Greengrass took a breath, then asked with idle curiosity, "So… what's the kid's name?"
Tristan looked into his coffee for a moment. "Harry Potter."
She froze.
The air left her lungs like she'd been sucker punched.
"Harry Potter?" she repeated, almost choking on the name.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Why?"
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You're telling me the Boy Who Lived is being abused by Muggles in some rundown house—and you didn't know who he was?"
Tristan blinked. "The boy who what now?"
Greengrass stared at him like he'd announced the sky was green and pigs had mastered calculus.
"You're serious," she whispered. "You actually don't know."
"I've been out of the magical world for over a decade, Daph," Tristan said, now visibly confused. "Last time I paid attention, people still thought Fwoopers were extinct and Quidditch had three teams. Is… is Mr. Arsen still Minister of Magic?"
Greengrass coughed into her hand, then laughed, dry and unamused. "Merlin's socks, you are lost. No, Arsen got sacked years ago for trying to ban non-verbal spellcasting. Some paranoia about secret assassins."
Tristan made a face. "Well, that explains the memo I got about wand licensing last month."
She folded her arms, eyes narrowing again. "You really don't know who Harry Potter is, do you?"
He shook his head. "He's a quiet kid. Doesn't say much. Starved half to death, had bruises older than Dudley's sneakers. That's all I need to know."
Greengrass pressed a hand to her forehead. "You're taking in Harry Potter—and you don't even realize he's the most famous child in the entire magical world."
"Famous for what?" Tristan asked, deadpan. "Escaping the worst family in Surrey?"
Greengrass sighed. "No. For surviving Voldemort."
Tristan's expression didn't change.
"You remember Voldemort, right?" she pressed, already bracing for disappointment.
"Sounds familiar. Evil snake guy?"
She groaned.
"Dark Lord. Tried to take over. Killed tons of people. Wore robes. Creepy voice. Ringing any bells?"
"Ah," Tristan nodded. "The You-Know-Who guy. Got it."
"You—" She cut herself off. "You're lucky you're charming, or I'd hex you right here in the middle of this Muggle café."
Tristan sipped his coffee again, completely unbothered. "Still sounds like a kid who needs help. Titles don't matter."
Greengrass looked at him for a long moment. Then… nodded.
"They do matter," she said quietly. "But not as much as people like you."
A few minutes later…
Tristan stared blankly at the table between them, his fingers drumming against his now-lukewarm coffee. His voice was flat with disbelief.
"So let me get this straight… Some dark wizard—Lord Evil Snake Guy—broke into a house, tried to kill a baby… for reasons no one actually understands…"
Greengrass nodded without hesitation. "Yup."
"And then… whatever spell he used just backfired?" Tristan continued, eyes narrowing. "He dies, the baby lives, and now the entire magical world treats the kid like he's their second coming of Merlin?"
Greengrass gave a slight shrug, sipping her tea like this was all perfectly normal. "That's about it."
Tristan blinked. Then again. Then again.
"That's… bullshit," he muttered at last.
Greengrass didn't even flinch. "Welcome back to wizarding society."
He leaned back in his chair with a groan. "You people run on vibes and drama."
"Magic," she corrected.
"Right. Magic." He made air quotes. "And blind hero worship."
Greengrass gave him a sideways smirk. "Oh, don't act like the Muggle world is any better. They once gave a man a knighthood for inventing a toaster that also played music."
Tristan threw up his hands. "That's useful! The kid survived a spell as a baby, and now he's a living legend? Did anyone even ask what he wants?"
Greengrass's expression faltered—just a bit. "Not really. They're more interested in what he represents."
Tristan exhaled slowly. "Well, he's a scared, abused boy who flinches at raised voices and sleeps in a cupboard. So I don't give a damn if he's the Chosen One, or Merlin's third cousin twice removed. He needs a home."
Greengrass stared at him for a long moment.
"…You've changed," she said softly.
"Or maybe I finally figured out what matters," Tristan said.
She didn't reply. But for the first time in years, she looked at him not with cynicism or sarcasm… but respect.
Greengrass leaned back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other as the car rumbled along the quiet suburban road. "So," she said casually, "where exactly are we going?"
Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. "You wanted to see how the Boy Who Lived is really being treated. So I'm taking you there, Rosa."
Her eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation—or perhaps amusement—flickering in them. "I don't recall giving you permission to use my first name."
He didn't even glance at her. "Well, if you're going to call me by my first name, seems only fair I return the favor, doesn't it?"
She snorted softly, turning to adjust her seat as the leather creaked beneath her. "Touché, firepoint."
Tristan arched a brow. "Did you just say firepoint?"
Greengrass gave him a mock-innocent look. "I've been hanging around Muggles too much. It's a phrase now. Deal with it."
