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Moonlight cut through the trees of the Forbidden Forest as Li Ming stood with Lupin, trading small talk while waiting. The air turned colder, sharper. A shadow glided across the moon and descended before them, bowing low. Frost crawled over the grass; wildflowers shriveled in a breath.
The cold pressed down—predatory, suffocating.
Both men reacted in kind: Lupin with quiet, disciplined focus; Li Ming with the lazy confidence of someone who knew the monster wouldn't dare touch him.
Li's eyes drifted from the wilted blooms to Lupin, who stood braced in the chill. Li wasn't immune out of sheer grit. His Dementors were bound—broken in hard. They'd learned quickly that if they so much as bared teeth at their master, he'd reacquaint them with pain.
But Lupin?
Catching the look, Lupin rolled up his sleeve. Strange lines rippled across his forearm. "Remember the charms that curb lycanthropy? Dumbledore refined them and inscribed them on me in runes—think of them as living tattoos." His voice carried a note of pride. "Now the full moon drains me a bit, but I choose when to change. And the runes let me ignore, for a while, certain… mentally twisted creatures. Unfortunately, Dementors count."
Li scratched his head, eyeing the script. "If that keeps you steady around Dementors, why drag me into this? Ink Harry and call it a day."
Lupin tugged his collar aside, revealing more runes etched over his chest. "It isn't 'a few.' It's most of me. And they weren't designed for Dementors—that effect's just a bonus. The real issue? The runes need the wearer's magic to fuel them. Harry's a kid; he couldn't sustain it. Even if we locked the spells into an artifact, it'd protect him for minutes—maybe—and probably burn him dry."
He exhaled, a humorless laugh. "Last problem: he's growing. Fast. Carve runes in June, they're warped by September. Distorted runes don't work. So for Harry? No solution."
"Translation," Li said. "He's not strong enough to run a miracle. Hand him an artifact and it'll purr like a lawnmower."
"If that picture helps," Lupin said, shivering now despite the runes. He rubbed his hands, then offered Li a single hair. His glance slid toward the bowing Dementor. "Handle this first. I'm seconds from a Patronus."
Dementors didn't see—they scented, they felt. Li didn't need the explanation. That hair could belong to only one boy.
He took it, passed it to the Dementor, and glanced back at Lupin. "Three seconds, huh? I thought your 'short time' might impress. What was that—three-second hero?"
Lupin blinked. The phrase wasn't familiar, but the tone wasn't flattering. Before he could roll his eyes, Li's mouth shaped soundless words—tongue of the dead—and the Dementor flinched as if the cold itself had ordered it.
"You will not approach or harm the owner of that scent," Li commanded, voice pressing through the air. "If contact is unavoidable, smother your gift and withdraw. Pass it down the ranks."
"Yes, my master," the Dementor rasped, drifting closer to inhale the hair's trace.
A thought struck Li. His grin went crooked. "What if I send them door to door for Sirius—wearing signs that say Donate—and skip your house? How much do I make?"
Lupin stared. "How does your brain land there? I don't know your rates, but I know this—once people learn Dementors answer to you, you won't step outside again. You'll drown in curses before you hit the curb."
Li rubbed his jaw. A tidy scheme, sure. But he wasn't here for street cred. Every minute playing crime lord was a minute not spent growing stronger. And Dumbledore watching? A problem.
"Fine. New target. Why not Death Eaters? Smash-and-grab. Confiscation with prejudice."
If he meant unleashing an unkillable storm across Britain, Lupin would've bolted to Dumbledore. But Death Eaters? Lupin's grin showed teeth. "Need a hand?"
"Absolutely," Li said. "I need a list. You'll collect hair from each of them and hand it over to our friend here. From now on, he's Wangcai—'Lucky.' He runs point."
"Wangcai?" Lupin's mouth twitched. He looked at the cloaked horror that might, allegedly, bring fortune. "Not just gold. Think potions, tomes, family grimoires. Most Death Eaters come from old houses. Their vaults are… educational."
