Vernon Dursley stiffened as the officer—Mr. Weasley—guided him down the walkway toward the parked car.
The female agent remained at the door, politely smiling at Petunia through gritted teeth.
Inside the car, Vernon settled into the passenger seat, chuckling nervously. "You government types always so mysterious?"
Weasley didn't answer.
He sat down, closed the door with a click, and started the engine.
But the car didn't move.
Instead, he just looked forward for a few seconds, then spoke. "Tell me, Mr. Dursley… do you remember what Harry looked like when the officer found him?"
Vernon stiffened. "Pardon?"
Weasley's fingers drummed once on the wheel. "Broken ribs. Bruised arms. A nasty welt on his spine. Starvation signs. You know what that looks like, right?" He finally turned, his brown eyes cold and cutting. "Looks like a boy who's been beaten. For years."
Vernon swallowed hard. "Now—wait a minute—we never—!"
Weasley cut him off with a sharp, sudden laugh. It didn't sound kind. "Do you think we're asking you for your side of the story, Vernon?"
Vernon's mouth went dry. "Wh-what is this? A trap? I demand to speak to my lawyer—!"
"You'll get your lawyer," Weasley said. "But first, you're going to sit here and listen to me carefully."
He pulled something from his coat pocket.
A photograph.
It showed Harry, unconscious in a hospital bed. Bruises, tubes, wrapped bandages, and his pale face framed by messy black hair.
Vernon turned away instantly. "I didn't do that!"
"No, but I've seen men like you before," Weasley said, voice now low, venomous. "Men who think because no one's watching, they can do whatever they like. Let me tell you something, Vernon Dursley."
He leaned in closer. "Someone has always been watching."
Back Inside the House – Kitchen
Petunia watched Harry out of the corner of her eye as he stirred the powder into the water.
Something about his silence made her nervous—not fear, not suspicion, just... unease. "Why were you scratching your arm?" she asked again.
Harry looked up. Calm. Tired. "I don't know"
Petunia stared for a moment. Then quietly, she turned and walked away, muttering something about needing to lie down.
Meanwhile – Back in the Car
Vernon finally snapped. "He's a freak! He's not normal! We took him in out of pity!"
Weasley smiled, cold and sharp as winter steel. "Right. You took in a Child, who was given to you, just like that, will let me tell you something".
Vernon looked at him like he had eaten a Lemon. "W-what is it"
He opened the car door. "You're not being arrested yet. But you'll want to call a lawyer."
Vernon stammered, but Weasley was already walking back to the house.
Vernon walked as he had swallowed a lemon, as he looked at Petunia. "Honey, how much money do we have".
Petunia looked at him as she spoke. "More than enough to get Dudley his 63 Gifts"
Vernon walked up to her, as he spoke. "Forget that, we need all that money to buy us a Lawyer".
Petunia was taken as back as Abe looked at her husband. "Why? What happened?".
Petunia was taken aback. She placed the cup she was holding on the kitchen counter and turned to face her husband properly.
"What happened, Vernon?" she asked again, slower this time, her voice dropping in pitch.
Vernon paced for a moment, glancing toward the window. "That officer. Weasley. He wasn't just here for a casual visit."
Petunia frowned. "You said it was about some award or recognition…"
Vernon shook his head. "He was pretending. Smiling, yes, but his eyes… no one smiles like that unless they're hiding something. He asked questions. About the boy."
Her lips thinned. "Harry?"
He nodded.
Petunia crossed her arms. "And what did you tell him?"
"Nothing!" Vernon hissed. "I didn't say a damn thing. But he had filed. Medical records. Hospital reports. He knew more than I did. I—Petunia, they're watching us now."
Petunia sat down slowly. "So, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying we need a lawyer," Vernon said, voice shaking ever so slightly. "And fast. Because if they're digging into us, they'll dig deeper. And if they dig too deep... we'll be in trouble."
Petunia's eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward the room where Harry had gone. Her expression hardened. "He's always been trouble."
"Maybe," Vernon muttered. "But this time, it's not just him. It's us too."
Meanwhile, back with Harry…
He sat on the small, creaky bed in his so-called room—just a cupboard with a window barely big enough to let in the afternoon light. The air was stuffy. The walls were bare. And the silence was heavy.
Harry stared down at his left arm.
The same arm that had brushed against that sword in the alley… or whatever that place had been.
He couldn't forget the feeling—the cold pressure against his hand, the strange pull like something wanted him to touch it. The voice, if it was a voice, was now just a faint memory behind the haze of sleep and pain.
Harry sighed and muttered to himself, "Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I was just… hungry. Maybe I passed out."
His fingers gripped his arm lightly.
