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The first pale light of dawn filtered through the curtains of Rosmerta's bedroom. Harry lay on his back, one arm wrapped around the warm curve of Rosmerta's waist as she traced lazy patterns across his chest with her fingertips.
"You're full of mysteries, aren't you?" she murmured against his shoulder, her breath tickling his skin.
Harry's fingers found her hair, threading through the silky strands. "Aren't we all?"
"That's not an answer." She lifted her head to look at him, those keen eyes studying his face. "Where did you learn to fight like that? One doesn't just show up and decides that he wants to get rid of one of the most fearsome werewolves in Magical Britain..."
"Practice," he said simply, though his mind flickered to years of war, of watching friends die, of learning that hesitation meant death. "Dangerous world out there."
Rosmerta's lips curved into a small smile. "You know, most men would be bragging about killing Greyback by now. Telling me every bloody detail."
"I'm not most men."
"No," she agreed, settling back against his chest. "You're not. Family? Anyone waiting for you somewhere?"
The question hit harder than it should have. His parents were less than a mile away, sixteen years old and completely unaware their future son was lying naked in a pub bedroom. "Not anymore."
Something in his tone made her look up again, but before she could ask another question, the sound of the pub door slamming open echoed from below. Heavy footsteps on the wooden floors, too deliberate to be drunks stumbling home.
Harry was out of bed instantly. "Stay here."
"Harry—"
"Stay here," he repeated, already pulling on his trousers. His wand appeared in his hand as if by magic—which, he supposed, it had. "Lock the door behind me."
He moved down the stairs with silent steps, bare feet making no sound on the worn wood. Three figures stood in the main room of the pub, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. They hadn't bothered to light the lamps, content to conduct their business in the pre-dawn gloom.
"Can I help you?" Harry called out, deliberately casual as he stepped into view.
The tallest of the three turned toward him, looked at him as if surprised, before talking. "You're the one who killed Greyback."
It wasn't a question. Harry descended the rest of the stairs, wand loose at his side but ready. "Word travels fast."
"Indeed it does." The wizard's voice carried the cultured tones of old pureblood families. "Particularly when someone demonstrates such... impressive skills."
"Impressive?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "I killed a rabid animal. Hardly impressive."
"Four rabid animals," the second wizard corrected. "And the manner of their deaths... most creative."
"Who's asking? I doubt you came here for a friendly chat."
"Servants of the Dark Lord," the leader said, pushing back his hood to reveal a gaunt face. "He's heard of your work. He's... interested."
Voldemort's already recruiting. The thought sent ice through Harry's veins, but he kept his expression neutral. "Your Dark Lord has a name?"
"Names have power," the third wizard spoke for the first time, his voice younger than the others. "The wise know when not to speak them."
"Wise," Harry repeated slowly. "And what does this unnamed Dark Lord want with me?"
"To offer you a place at his side," the leader said. "Your talents are wasted hunting strays in the Highlands. Join us, and you'll have targets worthy of your skills."
Harry let curiosity color his voice. "What kind of targets?"
"Blood traitors. Mudbloods. Those who would pollute our world." The fanatic gleam in the wizard's eyes grew brighter. "The Dark Lord seeks to cleanse Britain of their taint. Surely a wizard of your abilities understands the necessity."
There it is. Harry had heard those words before, in another time, from other mouths. The same poison, the same hate. "And if I refuse?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The three wizards exchanged glances, and Harry saw their hands drift toward their wands.
"The Dark Lord does not take kindly to refusal," the leader said softly. "Nor do we appreciate having our generous offer thrown back in our faces."
"Generous," Harry mused. "That's one word for it."
"You will come with us," the second wizard demanded, his wand now visible in his hand. "Or we'll make you come."
"And the woman upstairs?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Loose ends must be tied," the young one said casually.
Harry's wand snapped up, the Stunner leaving his wand before the Death Eaters could react. The leader crumpled, but the other two were already moving, spells flying across the pub's main room.