He paused, already scheming. "Lose the donation sign. We move them quietly. Your Dementors clear rooms—fear first, feeding last. Then you open a portal and lighten the property. Like you did to Grimmauld."
And if someone summoned a Patronus? Li shrugged. No Patronus problem survived a bigger swarm. Send a few hundred through a hall, and the bravest Death Eater would be running before he found his wand.
The lead Dementor drifted back, Harry's scent fixed forever. Li turned.
"Calling you 'Dementor' is sloppy. You're Wangcai now. Lupin will contact you in a few days. This job matters," he said evenly. "If you botch it—" He let the cold hang for a beat. "—your brood will be choosing a new leader."
The figure trembled—at the name or the threat, unclear—and slid into the trees.
Lupin watched, unsettled. That was a Dementor? The poor thing looked chastened.
He shook it off, nodded a farewell, and vanished in a blur of black vapor. Apparition.
Li watched him go, a shade envious. He still hadn't learned to Apparate.
Summer blurred by in potion fumes and spellwork. When term loomed, Snape's private lessons ended—his classrooms called—and Lupin's too, with Defense Against the Dark Arts and a certain boy to guard.
Li wasn't thrilled. Lupin had time for Harry but not for him? Fine. He'd remember.
The night before the Weasleys' invitation, Li had Kreacher sort through the Death Eater haul and pick a few choice gifts for dinner. At dusk he slung a flattened shoulder bag across his back and opened a portal to the Leaky Cauldron.
He stepped through—straight into the gaze of a bespectacled boy staring at the glowing rim of the portal, eyes wide, mouth open.
Li Ming smiled. "First time seeing one of those?"
The kid's face clicked. Li Ming squinted. "The Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter?"
Harry's gaze bounced between the spinning amber rim of the portal and the stone chamber glimpsed beyond. He nodded, more curious than shy—very much the world's most notorious thirteen-year-old staring straight at the impossible.
He'd grown up around magic. But not this. Not a doorway carved into the air.
"Good evening, sir," Harry said, eyes bright. "What spell is that? Is it in any of the textbooks?"
Li lifted a shoulder. "Not in yours. It's my own work," he said lightly, then added, "Professor McGonagall can use it. Dumbledore too, probably."
Truth was, Harry looked like walking gold to Li—normally. But after a week of redistributing treasures from several Death Eater estates, Li wasn't hurting for galleons, tomes, or toys. Teaching the kid a bespoke space-bending spell? Hard pass.
They traded names out of politeness before Li crossed to the bar, setting his flat shoulder bag on the counter. "Tom, a mead. And can I borrow your fireplace? I'm due at Mr. Weasley's."
"Mr. Austin, long time," Tom said, pouring. "Last I saw you, you came in dead broke for a room. You look better fed now. New friends in London?"
"Let's call it settled." Li took the mug, tasted the too-sweet heat, and asked, "Business?"
Tom's eyes drifted to the walls plastered with wanted posters of Sirius Black. He sighed. "How d'you think? Black's on the loose, Dementors in the streets. People won't leave their homes. Everyone's convinced those things'll steal their purses. As if a Dementor wants galleons. What would they do—buy a round? I don't serve monsters."
Li smiled without comment. The "thieves" weren't the cloaked horrors. They wore human faces—his, Lupin's, and a certain bored Black under house arrest. The Dementors only cleared the rooms.
At a nearby table, Harry pushed around his dinner, listening with half an ear. Weasleys. The Burrow. If he timed it right, maybe he could tag along, crash their house, and squeeze one more summer night out of freedom.
Li drained the mead, clapped the counter, and headed for the fireplace. He'd barely reached for the Floo powder when Harry piped up.
"Mr. Austin?"
Li turned. "Mr. Potter? Something you need?"
