lifetime, when the world had known him not as Harry, but as Arthur and why he dreamt of that life now.
Moments later, the manager emerged—a broad-shouldered man in his forties, exuding professionalism. "Sir," He greeted, his tone courteous but firm, "I'm afraid that particular suite is not available for booking without special clearance. It's reserved for—"
Harry interrupted with a faint smile, sliding a sealed envelope across the counter. "For the trouble," he said softly. His eyes, however, carried the weight of quiet authority. Not arrogance — command.
The manager hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then his posture shifted. The smile returned — warmer this time, deferential. "Of course, sir. I'll have the staff prepare it immediately."
Harry nodded once. "Thank you."
Ten minutes later, as the others collected their room keys, Harry received his — a single matte-black card, sleek and unmarked. The manager himself handed it to him with both hands, murmuring assurances about privacy and comfort.
Harry pocketed it with a polite nod and turned toward the elevators. As he walked, the light from the chandelier caught his eyes — and for a fleeting moment, they looked almost gold.
ChatGPT said:
Harry stayed with the group as they moved through the vast, marble-floored corridor, his demeanor calm but distant. He made sure every family was settled — Sirius and Tonks sharing jokes with the receptionists, the Weasleys taking up two rooms near the end of the hall, and the Grangers fussing over Hermione's luggage.
One by one, he checked in on them — polite nods, quiet words, a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Vernon caught his gaze once, perhaps about to comment, but Harry only offered a faint nod before turning away.
Within minutes, the floor was alive with the noise of unpacking and laughter. Everyone had walked into other rooms after unpacking themselves and we starting to discuss what they will be doing, and Sirius was halfway through convincing the staff to bring him something "extra strong." Harry, however, lingered at the far end of the corridor, away from the chatter.
He was supposed to share a suite with Ron — that much had been arranged. But today… he couldn't. Not after everything that still echoed faintly in his mind.
He turned quietly, making his way toward the private elevator. The black keycard gleamed once as he tapped it against the scanner, and the elevator doors slid open with quiet chime.
The ride up was silent — too silent. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears until even your own heartbeat felt too loud.
When the doors opened, the sight before him was almost surreal.
The penthouse was exactly as he remembered.
Floor-to-ceiling glass stretched across the far wall, giving an unobstructed view of Cairo's skyline — the gold of the setting sun brushing the rooftops, the faint outline of the desert beyond. The suite was enormous, sleek yet warm, with dark oak floors and soft amber lighting.
Harry didn't even take a full look around before tugging his shirt off and tossing it onto the leather sofa. His body moved on instinct — toward the one spot he knew too well.
The bar.
He crossed the room, footsteps quiet, eyes scanning the shelves. Rows of bottles gleamed under soft light — amber, crystal, and deep brown hues catching the glow. He recognized nearly every brand: Yamazaki, Dalmore, Macallan, Balvenie. And then his gaze caught one particular label.
The Glenlivet 21 Archive.
He chuckled softly. "I guess it's something the entire world loves."
Next to it sat a neatly lined cedar box. He reached for it, flipping it open. The rich scent of tobacco filled the air immediately. His brows rose slightly.
Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona.
He froze for a moment as he racked his brain, thinking about whether this cigar should even be in this timeline right now. Was it supposed to be early 2000s release?
"Ah... who cares." He muttered as he took one cigar and the Glenlivet, poured himself a glass, and walked out to the balcony.
Harry took a long sip of the amber liquid, the faint burn tracing down his throat before settling warmly in his chest. He rolled the whiskey glass between his fingers, watching the light refract through the golden hues. The silence of the penthouse was thick, familiar — the kind that felt almost alive.
He leaned back against the bar, cigar between his fingers. A small wisp of smoke curled toward the ceiling, its scent earthy and strong. He exhaled slowly, his mind steadying with each breath.
So much had changed.And yet… here he was again.
His gaze wandered toward the skyline beyond the glass wall — Cairo bathed in molten gold, the city pulsing quietly beneath the desert dusk. A faint smile touched his lips, softer than before. Whatever that dream had been — memory or warning — it no longer owned him.
He finished his drink, set the glass down, and stubbed out the cigar. Then, with one last glance at the city, he straightened his collar and stepped away from the quiet luxury of the penthouse.
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The elevator chimed softly as it opened into the main lobby. The group was already gathering near the entrance — laughter, chatter, flashes from camera phones. Ron was waving impatiently, Pansy was arguing over the map, and the others looked oddly relaxed in the evening air.