"Protego!" Harry's shield deflected a sickly yellow curse that would have boiled his blood. "Expulso!"
The explosion shattered the bar, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel. The second Death Eater dove behind an overturned table, while the younger one pressed his attack with vicious cutting hexes.
This was going to get messy.
From upstairs came the sound of Rosmerta's door slamming shut and the distinctive click of magical locks engaging. Good. At least she was listening.
Now he could focus on killing the bastards who'd threatened her.
The second Death Eater's cutting hex whistled past Harry's ear, carving a deep gouge in the wooden pillar behind him. Harry rolled behind the bar as another curse—something that hissed and sparked with energy—scorched the floor where he'd been standing.
"Incendio Maxima!" Harry flicked his wand toward the fireplace, sending a torrent of flames across the room. The younger Death Eater yelped and dove aside, his robes singed.
"Burn the place down if you must," the second one snarled from behind his overturned table. "The Dark Lord wants him alive, but damaged is acceptable."
Like hell. Harry's mind catalogued the room's layout—chairs, tables, the massive stone fireplace, bottles of alcohol behind the bar. All potential weapons if used correctly.
"Mobiliarbus!" Harry animated three wooden chairs, sending them flying at his attackers like battering rams. The younger Death Eater managed to blast one apart, but the other two forced him to abandon his position.
A purple curse shot over the bar, missing Harry by inches and turning a row of bottles into bubbling acid. The acrid smell made his eyes water.
"Careful with those bottles, you idiot!" the second Death Eater snapped. "One wrong spell and we'll all be breathing poison!"
Harry grinned savagely. Information was ammunition, and they'd just given him some. "Diffindo!" His cutting curse sliced through the rope holding the heavy chandelier above the younger Death Eater's head.
The boy—he couldn't be more than twenty—threw himself sideways, but not fast enough. The iron chandelier caught his left arm with a sickening crack of bone. His scream echoed through the pub.
"Stupefy! Incarcerous!" The older Death Eater's spells came in rapid succession. Harry deflected the Stunner but had to dive as magical ropes sought to bind him.
From upstairs came the sound of Rosmerta's door opening.
"Harry! Are you—"
"Stay up there!" Harry roared, not taking his eyes off his opponents. A bone-breaking curse shattered the bar stool beside him.
The younger Death Eater was back on his feet, cradling his broken arm. "Crucio!"
The Unforgivable crackled through the air, but Harry was already moving, using the heavy wooden bar itself as a shield. The curse hit the enchanted oak and dissipated, though the wood still smoked.
"You little shit," Harry snarled. Time to end this.
"Sectumsempra!" The invisible sword of air caught the injured Death Eater across the chest and throat. Blood sprayed across the pub's walls as he collapsed, gurgling wetly before falling silent.
"Tommy!" The older Death Eater's composure cracked. "Avada Kedavra!"
The green light illuminated the devastated pub as Harry threw himself behind the stone fireplace. The Killing Curse struck the ancient stone and discharged harmlessly.
They're done playing games.
"Ventus Compressa!"
The spell was his own creation, developed during the war when conventional magic wasn't enough. It created a tunnel of highly compressed air, invisible and nearly silent, that moved faster than a Bludger.
The Death Eater never saw it coming.
The compressed air struck him center mass with the force of a hammer blow. His eyes went wide with shock, and then blood began pouring from his mouth in torrents. He tried to speak, tried to raise his wand, but his lungs were collapsing. More blood, thick and dark, splattered the floor as his body convulsed.
Harry watched dispassionately as the man drowned in his own blood. It took nearly a minute.
The third Death Eater—the leader who'd taken Harry's first Stunner—was stirring behind an overturned table. Harry approached him slowly, wand trained on his chest.
"Please," the man gasped, struggling to sit up. "Please, I surrender. I yield."
"Smart man." Harry's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "Now, let's have a chat about your Dark Lord."
The wizard's face went pale, then resolute. "I'll tell you nothing."