Harry eyed the green-tinged powder with a frown. He'd Flooed before—straight into Knockturn Alley thanks to a muddled syllable—and survived only by luck and Hagrid. He hated the stuff. But weighed against another night staring at a boarding-house wall? He was thirteen. He chose the door.
"I'm going to the Weasleys' too," Harry said. "Shall we travel together?"
Li's brow ticked. Technically, Harry was free to roam the inn. In practice, he was guarded like a rare phoenix egg. Somewhere, a Ministry minder probably had them both in a monocle. The last thing Li needed was to escort Britain's prized ward into a Sirius situation and set off every one of Dumbledore's alarms.
"Apologies," Li said, palming powder. "Safer if you stay put."
He didn't finish. Harry darted, scooped a fistful, shouted the address, and vanished in a roar of green fire.
Li stared into the settling ash. Right. Seeker speed.
He glanced at Tom's slack jaw. "What can I say? Kid's a natural. Lightning break, textbook form."
Tom dropped his rag and bolted upstairs to alert… whoever he alerted when Harry Potter blew curfew.
Li shrugged, stepped into the hearth, spoke the destination, and endured the coughing, spinning ash-bath the wizarding world called travel.
He staggered out of the Burrow's fireplace gray from hairline to boot-heel. In that moment he swore off magical transport entirely. Was there no civilized option in this country?
Before he could flick a Clean-Up charm, Arthur Weasley stepped forward with a delighted grin and an outstretched hand. "Good evening! You must be Mr. Austin. Ginny and Professor Dumbledore both mentioned you—said you were visiting from abroad."
"Evening, Mr. Weasley. Honored to be invited." Li brushed himself clean with a flick. "And yes—big fan of Diagon Alley. Hard place to leave."
Especially when you're spending someone else's money, he didn't add.
He glanced around. "Did you see Mr. Potter come through? He Flooed just ahead of me. Hoping he didn't pop out in the wrong grate."
Arthur's smile thinned. He pointed upstairs. "He's changing. To be frank, I didn't expect him to venture out with things this tense."
He guided Li into the dining room, poured him a small aperitif, and added, "I've owled Dumbledore that Harry's here. We'll keep him safe until he boards the Express."
Upstairs, Molly Weasley's voice carried—tight with worry, warm with relief. "You're safe here, Harry. Sirius Black won't touch you in this house."
Harry, who knew only that Black was an escaped murderer everyone claimed wanted him, blinked. "Mrs. Weasley… who is Sirius Black? What's he got to do with me?"
In the dining room, Arthur winced and murmured to Li, "The Ministry would rather I didn't share details. I disagree. He has a right to know."
Li nodded. "Forewarned means watching your back," he said aloud, while privately thinking: if Sirius shows up, forget attack—expect a teary hug.
Molly ushered her brood downstairs. Li rose. "Mrs. Weasley—thank you for having me. I've been looking forward to your cooking."
"Welcome, Mr. Austin." She eased children into their seats, then offered a tired smile. "And thank you for waiting. Dinner's ready."
Her wand flicked; steaming platters floated to the table.
Arthur lifted his glass toward Li. "For saving Ginny."
"Anyone would have," Li said, opening his flattened bag and producing neatly wrapped gifts—one for each Weasley child. Everyone except Harry hadn't planned on a surprise guest.
Harry's eyes lingered on the bag, fascinated. Paper-thin, yet it produced gifts like a magician's hat.
Ron, Scabbers the rat nestled in his arm, leaned close and whispered, "Undetectable Extension Charm. Like Dad's trunk. Bottomless."
Ginny, under her parents' watchful eyes, accepted her gift with a shy "Thank you," but her gaze lingered on their guest. She'd seen him in the Chamber—hands empty, spells flowing, doors opening like stage tricks. She'd grown up with magic. She knew how hard wandless casting was.
And the young foreign wizard with the easy smile did it as if it cost him nothing at all.
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