"Where have you been mate?" Ron asked as Harry approached. "We have been looking all over for you."
Harry smiled, "I was in the penthouse."
The words dropped like a stone into the chatter. Everyone froze.
"The penthouse?" Fred repeated, blinking. "That penthouse?"
"The one at the top?" added George. "With the private lift, and the pool, and—"
"—and the staff that probably cost more than our house?" Molly interjected, looking scandalized.
Harry chuckled, "No Mrs. Weasley, it doesn't cost that much. But yeah, that one."
Even Sirius arched a brow. "And how, pray tell, did you manage that?"
Harry's expression softened. "Just asked for it. Needed a bit of quiet, that's all. Too many things in my head today."
Petunia, who'd been watching quietly, exchanged a knowing look with Vernon and nodded faintly — not prying, not judging. The others seemed to sense it too and gradually relaxed, though curiosity lingered in their eyes.
"Well," Arthur said with a genial chuckle, "as long as you're here now. We were about to go for a walk before dinner. Thought we'd explore a bit — stretch our legs after the flight."
"Dinner?" Harry asked.
Fred grinned proudly. "Gringotts booked us a table at Al-Nakhla Royale. Top restaurant in Cairo. View of the Nile, private terrace, the whole deal."
Harry gave a low whistle. "That's… impressive. Who planned all this?"
"Us," George said, pointing to himself and his twin. "Don't look so surprised, Harry. We can organize things other than chaos."
"Debatable" Both Percy and Bill, muttered it at the same time, earning a round of laughter.
The laughter broke the tension. One by one, everyone started splitting off — the Weasleys heading for the bustling Khan el-Khalili market, the Greengrasses and Parkinsons toward the museum quarter, and Luna dragging her bewildered parents toward an alley lined with second-hand bookshops and bird sellers.
Harry found himself walking alongside Petunia and Abigail through the heart of Cairo. The city was glowing in the dusk — the sunset catching on domes and minarets, the scent of roasting nuts and honey pastries thick in the air. Street vendors called out in Arabic, offering scarves, lamps, glass trinkets, and roasted corn.
Petunia's expression softened, watching a group of children chase pigeons through the square. "It's… beautiful," she murmured.
Harry smiled. "It always was."
They wandered for a while — into a perfume shop where the air was thick with amber and oud. Harry tested a few bottles, then bought six or seven outright, placing them in a paper bag with quiet satisfaction. Petunia shook her head, amused.
"Six bottles?" she teased.
"Seven," he corrected. "The last one smelled like summer."
Abigail giggled and tugged him toward a stall with bright, jeweled bracelets. She tried one on — a tiny silver chain with a blue scarab — and Harry bought it before she could protest.
As the evening grew darker and the streetlights flickered on, they reached the river promenade. Petunia glanced toward the hotel in the distance. "We should get back soon," she said gently. "Dinner's in an hour."
Harry nodded. "I'll walk a bit more. You two go ahead."
She hesitated but didn't argue. Abigail hugged him around the waist before following her mother back through the crowd.
And just like that — Harry was alone.
He strolled aimlessly through Cairo's glowing veins — the rhythm of the city pulsing around him. He stopped for a large gyro from a street vendor, eating it leisurely as he walked. Then came a paper cone of roasted nuts, a bottle of sweet tamarind drink, and later a tiny cup of strong Arabic coffee that bit sharply on his tongue.
He bought a few small trinkets—brass charms, a polished stone scarab, a wooden carving of a falcon—each one tucked into the growing bag of souvenirs. It was... peaceful.
The streets had grown livelier as night descended. Lanterns flickered to life along the market district, and the air buzzed with music, laughter, and the occasional shout of barter.
By pure chance—or perhaps inevitable gravity—the girls had found each other again.
Ginny was clutching a bag of sweets, Hermione carried two books she'd already started reading, Luna had a strange woven hat perched on her head, and Abigail was showing Daphne and Pansy a glittering trinket she'd just bought. Tonks, walking beside them with an easy grin, was half-listening, half-trying not to trip.
They turned into a narrower street lined with spice stalls, the scent of cumin and cardamom thick in the air. That's when the laughter came — low, coarse, too deliberate.
A group of men leaned against a wall nearby, their clothes rough, their eyes mean. One of them said something in Arabic — sharp, ugly. Another followed with a laugh that made Daphne's skin crawl.