"Maybe it was—"
Then it happened.
Like a breath from the void, a shadow rippled across his skin.
In an instant, something manifested. From the black mark hidden beneath the surface, a pulse spread through his veins. His hand clenched on instinct—and from that closed fist, the hilt of a sword formed. Dark, heavy, ancient. Not forged of metal but something deeper… hungrier.
The blade extended down, silent as death itself. It was smooth, black as obsidian, with veins of crimson threading through it like lightning frozen in glass.
Harry jolted so hard he nearly fell backwards. His breath caught in his throat.
He would've screamed—but the sound just wouldn't come.
His wide green eyes stared at the weapon in his hand, the blade humming softly with a presence. It wasn't just steel. It was alive.
And somehow… part of him.
He whispered, almost afraid, "What… what are you?"
The sword didn't answer. But Harry swore he felt it watching him.
Waiting.
Harry's breath caught as he heard it—
Hissss...
A soft, almost gentle sound, but unmistakable.
He turned his head slowly toward the window.
Or rather, what passed for one. Just a small, rectangular slit in the wall with rusted bars, barely wide enough to let in the weak sunlight.
And there it was.
Coiled lazily along the ledge, gleaming pale against the dim light, was the white snake.
Its scales shimmered like fresh snow, almost glowing. Its eyes—ice blue and slit—locked onto his with a calm that felt far too intelligent.
Harry stared.
"You again…" he whispered, not even sure what he meant.
The last time he'd seen it… was before he blacked out. Before the sword. Before everything changed.
The snake blinked slowly, then bowed its head.
Harry blinked back, heart thudding in his chest. Was it… greeting him?
He inched forward.
"Did you… lead me there? To the sword?"
Another soft hiss.
The snake tilted its head, then slowly slithered closer to the bars, tongue flickering in and out. It did not speak—at least, not in any way Harry understood.
Yet something passed between them.
Not words. But a feeling.
Acknowledgment. Recognition. A warning…?
Harry frowned, gripping the still-materialized hilt of the blade tighter. "What are you? Who sent you?"
The snake's gaze sharpened, then turned slightly—looking not at Harry, but at the blade in his hand.
Harry followed its eyes.
The sword still pulsed faintly with power, like a heart beneath the skin. But for a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw the surface of the blade ripple—as if it was smirking.
Then, the white snake hissed once more and slithered away—disappearing into the light like a ghost vanishing at dawn.
Harry was left in silence again.
He lowered the blade slowly, breathing hard, unsure if he was more afraid… or curious.
"...What the hell is happening to me?"
The snake stared at him, head tilted ever so slightly, as its tongue flicked out again.
"Can you stop pretending like you can't speak to me?"
Harry yelped, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the edge of his mattress.
"You can speak English?!"
The snake blinked slowly.
"No, boy. I'm speaking my language. You're the one speaking mine. Now, how is it that you understand the tongue of serpents?"
Harry stared at him.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
"...What are you talking about?"
The snake uncoiled slightly, letting its body stretch lazily along the cold metal of the window bars.
"Parseltongue, human. Snake-speech. Ancient magic that lets your kind understand ours."
Harry blinked.
"But… I never… I mean, no one taught me."
The serpent hissed a dry, amused sound.
"Then perhaps something awoke it. A mark. A curse. Or…" it glanced briefly at Harry's arm, where the faint impression of the sword had vanished again, "…a bond."
Harry instinctively covered his arm. "That sword… you know something about it, don't you?"
The white snake didn't answer immediately. It just stared at him—unblinking, ancient, far too aware for a regular animal.
Then it said quietly,
"I know many things. I was sent to watch. And now… to warn."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Warn me about what?"
The snake slithered upward, coiling around the bar as its head drew closer to Harry's face. For a moment, the air around it shimmered with something… darker.
"Your blood is not just your own, Harry Potter. The blade you touched is a sin-given form. And sin… always comes with a cost."
Harry shivered.
"But… who are you?"
The white serpent's eyes gleamed with pale fire. "I am, will a Companion of the who had the blade before you"
Harry blinked as he spoke. "One before me?, whose that?"
The snake looked at him as he spoke. "I can't say that, not yeat".
With one final hiss, the pale serpent slid back from the window and vanished—its body melting into the shadows below.
This time, it left nothing behind.
No trail. No sound.
Only silence.
And a boy, trembling in a cupboard that now somehow felt even smaller than before.
Elsewhere – Late Evening, a Quiet Muggle Street
Officer Weasley stepped out of his Government-assigned policy car, stretching his arms with a sigh. His coat was rumpled, and the corners of his tie had long given up holding shape. It had been a long day, and all he wanted now was dinner—and maybe a cup of decent coffee that hadn't been brewed by a intern.