"I think you will." Harry crouched down, bringing their faces level. "See, I know exactly what your precious Dark Lord does to followers who fail him. Especially ones who fail spectacularly."
"He'll understand—"
"Will he?" Harry's smile was sharp as broken glass. "You came here to recruit me or kill me. Instead, I've killed two of your people and you're begging for mercy. How do you think he'll react to that news?"
The Death Eater swallowed hard.
"So here's what's going to happen," Harry continued. "You're going to tell me about his plans, his followers. Everything. And in return, I might let you live long enough to run very, very far away."
"I can't." The man's voice was barely a whisper. "He'll know. He always knows."
"He's not here. I am." Harry's wand pressed against the wizard's throat. "Last chance."
The Death Eater closed his eyes. "I would rather die than betray the Dark Lord. Kill me now or let me go, but I'll tell you nothing."
Harry studied the man's face—the fanatic devotion, the absolute certainty. He'd seen it before, in his own time. These weren't soldiers who could be broken with threats or torture. They were believers, and belief made men do stupid, brave things.
"As you wish." Harry's wand flicked almost lazily. "Stupefy."
The Death Eater slumped unconscious.
Harry stood slowly, surveying the carnage. The Three Broomsticks looked like a battlefield—shattered furniture, scorched walls, broken glass everywhere. And two corpses bleeding onto Rosmerta's floor.
The sound of careful footsteps on the stairs made him turn. Rosmerta appeared in the doorway, her face pale. She wore a dressing gown and carried her own wand—a elegant piece of holly that trembled slightly in her grip.
"Are they...?" she began.
"Two dead, one unconscious." Harry vanished his wand and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Ros. I'm so bloody sorry."
She stepped carefully around a pool of blood, taking in the destruction with wide eyes. "My pub..."
"I'll fix it. All of it." The words came out in a rush. "I'll pay for everything, make it better than it was. I swear to you."
Rosmerta looked at him then, really looked, and Harry saw something shift in her expression. Fear, yes, but also a kind of awed recognition.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Before Harry could answer, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from outside. Multiple people.
Shit. The magical discharge from their fight had been enormous. Someone was bound to investigate.
"Harry," Rosmerta's voice was tight with worry. "Someone's coming."
The pub door opened with a soft creak, and three figures stepped into the devastation. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the silhouette of Albus Dumbledore, his beard not yet the snow-white waterfall Harry remembered, but still impressively long and auburn-streaked. Behind him came Professor McGonagall, younger and somehow more severe, and the diminutive Professor Flitwick, whose eyes immediately began cataloguing the magical residue in the air.
"Good heavens," Dumbledore said mildly, surveying the carnage with what appeared to be casual interest. "It seems we've arrived rather after the excitement."
Harry forced himself to relax. Not yet. Play the part.
"Professor Dumbledore," Rosmerta said, relief evident in her voice as she clutched her dressing gown tighter. "Thank Merlin you're here."
"We were nearby when we detected the magical disturbance," McGonagall said crisply, though her eyes were fixed on the two corpses. "The wards around Hogsmeade registered significant defensive and offensive magic."
Nearby my arse, Harry thought. Dumbledore had monitoring charms throughout the village, had probably been watching him since the moment he'd arrived. But he nodded politely. "Lucky timing."
"Indeed." Dumbledore's blue eyes—not yet hidden behind half-moon spectacles—settled on Harry with keen interest. "And you are the young man who's been making such a stir, I believe. The one who dealt with poor Greyback."
"Harry," he said simply, offering no surname.
"Just Harry?" Flitwick squeaked, though his wand was discreetly scanning the magical signatures in the room. "My word, the spell work here is quite advanced."
Harry kept his face neutral. "You pick things up when you need to survive."
"What happened here?" McGonagall demanded, her Scottish accent sharp with authority. "This destruction—"
"Three men broke in just after dawn," Rosmerta interrupted, moving closer to Harry. "Dark wizards, by the look of them. They wanted to speak with Harry, but when he refused to go with them..." She gestured helplessly at the carnage.
