The alarm clock screamed to life, its shrill tone cutting through the stillness. The sound echoed off the apartment's sterile white walls, bouncing in harsh rhythm through the small bedroom. Beneath a tangle of rumpled sheets, the young man stirred with a groan, brow furrowed in protest. His hand reached blindly across the nightstand, slapping against books, a lamp, and a half-empty glass of water before finally finding the infernal clock. He slammed his palm down on the red button, silencing it with a sharp click.
For a moment, he remained still, breathing in the cool air of the morning. Then he reached for the rounded glasses resting beside the clock, slipping them on with muscle memory forged over a lifetime. The world sharpened around the edges as his vision cleared, though the haze of sleep clung to him like mist. He rolled onto his back, the mattress creaking beneath him, and sat up slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with a steady breath. His back met the headboard, cold against his skin, as he ran a hand through his tousled black hair.
It had been three years. Three long, surreal years since the war had ended—since Voldemort fell beneath the broken dome of Hogwarts and silence reclaimed the battlefield. The victory, once blinding in its intensity, had dimmed over time into something strange and distant. A story told in pubs. In classrooms. In whispers and newspapers. It no longer felt like it belonged to him.
His brilliant green eyes—still touched with the trace of boyhood despite everything they'd seen—swept across the room. The flat was modest, tucked above a bookshop in a quieter part of London. Shelves lined the walls, filled with a curious mix of magical texts and ordinary novels. The decor was clean, warm, grounded in earth tones and simple furniture. Photographs moved gently in their frames. In one, Ron laughed mid-bite of scone. In another, Hermione scolded them both, her mouth moving endlessly while her brows danced. And then there was her—Ginny—wrapped in his arms, her auburn hair aglow in the light of a sunset, her smile lighting up the frame like a Lumos charm cast in the dark.
Even now, there were mornings when he woke expecting to see a cupboard ceiling just inches above his head. When the weight of the past crept in quietly, pressing cold fingers against the back of his neck. A life of locked doors, whispered arguments, and being no one at all.
That life was over. Or so he told himself.
And yet, even surrounded by warmth and proof that he had survived—truly survived—it still felt like he was living in someone else's dream. A dream conjured by a broken world in desperate need of a savior.
He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and opened them again.
Harry Potter. The name still felt like a title instead of a person. A symbol wrapped in myth. A boy turned soldier, turned ghost, trying to find his place in a world that had moved on without him.
The Boy Who Lived… now just a man who woke up in silence. Still, another day, another Pound, as the Muggles liked to say.
Harry pushed the duvet aside, the soft fabric rustling as it slid off his frame. He straightened the wrinkles from his deep sapphire pajamas, fingers trailing across the fabric in quiet ritual before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The moment his bare feet touched the polished wooden floor, a sharp jolt of cold bit into his soles, drawing a wince. The apartment had decent heating—when it worked—but this early, the chill still clung to the bones of the building like fog on glass.
He stood and stretched, arms reaching overhead until his spine gave a series of satisfying pops. He winced again, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Merlin's beard, I'm not even twenty and already creaking like Mad-Eye's old cane," he muttered under his breath.
With a tired roll of his shoulders, he shuffled toward the bathroom. The soft click of the light switch echoed faintly, and fluorescent light spilled across the tiled walls. He paused at the mirror. There he was. The same boy turned man staring back at him every morning.
Disheveled black hair. Jaw still soft with youth, yet shadowed by nights of unrest. And, of course, the scar, etched like a brand into the skin just above his brow. The lightning bolt hadn't faded, not really. Not where it mattered.
He stared at it in silence, as he always did.
It had become more than a mark. It was a sigil. A constant, inescapable reminder of what he'd been drawn into. Everything he had lost. Everything he had gained. Everything he had become—and would likely always be. No matter how much he tried to be something else, someone else… the mirror never let him forget.
Harry exhaled and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the weight of the past still clinging to him. He turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower, the curtain rasping as it slid closed behind him.
****
"Good morning, London. The weather's been a bit barmy of late, what with autumn creeping in—so wrap up warm and keep those fireplaces lit," came the familiar, grainy voice from the wireless the moment it crackled to life.