He gave a quiet chuckle. "That's not how language works."
"You'd be surprised how often people say that before it does."
Meanwhile, Harry lay on his side, staring blankly at the wall. The events of the day played on repeat in his mind like a broken record—sharp, strange, and impossible to forget.
With a sigh, he turned his attention to his left arm. It was where the sword had first appeared, bursting forth like a phantom from beneath his skin. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the subtle twitch of muscle as if expecting something—anything—to happen again.
His gaze settled on the mark.
It was strange. Faintly jagged, dark, and unnatural. "It looks like... a fly?" he muttered to himself. "Or maybe a mosquito?"
He didn't really know what it was. It seemed oddly familiar, though. Not something he remembered from school, or his pitiful collection of second-hand books. Definitely not from the Bible—not that he'd ever been to church more than once or twice.
And yet, a name rose in his mind. Unbidden. Unshaken.
"Beelzebub."
The name lingered on his tongue like a taste he couldn't quite place. Somehow, it fit.
Almost on instinct, he summoned the sword again.
It formed without hesitation—metal rippling into shape from the mark on his arm, humming softly like it was breathing with him. Harry stared at the weapon, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile.
"Guess that'll be your name, then," he whispered.
With a quiet shhhk, the sword vanished once more, and Harry rolled onto his side, preparing to sleep.
But sleep didn't come.
He froze, frowning. A sound filtered into the room. Not from the cupboard—he knew that tight, air-starved space all too well. This was from above. Dull. Constant. Loud.
He jammed a pillow over his head.
It didn't help.
"God," he groaned, burying his face. "How does anyone snore that loud?"
The rhythmic, wheezing thunder of Vernon Dursley's sleep echoed through the floorboards like some kind of unholy vacuum cleaner. Harry tried muffling it, turning his pillow, stuffing his ears with the corners of his blanket.
It didn't work.
He rolled back again and sighed into the dark. "Bloody hell."
"We're here," Tristan said as he parked the car with a low grunt, stepping out and stretching slightly. He moved around to the passenger side and opened the door for Rosa. "So, tell me, Lady Greengrass—how exactly are you planning to see the 'Boy Who Lives'?" His voice practically dripped with sarcasm at the title.
Rosa stepped out of the car, straightening her blazer with a touch of practiced elegance. Her sharp green eyes flicked toward him as she reached into her coat. "I have many wa—"
She froze mid-sentence.
A sudden warmth flared against her side. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter.
The parchment was glowing faintly red, ancient runes dancing along its surface. The blood magic had activated.
Her breath hitched.
She turned toward the row of houses ahead, scanning them sharply—until her eyes stopped on one.
The name had appeared on the letter, etched in glowing script as though carved by fate itself:
Harry James Potter.
Her jaw almost hit the pavement.
Tristan leaned over her shoulder, blinking at the letter once. Twice. And then again.
"So…" he said slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Does this make my child abuse case harder… or easier?"
Rosa didn't take her eyes off the house.
"Yes."
Tristan stared at the glowing letter for a long moment before letting out a sharp breath through his nose. "Of course it had to be him. The one magical child in the entire bloody country that the Ministry worships like a saint… and he's the one getting locked in a cupboard."
Rosa finally tore her gaze from the parchment. Her voice was low, edged with resolve. "We're going in."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What, planning to kick the door down?"
"I was thinking something more subtle," she said, already striding toward the front steps. "You have a badge. Use it."
He caught up beside her, flipping out his Muggle identification with a resigned flick. "Look, I already saw them today about the abuse report. Gave them time to get a lawyer, prep for court. I can't just barge in again without a warrant."
Rosa's hand went to her wand. "Or I could just—"
He grabbed her wrist gently but firmly. "No. We're not erasing their memories. Not unless you want the Auror Office tracking residual magic straight back to us."
She exhaled through her nose, frustrated, and lowered the wand. "Then what do you suggest we do, Tristan?"
He smirked, a rare glint of mischief in his otherwise tired eyes. "How much political pull does the Slytherin Clan have in the Muggle world these days?"
Rosa blinked, processing.
Then she grinned—wide, sharp, and entirely too satisfied. "Oh… just more than enough for this little situation."
Meanwhile, inside the house…
From the cupboard under the stairs, Harry listened.
He shouldn't have been able to hear them—he was sure of it. But somehow… he could. Every word. Every step. It was like his hearing had sharpened, turned superhuman overnight.
He pressed his ear to the wall, blinking as whispers floated in clearly through layers of wood and drywall.
"How much political pull does the Slytherin Clan have in the Muggle world these days?"
"Oh… just more than enough for this little situation."
Harry's brow furrowed, confusion blooming in his chest.
"Slytherin?" he whispered to himself. "What's a Slytherin?"