Harry shot her a grateful look. She hadn't seen the fight, but she was covering for him brilliantly.
"They threatened to kill both of us," Harry added quietly. "I couldn't let that happen."
Dumbledore stepped carefully around a pool of blood, examining the unconscious Death Eater with interest. "And this one?"
"Surrendered when he realized he was outmatched." Harry's voice was flat. "The other two... didn't."
"Two against one," Flitwick mused, "and you emerged victorious? Remarkable." He paused, studying Harry more intently. "Where did you train, my boy? Your technique is quite... unusual."
"Here and there." Harry shrugged. "War makes teachers of us all."
"War?" McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "What war? Britain hasn't seen—"
"There's always a war somewhere, Professor," Harry said softly, meeting her gaze. "Sometimes it just hasn't reached everyone yet."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened with something that might have been recognition. "A wise observation. Tell me, Harry, what brings you to our peaceful village? Beyond hunting dangerous creatures, of course."
Harry chose his words carefully. "I heard rumors. Dark times coming. Thought I might be able to help."
"Dark times," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully. "And what manner of darkness concerns you?"
"The kind that sends assassins to recruit fighters," Harry said, nodding toward the bodies. "The kind that whispers about blood purity and cleansing. The kind that calls itself by grand titles and demands worship."
The silence that followed was pregnant with meaning. McGonagall and Flitwick exchanged glances, while Dumbledore studied Harry with renewed intensity.
"You speak as one with knowledge," the headmaster said quietly. "Tell me, have you encountered this... darkness... before?"
Every bloody day for years. "Enough to know it when I see it."
"And these men," Dumbledore gestured to the Death Eaters, "they wished you to join their cause?"
"They wished many things," Harry said dryly. "Living to see another sunrise wasn't one of them, apparently."
Flitwick let out a nervous giggle. "My word, you do have a rather dark sense of humor, don't you?"
"Experience teaches that too."
McGonagall was still staring at the destruction. "The magical signatures here... Albus, some of these spells, I don't recognize them at all."
"Innovation born of necessity, perhaps," Dumbledore mused, though his eyes never left Harry's face. "Tell me, young Harry, what will you do now?"
Before Harry could answer, a low groan came from the unconscious Death Eater. The man's eyes fluttered open, immediately fixing on Dumbledore with a mixture of fear and hatred.
"You," the Death Eater snarled, struggling to sit up. "The old fool himself. Wait until the Dark Lord hears—"
"Stupefy," Harry said casually, and the man slumped back into unconsciousness.
McGonagall stared at him. "That was rather... efficient."
"He was getting annoying." Harry met Dumbledore's amused gaze. "I don't suppose you'd mind helping me figure out what to do with him? The Aurors should probably be involved, but..."
"But you have questions of your own," Dumbledore finished smoothly. "Questions about the organization these men served, perhaps?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Something like that."
"I believe," Dumbledore said gently, "that we have much to discuss."
The distinctive crack of Apparition announced the arrival of four Aurors before Harry could even process Dumbledore's offer of conversation. The lead Auror—a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair and alert eyes—took one look at the carnage and let out a low whistle.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Looks like a war zone in here."
"Auror Meadowes," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "Thank you for responding so quickly."
Meadowes. Harry's chest tightened. Dorcas Meadowes would be dead within two years, tortured and killed by Voldemort personally. But here she was—or rather, here was her father or uncle—alive and investigating Death Eater attacks.
"Professor," Meadowes nodded respectfully before his eyes found Harry. "You're the one who killed Greyback."
It wasn't a question. Harry nodded. "Among others, apparently."
Two of the younger Aurors hung back, hands resting casually on their wands as they studied Harry with obvious wariness. The other two, however, moved forward with expressions of professional interest.
"Two more down," the stockier of the friendly Aurors said with satisfaction. "Good work, mate. What did they want?"