Harry stood at the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around a chipped white mug of black coffee—no sugar, no milk. Straight and bitter. A habit he'd picked up sometime after joining the force, the taste a companion to sleepless nights and long reports. The steam curled toward his face as he took a sip, eyes half-lidded, the scent sharp in his nose.
His reflection flickered in the glass of the darkened microwave—tie tucked beneath a fitted black vest; his shirt pressed but already gathering creases near the elbows. A silver DMLE badge gleamed faintly on his chest. Years ago, the sight would've stirred something fierce in his heart. Pride. Purpose. Now it was just part of the uniform.
The boy who once imagined racing through alleyways in pursuit of masked warlocks, wand crackling with raw power, had been replaced by a man knee-deep in paperwork. Petty theft. Vandalized broom stalls. Drunk wizards arguing over cauldron temperatures. He thought of Moody—old, scarred, endlessly cynical. Harry used to roll his eyes at the man's complaints, but now… he understood.
He exhaled slowly.
The voice on the wireless shifted tone, just enough to sharpen his focus.
"In today's headlines—two years have passed since the assassination of former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge," it said. "To this day, the details remain shrouded in mystery. The Auror Office maintains that the case has gone cold due to insufficient evidence, and no suspects have been identified."
Harry's hand froze halfway to his lips, the mug suspended midair. That name again. That case. Cold as a corpse and twice as unsettling.
He'd still been in basic training when it happened, fresh into the Auror program with Ron by his side. The memory returned with uncomfortable clarity. Breakfast in the mess hall: silver trays lined with runny eggs, dry toast, hashbrowns that tasted faintly of soot, and oatmeal thick enough to plaster a wall. The Wireless had been on then too, same grating voice, same somber tone. Cornelius Fudge found dead.
At the time, Harry had barely blinked. No sadness. No shock. Just a quiet, dull apathy that settled in his chest like a stone. Fudge was the man who spent years pretending Voldemort wasn't back, who discredited Dumbledore, who turned the Ministry into a smokescreen of denial while the storm gathered. A man who did nothing, until it was too late to do anything at all.
It wasn't until months later—when he officially earned his badge and got clearance to read classified files—that Harry learned the truth: Fudge wasn't killed by wandfire. There had been no Avada Kedavra, no telltale green flash. He'd been gunned down. Executed. Bullet wounds to the chest. Close range. The kind of killing you'd expect from a trained operative in a war zone, not the heart of wizarding Britain.
A squib, they'd guessed. Had to be. A muggle could never have breached the Ministry's enchantments without being flayed apart by the wards alone. But a squib? Someone born of magic but untouched by its gift? That was different.
Whoever it was, they'd moved like a phantom. Slipped past layered protections, killed Fudge, and vanished without so much as a ripple. No magical signature. No footprints. Just a handful of brass casings and a cigarette stub found in the ashtray. No fingerprints. No DNA. Like they'd never been there.
Harry raised the mug, now lukewarm in his hand. Took another slow sip. The bitterness on his tongue matched the weight in his gut.
His eyes flicked to the clock—and he nearly choked on his coffee.
"Bugger," he sputtered, coughing as the liquid slipped down the wrong pipe. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, blotting away the dark stain, then set the mug down hard on the marble counter with a clink.
"And in Muggle news, the number of missing children across London has now risen to over thirty," came the voice over the wireless. "All aged between seven and ten, with disappearances occurring steadily over the past several months. A spokesperson from Scotland Yard has stated—"
In one swift motion, he grabbed his coat from the rack, shrugged it on mid-stride, and yanked open the front door. The hallway beyond greeted him with a sterile chill, and he bolted through it, footsteps echoing off the polished floor as he dashed for the staircase, already late.
****
The Ministry of Magic was alive with its usual current of motion. Dozens of witches and wizards moved in streams through the vast main hall toward the atrium, voices murmuring over the rhythmic clack of heels on polished stone. Emerald flames roared to life in the long line of fireplaces as figures stepped through the Floo Network, their robes fluttering, their arrival marked by the faint whoosh of displaced air.