Ginny's head snapped up. Hermione stiffened. Pansy's eyes narrowed dangerously.
Tonks took a single step forward, her tone cold. "Move along."
The men laughed again, one stepping closer — saying something that didn't need translation and slapped Tonks butt lightly.
That was a mistake.
Tonks didn't hesitate — her fist connected squarely with his face. The crack echoed down the alley as the man crumpled, clutching his nose, blood spilling between his fingers.
Before the others could react, another lunged forward — and suddenly he wasn't. Abigail's eyes had glinted for a split second, her hand barely twitching, and the man flew backward as if struck by an invisible hammer, slamming into a stack of crates.
Ginny pivoted, wand half-drawn under her sleeve; a flicker of harmless sparks flashed in front of one man's face, blinding him long enough for Daphne to knee him in the gut. Hermione swung her book bag with surprising precision — the heavy spine connecting with another's jaw.
Pansy, elegant as ever, simply side-stepped a grab and drove her heel into the man's shin with a calm expression that said she was bored more than angry.
By the time Sirius burst into view — wand drawn, eyes blazing — it was already over.
Half the men were on the ground, groaning. The others had fled into the shadows, clutching bruised faces and egos.
Sirius slowed to a halt, blinking at the scene — the chaos, the six girls standing amid it like a storm's eye. Tonks was shaking out her knuckles with a grimace.
"Good job" Sirius smirked.
Tonks snorted. "Some idiots didn't understand 'no.'"
"Idiots indeed," Daphne muttered, brushing off her dress.
Abigail looked calm — too calm — but her eyes were dark with the same cold focus Harry sometimes had.
Sirius exhaled and muttered something that sounded like, "Merlin help whoever crosses these girls."
Luna smiled dreamily as they walked away. "I think they learned their lesson, don't you?"
Then, more loudly, "Come on, let's get you back to the hotel before someone decides to start round two."
Luna smiled dreamily as they walked away. "I think they learned their lesson, don't you?"
Then, more loudly, "Come on, let's get you back to the hotel before someone decides to start round two."
Luna smiled dreamily as they walked away. "I think they learned their lesson, don't you?"
Pansy smirked. "I hope they did."
As Sirius herded the girls back toward the main street, the market's din swallowed the last echoes of the scuffle. The night seemed to resume as if nothing had happened — vendors calling out, strings of colored lights flickering overhead, the scent of grilled meat thick in the air. But Sirius kept glancing over his shoulder, still on edge despite the girls' easy chatter.
A few streets away, Harry was just finishing his coffee when he noticed the faint disturbance; a subtle ripple in the air that most would miss. The kind of residual energy that came from sudden, sharp magic. His eyes narrowed slightly.
He glanced toward the direction of the spice district, his senses heightened as he spread out his magical energy to look at the scene. He saw the scuffle and saw the girls dealing with it and moreover Sirius moving in. He felt that the girls could handle it so he withdrew his magical energy and went back to looking around.
By the time he returned to the hotel, the lobby was once again buzzing with their group's voices. Everyone had regrouped just as the staff began ushering them toward the waiting cars for dinner. The girls were already there, laughing — a little too easily — as Tonks recounted some embellished version of what had happened.
"…and you should've seen his face!" Tonks said, grinning wide. "Looked like he'd tried to kiss a Hippogriff."
"Merlin, Nymphadora," Sirius groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't need to traumatize the poor waiter with your story."
Harry slipped into the lobby crowd just then, "Sounds like I missed something," he said mildly, though his eyes flicked briefly toward Abigail.
She smiled too brightly. "Just a little sightseeing."
Sirius's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Sightseeing, right. More like sightseeing and self-defense."
Petunia shot him a sharp look. "What happened?"
"Nothing worth worrying over," Tonks said quickly. "Just a few blokes who didn't know when to quit."
Harry's gaze sharpened at that, though he said nothing. He only gave a quiet nod, expression unreadable. A faint glint — something colder — flickered in his eyes before vanishing as quickly as it came.
Petunia's hand brushed his arm gently. "Everything's fine, Harry. They handled it."
He forced a small smile. "I don't doubt that." Then, after a pause, his tone lightened. "Come on. We'll be late for dinner."
The group filed out into the warm evening air, the hotel lights shimmering behind them. Cars waited in a neat row, engines humming softly. As they climbed in, Harry lingered a moment by the entrance, looking toward the market streets glowing faintly in the distance.