"Recruitment," Harry said simply. "Didn't like my answer."
Meadowes crouched beside one of the corpses, careful not to disturb the scene. "Prior Incantato," he murmured, touching his wand to the dead wizard's.
A ghostly green light erupted from the wand tip—the unmistakable signature of the Killing Curse.
"They used an Unforgivable," the stocky Auror said, his tone hardening. "Against a civilian. In a public establishment."
"Self-defense is looking pretty clear-cut," his partner agreed, shooting Harry an approving look. "Nice work staying alive."
"Thanks," Harry said dryly. "I'm rather fond of breathing."
One of the wary Aurors—barely older than Harry himself—spoke up nervously. "The magical signatures here... some of these spells, I've never seen anything like them."
"Innovation," Dumbledore said smoothly. "Young Harry has clearly had excellent training."
Meadowes stood, dusting off his robes. "We'll need a full statement, of course. And we'll want to question the survivor when he wakes up properly."
"Of course." Harry gestured to the unconscious Death Eater. "Fair warning—he's a true believer. Don't expect him to be cooperative."
"They never are," the stocky Auror said grimly. "We'll manage."
As the Aurors began their investigation, Harry turned to Rosmerta, who had been watching the proceedings with wide eyes.
"I'm going to ward this place properly," he told her quietly. "Something like this won't happen again, I promise."
"Harry—" she began.
"I'll pay for all the repairs, hire the best curse-breakers to make sure you're protected." He took her hands in his, noting how they trembled slightly. "This is my fault. I won't let you suffer for it."
"It's not your fault," she said firmly. "Those men chose to come here. They chose to threaten us."
God, she's brave. "Still. You deserve better than having your pub turned into a battlefield."
"Mr. Harry," Dumbledore's voice interrupted gently. "Might I have a word?"
Harry released Rosmerta's hands and turned to face the headmaster. McGonagall and Flitwick flanked him.
"I find myself rather intrigued by our brief conversation," Dumbledore continued. "Your insights into the current... climate... are most interesting. Would you consider visiting Hogwarts? I believe we might have much to discuss."
This is it. The opening I need. Harry kept his expression thoughtful, as if considering the offer. "What kind of discussion?"
"The kind best held in private, with tea and perhaps a few chocolate biscuits," Dumbledore said with a slight smile. "I confess, I'm curious about your background, your training, and your rather unique perspective on current events."
McGonagall cleared her throat. "The spells you used... they're not standard defensive magic. Where did you learn them?"
"Here and there," Harry said vaguely. "When you're hunting dangerous creatures, you pick up techniques from a lot of different sources."
Flitwick bounced slightly on his toes. "The precision required for some of those charms... remarkable, really. Most dueling techniques focus on power over finesse, but yours..."
"Are effective," Harry finished. "That's all that matters."
The three professors exchanged meaningful glances—the kind of look educators gave each other when they encountered something fascinating and potentially useful.
"So," Dumbledore prompted gently. "Would this afternoon suit you? Say, around four o'clock?"
Harry nodded slowly. "I'll need to finish up here first. Make sure Rosmerta's properly protected."
"Of course. The Three Broomsticks has been a fixture of Hogsmeade for generations. We wouldn't want anything to happen to it." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Or its proprietor."
As the professors prepared to leave, Harry caught Rosmerta's elbow gently. "I'll be back this evening. We can talk then, once everything's sorted."
She studied his face for a long moment, then rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
"Be careful," she whispered against his mouth. "Whatever you're really involved in... be careful."
"Always am," he lied smoothly.
She laughed, a sound with no humor in it. "No, you're not. But come back anyway."
Harry watched as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick stepped outside, their voices carrying in quiet conversation as they moved away from the pub. Through the broken window, he could see them pause at the edge of the village, heads bent together in discussion.
They're talking about me. The thought sent a thrill of anticipation through him. After days of careful maneuvering, he finally had Dumbledore's attention.
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