Harry slipped his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as he walked. The mingled scents of expensive cologne, fresh parchment, spell smoke, and something faintly metallic—magic, always—drifted around him. Familiar now. Almost comforting.
The stares, he'd long since learned to ignore. The double takes, the widened eyes, the hushed murmurs and pointed fingers. Those were constant. Even now, even years after the battle, the name carried weight. The gaze of the public clung to him like static. Once, he might have appreciated the recognition. Now, he wished it would all disappear, along with the legacy of the Dark Lord and the shattered boy he once was.
Harry came to a halt, letting the tide of bodies stream past him. His gaze dropped to a single point in the atrium—the floor just ahead, where the polished tiles met the grout. Though scrubbed clean, the faint stain remained. Faded, but not forgotten. It was here they'd found what was left of Cornelius Fudge.
He lifted his eyes to the high ceiling, settling on the window of the office above—the place where Fudge had met his end. A part of him expected to feel something. Pity, perhaps. Regret. But there was nothing but a hollow detachment.
Whatever sympathy might've lingered had long been eroded by the weight of the man's failures. Failures that cost lives. That scarred futures. That took Dumbledore. For that, forgiveness was far too generous a word. Harry exhaled quietly and turned away, pressing on without another glance.
He eventually stepped into the elevator and rode it up to Level Two: the Auror Office. The lift gates opened to a wide room of white stone and polished marble floors. Rows of oak desks gleamed under enchanted sconces, their surfaces cluttered with parchment stacks, moving photographs, and rattling inkpots.
Typewriters clacked and dinged in steady rhythm, while file cabinets growled open and shut like yawning beasts. The shrill trill of the enchanted notary phones—an invention pushed by Minister Shacklebolt in an effort to "modernize"—cut through the din.
Harry barely stifled a sigh. He could feel the cheap plastic phone in his pocket, tucked beneath the fold of his coat. It was practical, Muggle, and embarrassing. No way in hell he'd ever pull it out in front of his colleagues.
"Oi, Harry!"
The voice cut clean through the clamor of the Auror Office. Harry looked up, and a familiar warmth touched his features as he spotted Ron leaning lazily against his desk, a sugar-glazed donut halfway to his mouth. His cheeks were puffed with a bite, and he gave Harry a casual wave with his free hand.
"'Bout time," Ron said thickly, swallowing the last bite. "I was two bites from sendin' a search party."
Ronald Weasley—Harry's oldest friend, brother in all but blood, and partner in chaos since their first ride on the Hogwarts Express.
Harry smirked as he approached. "Sorry to disappoint. What's up?"
"Robards," Ron replied, brushing the glaze off his trousers with one hand. "He's been lookin' for you. Said it's urgent."
Harry's brow furrowed. "This about the Rookwood case?"
Ron gave a shrug, chewing the last of the donut thoughtfully before speaking again. "Could be. Dunno, really. But he's up there with a couple of blokes I've never seen before. Not Ministry, I'll tell you that much. All stiff collars and cold stares. Didn't say a word."
Harry frowned. "Outsiders?"
"Yeah," Ron said, eyes narrowing slightly. "The sort that makes your skin itch, if you get me. Proper dodgy." Ron's expression shifted, the usual mischief in his grin softening to something more genuine.
"So," he asked, a little quieter, "when's the last time you heard from Ginny?"
Harry blinked, caught off guard. A faint blush crept up his neck. "Not since last month," he said, clearing his throat. "Why?"
Ron raised an eyebrow, his grin returning, albeit lopsided. "Just that Mum's been chewing her nails down to stubs. No owl, no word since the Harpies played in Romania. You know how she gets." He crossed his arms, gaze drifting slightly. "I told her Ginny's tough. Always has been. But after… everything, Mum's been holding us all a bit tighter lately."
Harry nodded, his features softening. He reached out and rested a hand on Ron's shoulder. "I get it. And you're right. Ginny can handle herself. She always has."
Ron gave a quiet chuckle. "Still wouldn't mind an owl. Just so Mum can breathe again."
Harry was just about to speak when the static crackle of the intercom cut through the noise.
