Shadows and Promises
"Sir, we lost contact with the spies we sent; there's no trace of them anywhere," said the man dressed in black, bowing his head with a mix of guilt and submission.
In front of him, exuding an arrogance that seemed to seep from his very skin, stood a man with long blond hair and a sharp gaze, as if he looked down on others from a mountaintop. If Sally had been there, she would have recognized him instantly: the same man who had shown disdain toward her and her children at the bookshop. Lucius Malfoy.
"Tsk." Lucius let out a sound of annoyance, his lips twisting into a sneer. "It seems that thing has something protecting it." His voice carried both mockery and irritation; he waved his hand with disdain. "No matter. Leave them for now. We have more important matters —later we'll deal with that filthy Mudblood and her garbage." He spoke with contempt, as though the disappearance of his spies was irrelevant, a small stain unworthy of concern.
"Send all our men to watch Amelia Bones. Be careful: it seems she has contact with Dumbledore. Tell me who she meets with and try to discover where she's getting her information." His orders fell sharp and precise.
"Yes, sir," replied the man in black, turning around and leaving without another word.
Lucius lingered a moment longer, his fingers brushing absently against the back of his chair while he calculated his next moves. Then he approached the fireplace in his office. Without stepping in, he tossed in a pinch of Floo powder and murmured a name with icy calm.
The fire answered; the flames roared to life, and without hesitation, Lucius thrust his head into the blazing heat.
Moments later, his face appeared in the fireplace of another house. There, in an office dimly lit by lamps, an elderly man with a severe face—the kind of severity worn by those constantly annoyed with the world—was flipping through papers, his expression growing darker with each one he read. Every document twisted his features into a grimace of contained rage.
Sensing the disturbance in his fireplace, the old man lifted his gaze. With effort, he reached for his staff, using it to rise, while in his other hand he held several sheets—papers similar to those Amelia had carried to the Ministry.
"Malfoy. This isn't supposed to be circulating. What the hell is going on?" the old man demanded, his voice rasping, his eyes fixed on Lucius as though trying to pierce through him.
"I don't know." Lucius masked his impatience with a forced smile. "All the informants were supposed to be bought. There shouldn't be a single fool with these proofs."
"Destroy them immediately," the old man ordered, tossing the papers onto the table with disdain.
"It's too late. Amelia Bones made sure to protect every lead; the Minister herself is helping her. We managed to put up some obstacles, yes… but..." Lucius didn't finish the sentence; his silence, coupled with his expression, made the impossibility of the situation clear.
"We're up against Dumbledore himself." The old man's voice trembled with a mixture of anger and barely suppressed fear. "Even our lord feared to confront him directly. We don't have anyone who could face him if he chose to act. Politics restrain him for now, but if we strike his weak point, we have no idea how he might react." Lucius added the last part with a calculating tone.
"He's dismantling our power little by little. If this continues, he'll destroy everything our lord helped us build." The old man struck the ground with his staff, the crack echoing like a warning. "Do you want the Black inheritance to return to that traitor and his son?" he shouted, his voice blazing with fury.
The words cast a shadow across Lucius's face; his brow furrowed.
"You couldn't even find the boy who lived. Five years searching, and still you can't find a child," the old man added with contempt and a bitter laugh.
Lucius paled slightly. "Why don't you try then?" he challenged, his patience souring.
The old man reacted as if the suggestion had pressed an old wound: he raised his staff and hurled it toward the fireplace. The staff shot through the flames like a dart, disappearing only to reappear on the other side.
"Do you think I wouldn't if I could, you bastard?" the old man roared. "You'd better be careful and show respect. Your family owes its position to me; don't forget that." The fury on his face was visible in every pore, every line.
Lucius seemed weary of the same accusations. "Since that marriage arrangement, I've heard nothing else. If you have nothing useful to help me with the trial, I'm leaving. I'll do what I can to tip it in our favor, but even with a surprise move, we risk losing." His tone was bitter, tinged with exhaustion.
The old man fell into furious silence. "That filthy beast must not leave prison. It cannot happen," he said, clenching his fists as if trying to squeeze out a plan. He closed his eyes for a second, and suddenly an idea crossed his expression; a brief, almost maniacal smile curved his lips.
"If Dumbledore is a nuisance, then we must find someone more powerful than him," he muttered, cold determination in his voice.
Lucius raised an eyebrow at that. Only one name came to mind—someone who could rival Dumbledore: his master and lord, Voldemort.