He shifted slightly, then froze as the floor above creaked. He held his breath—no angry yelling yet.
He whispered again, quieter this time. "Aurora…?"
The words felt alien, magical… dangerous.
Harry didn't know why, but his heart beat a little faster at the sound of them. Something was happening. Something bigger than the cupboard. Bigger than Privet Drive. Bigger than even the Dursleys' cruelty.
And for the first time in his life, Harry wasn't sure whether to be afraid… or hopeful.
The entire night passed like that.
Harry thought he hadn't slept—he remembered tossing and turning, ears covered with his pillow, trying to ignore the occasional snoring from upstairs and the dull ache in his arm where the strange mark still tingled.
But at some point, despite the sword, the noise, the strange voices outside... sleep had claimed him.
He only realized this when he woke up to sunlight already spilling through the cracks in the cupboard door.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
The sound of feet stomping down the stairs. Dudley.
Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes as the floor above shook from his cousin's thunderous descent.
But then—
> "What do you mean the trial is in five days!?"
Harry blinked. That was Uncle Vernon.
He pressed himself closer to the door, adjusting the slats ever so slightly so he could peek through. He caught sight of the living room, where Aunt Petunia stood with her arms crossed, glaring daggers at her husband.
She waved a letter in her hand, smacking it onto the table with a slap. "Yes, you heard me correctly. Officer Weasley came by this morning—with two women—and dropped this off."
Vernon paled as he picked up the letter, his eyes scanning the contents. His mustache twitched."Um… w-wasn't your friend's husband a lawyer?" he asked hopefully, clinging to the last thread of denial.
Petunia's eyes narrowed into slits. "Yes."
A pause.
Then she added, ice dripping from every syllable: "And after you insulted him at his own wedding—for wearing a tweed vest instead of a tie—he wouldn't help us if we were on fire."
Vernon audibly gulped.
From inside the cupboard, Harry didn't know what was going on, not exactly. But for once, they seemed to be the ones panicking.
And somehow, that made the air feel just a little lighter.
Harry didn't move.
He sat there—still hunched in the darkness of the cupboard, eyes fixed on the slats of wood, hands clenched around his knees—listening.
Trial?
Officer Weasley? Two women? A wedding insult?
His brain tried to stitch the words together, but they didn't form anything solid—just loose threads of confusion. Still, one thing was clear.
They're scared.
For the first time in his memory, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren't yelling at him, or about him. They were yelling… because of him.
Because someone had come.
Someone had noticed.
Harry's heart began to pound—not in fear, but in something unfamiliar. A strange fluttering in his chest. Hope?
He looked down at his arm—the one with the mark.
Beelzebub, he'd called it. He didn't know why, but the name felt right. The sword hadn't spoken to him, not yet, but somehow it had changed everything.
It had made him different.
Was that why they were here? That officer? Those women?
Was this because of the sword?
Or… was this just because someone finally cared?
Harry didn't know.
But he did know one thing.
Whatever was happening outside that cupboard door… it was different than anything that had happened before.
And maybe—just maybe—this time, he wasn't going to be ignored.
Meanwhile, in a small tucked-away Muggle coffee shop just off the main road, the scent of roasted beans lingered in the air, mixing with the soft hum of quiet conversation and clinking cups.
Tristan sat with his arms crossed, the rim of his coffee cup gently tapping against his lower lip before he took a slow sip. His brown eyes didn't leave the woman across from him.
"So," he said casually, though his tone carried the weight of weary sarcasm, "what's the percentage of your plan working, exactly?"
Rosa Greengrass didn't respond right away. She was leaning back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, stirring her tea absentmindedly with a silver spoon. Her green eyes flicked toward him with a smirk that didn't quite reach her face.
"Depends," she said, finally setting the spoon down. "If we're talking about the legal route, with full Ministry cooperation and social services? About thirty-five percent."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Generous."
"If we're talking about using my family name to apply political pressure, quietly influence the court, and get Dursley to fold before trial?"
"...Sixty-five?"
"Seventy-two," she said flatly, then added with a shrug, "give or take."
Tristan took another sip, this time a bit longer. "And if you're lying to me?"
"I'm not," Rosa replied simply, though her smirk sharpened. "But if I were? Then we'll fall back on Plan C."
"Which is?"
Rosa leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I bribe the judge, obliterate the Dursleys' memory, and claim the boy was always under our care."
Tristan stared at her, completely deadpan. "You are so Slytherin."
She raised her teacup in a mock toast. "Guilty."
He let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just don't get us both arrested. Or killed. Or both."
"No promises," Rosa replied smoothly. "But I will get that boy out of that house. One way or another."
Tristan looked down into his coffee. The bitter liquid was cooling.
And for the first time in a long while… he found himself hoping she was right.
To be continued
Hope people like this ch and give me power stones and enjoy