"Mister Potter, Chief Robards would like to see you in the Board Room."
Harry gave a resigned shrug. "Well, duty calls, doesn't it?"
Ron smirked around the rim of his coffee. "If it's not about the Rookwood case, someone's definitely in for a bollocking."
"… and you as well, Mister Weasley."
Ron froze mid-sip, eyes going wide. Harry couldn't help the smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Looks like we're both for it, then."
Ron groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, brilliant. Just bloody brilliant."
He pushed himself off the desk with a sigh. "Right then. Let's get this over with before Robards turns purple."
****
Harry pushed open the heavy wooden doors, Ron close at his heels. It wasn't his first time inside the Board Room, though the space was usually reserved for the upper brass of the Auror Office. The room itself was vast—easily the size of a Hogwarts classroom—with towering steel-grey walls of bare concrete, stark and cold. Along the upper half hung portraits of past Heads of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, their stern faces lining the chamber in chronological order, stretching all the way to the vaulted ceiling. Harry suspected some of them dated back to the Ministry's founding.
The lower walls were paneled in dark polished wood, lending the otherwise sterile chamber a sense of authority. Large potted plants flanked the corners—green, symmetrical, and clearly tended to with care. At the center of the room stood a long redwood table, at least twelve feet in length, elevated slightly on a concrete platform with three wide steps leading up to it. The wood gleamed under the glow of white halogen lights fixed to a skeletal overhead frame, flooding the room in a cold, sterile brightness.
Seated at the table were three figures. At the head sat Gawain Robards, the current Chief Auror. A broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, sharp-eyed and clean-cut in a dark suit, his polished silver badge catching the light. Harry knew him well—gruff, no-nonsense, and not fond of wasting words.
The two beside him, however, were strangers. One was a balding man, likely in his late fifties, his remaining hair silvered and neatly combed. The Asian woman next to him appeared far younger—mid-thirties at most—with striking features, dark eyes, and a tailored charcoal suit so crisp it looked conjured minutes ago. Neither of them bore Ministry insignia.
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. Something about the air in the room had changed. Formal. Measured. Serious. And not the usual sort of Ministry business.
"Ah, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley," Robards greeted, rising from his tanned leather chair.
"You wanted to see us, sir?" Harry asked, his eyes briefly flicking to the two strangers at the table.
"Yes, come in," Robards gestured to the empty seats at his left. "Have a seat, we've much to discuss."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance—wary rather than uneasy—before stepping forward and settling into the chairs.
"First, allow me to introduce our…" Robards paused, clearing his throat, "colleagues. From a rather more discreet division. This is—"
"Shaw," the man cut in. "Lee Shaw. And you must be the famous Harry Potter." He smiled, though the expression held no warmth. "Heard a lot about you."
"Who hasn't?" Harry replied, flatly. Shaw's eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing.
"And this is my colleague, Miss Kimiko Kurosawa," he continued, gesturing to the woman beside him. She gave a slight nod, her jet-black eyes fixed on Ron, who shifted in his seat. "Don't mind her, she doesn't bite," Shaw added with a smirk, lacing his fingers together. "Much."
Harry's gaze hardened. "Forgive me, Mister Shaw, but Chief Robards said you were colleagues. He didn't mention a department." He tilted his head slightly. "And unless I'm mistaken, you certainly don't sound like you're from around here, are you?"
"Well, you're sharp, I'll give you that," Shaw said with a thin smile. "But only half right. My grandfather was Welsh—came over to the States when he was about your age. Met my grandmother in Queens, and the rest, as they say, is history." He took a measured breath. "As for where my loyalties lie? Stars and stripes, through and through."
He leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair creaking under the shift. "Now that we've had our little cultural exchange, let's stop dancing around it." His words took on a more serious edge. "Tell me, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley… what do you know about The Darkwatch?"
Ron snorted, barely holding back a laugh.
Shaw's eyes narrowed. "Something amusing, Mister Weasley?"
"Oh, come off it," Ron said, grinning. "The Darkwatch? That old tale Skeeter and her lot cooked up to sell more copies of the Prophet? Please. Shadowy group working behind the scenes, answering to no one, keeping peace with no oversight? Sounds like the plot of a dodgy Broomstick flick."