He ducked into a quiet corner café, got his drink to-go, and stepped outside just in time to mutter, "Ah, perfect night."
And then—
"Bloody hell!"
He nearly spilled his coffee as a flash of blonde and tailored black dropped in front of him, like a cat leaping from a rooftop.
Weasley stumbled back, blinking in surprise. "What the—Greengrass?!"
Standing there with her arms crossed was a tall woman in a charcoal-grey business coat, her short blonde hair sleek, her expression cool. Green eyes the color of cut emeralds studied him with amused disdain.
"Great," she muttered dryly. "Another Weasley."
He narrowed his eyes, blowing gently on his scalded coffee. "Yeah, yeah… but you can't just pop in like that in the Muggle world, woman. You'll give someone a heart attack."
She smirked. "Says the man who can't do anything in either world."
Weasley rolled his eyes. "Oh, clever. Still bitter I didn't take your offer to work 'private intelligence'?"
Her smirk twitched. "Still bitter you could've been useful."
He took a long sip. Winced. "Still hot."
"Still slow," she shot back.
Weasley sighed. "So what brings Lady Greengrass down from her pure-blood ivory tower? Business? Or just out to stalk a poor Squib on his dinner break?"
Greengrass reached into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing the edges of a folded parchment—sealed in black wax, bearing an old sigil: a serpent devouring its own tail.
She didn't hand it over.
Not yet.
Instead, she said, "Let's just say Lord Slytherin had… instructions."
Weasley's gaze sharpened. "He's awake?"
"No," she said, too quickly. "But plans don't die just because the man does."
They stood in silence for a beat, until Weasley muttered, "Right. And how are your… children?"
Greengrass arched a single brow. "Thriving, of course. Daphne's is starting Hogwarts soon. Astoria shows promise."
"Yeah, promise to hex her classmates and poison suitors over a Valentine's card," Weasley muttered under his breath.
Greengrass smirked. "Oh please. At least mine don't collect Muggle screwdrivers and call it a legacy."
"…Touché."
They fell quiet again, but this time the stillness was heavier. Years of history hung between them—words unsaid, paths not taken, letters never sent.
She broke the silence. "How are things with your, um… family?"
He didn't meet her eyes. "We still don't talk."
"Are you… sure that's what you want?"
He took a deep breath, then said softly, "I'll never speak to Arthur or Molly again. Not after what they did."
Greengrass looked at him carefully. "They didn't do anything."
"They erased me," he said flatly. "Pretended I didn't exist. Just because I couldn't—just because I wasn't like the rest of them."
"Still hasn't improved then," she murmured, her voice quieter. "Tristan."
His eyes widened slightly. No one called him that anymore.
He sighed. "Life's hard enough when you're a Squib in the wizarding world. That's why I left. Why I cut all ties."
Her gaze hardened slightly. "Including me."
He said nothing.
Tristan took another slow sip of his coffee, letting the silence settle between them once more. Then, with a raised brow, he finally asked, "So… what's the reason for the letter?"
Greengrass looked down at the parchment in her gloved hand, the wax seal catching the streetlight. Her lips thinned as she replied, "Orders. I'm to find the Heir to the House of Hydra."
Tristan let out a low sigh, shaking his head. "So… the heir to the lost house has finally shown up."
Greengrass nodded, her expression taut. "Yes, Weasley. But I don't know who it is. I'm supposed to get close. Once I do, the blood magic will activate. It'll confirm it."
She glanced away, jaw tight. "It's better this way. I've scoured nearly every trace of magical blood across Britain. If the heir was in plain sight, I'd have found them already."
Tristan gave a dry chuckle. "Still funny, though. The great Slytherin Clan—guardians of ancient secrets—still haven't invented magical GPS."
She rolled her eyes. "Right. Laugh it up, Squib."
He gave her a look. "It's Officer Squib, thank you very much."
Her lips twitched, almost amused despite herself. "Fine, Officer Squib. Since we're sharing job titles—what have you been doing lately, then? Besides annoying dignified pure-blood women."
Tristan shrugged, taking another cautious sip. "Investigating a child abuse case."
Her smirk faded.
He continued, his tone even but grim. "It's bad. Real bad. Once I've got enough, I'm bringing the hammer down. And when it's over… I'm taking the kid in."
Greengrass blinked. "You… you're adopting?"
Tristan looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Not officially. But someone's got to. No one else will."
Greengrass was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "You always did have a stupidly good heart."
He looked away. "Yeah. And it's gotten me nothing but scars."
To be continued
Hope people like this ch and give me power stones