"Then release that bastard," said the old man with a smile that was anything but kind. "He'll just be another tally in the death count." He spoke with nonchalance, as though moving pawns on a macabre board. "We must go to Azkaban."
A shiver ran through the room at the prison's name.
"Who are you talking about?" Sirius asked, his voice trembling with nervousness.
"The only one even Merlin could not defeat," the old man replied, his voice low, heavy with intent. "And if Dumbledore is his successor, he won't be able to do anything either. All it takes is one object." He spoke with gravity, and for an instant the air grew dense, as though dark plans were already being calculated in the shadows.
…
The next day, at the Jackson house.
Harry and Percy were sprawled out on the grass in the backyard, like two starfish watching the clouds drift by. Their sad little faces said it all: they were still weighed down by the farewell to their Aunt Mor.
"Do you think Aunt Mor will come back?" Harry asked softly, his voice carrying that innocence filled with hope. He had grown very attached to her, and not just because she had been his teacher.
Percy turned his head toward his brother, hesitating for a moment as he searched for words that might cheer him up, even though he himself felt just as downhearted.
"Of course she'll come back. And if she doesn't… we'll go and find her," he said quickly, with a firmness that almost sounded like a vow.
"But we don't even know where she lives," Harry muttered, frowning.
"Magic is supposed to exist, right? Then there must be a spell to find her. We'll search for it, surprise her at her home, and that's that," Percy replied, bringing his hand to his chin in a thoughtful gesture.
His words made Harry shift his gaze from the clouds to his brother. The sadness began to fade from his face, slowly transforming into determination.
"You're right," he said quickly, as if he had just discovered a brilliant solution.
"We only need that spell, enchantment, or whatever it is… and we'll find her," Percy added, and suddenly both of them felt more cheerful.
"That's true." Harry jumped up from the ground with renewed energy. "But where do we start?"
Percy froze for a moment, scratching his head. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. "Mmm… by learning magic, I guess."
"Maybe we could look in the books our grandparents brought. And if we don't find anything there, the family vaults must have something. And if not… we'll go straight to Diagon Alley to buy more books," Harry replied, already forming a plan.
"Ugh…" Percy, who hated reading, began to regret opening his mouth in the first place.
"Come on." Harry, far more enthusiastic than his brother, grabbed his arm and the two of them ran back into the house.
At that very moment, Sally was in the kitchen preparing some desserts to cheer up her children. With the tray in hand, she stepped into the living room… only to find the most peculiar scene. Her sons were sitting in front of the bookshelf, pulling out book after book with a seriousness they rarely showed.
Sally watched them in confusion, not fully understanding what was happening, until she moved closer.
"I brought you some desserts," she said gently.
"That's fine, Mom, just leave them there. We're busy right now," Harry answered without lifting his eyes from the book, wearing an expression so focused it made him look much older than he was—though it was also slightly comical.
Sally raised an eyebrow and leaned over to read the cover: From Troll Enchantments to Mastery. Meanwhile, Percy was flipping through a different book, frowning as if he had a headache. He would close the book, shut his eyes in frustration, open it again… and repeat the cycle.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked, unable to hold back her curiosity.
"Learning magic to find Aunt Mor," Harry replied with the seriousness of someone who believed he was on a life-or-death mission, before plunging back into the text.
Sally stayed quiet, a knot forming in her chest. She didn't want to shatter their hopes, but she also didn't want them to be disappointed if they failed. She was caught between tenderness and concern.
"I see… It's good that you want to learn, but please don't push yourselves too hard. Maybe Aunt Mor will come back at some point," she said at last, her voice soft, trying not to let her inner conflict show.
Harry and Percy nodded without looking up. Their little serious faces stayed buried in the pages, as though they were preparing for a crucial exam.
Sally sighed and set the tray of desserts on the table. Unable to just stand by and watch, she picked up the research book Mor had left her and sat down with them, opening it for the first time.
She had barely read the first pages when her eyes widened in surprise. There were complete potion recipes: exact measurements, explanations for the purpose of each ingredient, alternatives that could replace materials, and the effects those changes would produce. Everything was written with flawless detail and logic.
But that wasn't all. The book contained studies on alchemy, notes on curses and dark magic, and even spells created by Mor herself, with their respective side effects and instructions on how to counter them.
It was such a valuable compendium that, if anyone ever put it up for sale, it could be worth more than the entire fortune of an ancient family. Sally swallowed hard, aware that she held something unique in her hands, while her sons continued flipping through pages with that childlike determination that, suddenly, struck her as deeply moving.