Ron slapped his thigh with a chuckle. "You're having a laugh, surely."
Shaw didn't so much as blink. "Do I look like I'm laughing?"
Ron's eyes widened, the color draining from his face as he swallowed hard.
"I'll say this much, Mister Shaw," Harry cut in, drawing all eyes to him. "You're right. Let's stop dancing around the matter."
He leaned forward, the polished table reflecting the flicker in his gaze. "You didn't fly across the Atlantic to spin bedtime stories about phantom organizations and cloak-and-dagger fantasies."
Adjusting his glasses with a subtle nudge. "So, let's say I humor you. Let's say the Darkwatch does exist. That it's been operating under the radar for Merlin knows how long. From what little I've gathered, they've conducted operations that would fall well outside the bounds of both international wizarding law and the Ministry's own codes of conduct."
Harry steepled his fingers. "Which begs the question—why confess any of this to a pair of Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Unless, of course, you're desperate. Or arrogant. Or both."
Kimiko's stare grew colder by the second, her eyes like twin blades beneath her fringe. The silence that followed was stifling. Even Chief Robards shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Ron looked one wrong word away from a full-blown panic attack.
Then—laughter.
Shaw let out a bark of amusement, doubling over as he slapped the table with the flat of his palm. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sterile room. Harry and Ron exchanged a glance—bewildered, tense.
"Damn, son," Shaw wheezed between chuckles. "They said you had balls of steel, but hell—I didn't think you'd walk in here and prove it. Guess I owe the boys back home a hundred bucks." He drew a long breath, regaining his composure. "But I should've figured. You looked Voldemort in the face and lived to tell the tale. That takes a special kind of nerve. Respect."
Shaw smirk faded to something more serious. "The Darkwatch," he said, "is real. Every whisper you've heard…" he waved his hand vaguely in the air, "…and the ones too wild to print? Most of them happened."
His gaze settled on Harry again. "We're not here to play make-believe, Potter. We're here because something's coming—and you're going to want to hear what we've got to say."
"Wait—wait, hang on a tick." Ron threw up his hands, eyes wide. "Back up, take a breath, pop a Weasley Wizard Fizzer or something. Are you seriously telling me that Darkwatch? The shadowy, MI6-meets-James-Bond, cloak-and-dagger spy lot—is actually real?"
Shaw chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't go full Bond—we're a bit short on exploding cufflinks and laser watches." His grin spread. "But we've got our share of toys. Trust me, Mister Weasley, the stuff we carry makes your Ministry-issued wands look like kid's wands from Zonko's."
"Forgive me, Mister Shaw," Harry said, his gaze still narrowed. "But I'm not in the habit of believing every man who walks into a room claiming to work for a secret organization that, by all accounts, answers to no one and operates entirely unchecked."
"That's not entirely true," Shaw replied smoothly. "We don't operate without oversight—at least, not in the way you're imagining. We answer to The Board."
Ron looked ready to interject, but Shaw held up a hand to keep him quiet.
"The Board," he continued, "is a coalition. A council made up of leaders from every major nation—Muggle and magical alike. And yes, before you ask, your own Minister for Magic and Prime Minister are both very much involved. The rest?" He gave a vague shrug. "I'm not at liberty to say."
Harry's brow furrowed. "So, what—you're telling us the Darkwatch is sanctioned? Official? Backed by the global powers?"
Shaw offered a tight smile. "Now you're starting to get it."
He clapped his hands once, softly. "And since we're all friends now, I suppose I owe you a bit of a history lesson. Don't worry, I'll spare you the long version. You were both there, after all." His eyes flicked briefly to Ron.
"It was decided long ago that the powers that be—Ministries, Cabinets, Courts—had failed. Spectacularly. Cornelius Fudge, to name one very obvious example. A man who, if you'll forgive the pun, utterly fudged his duty. Let the Dark Lord slip through the cracks while he patted himself on the back. Surrounded himself with sycophants. And let's not forget a certain toad-faced sadist you know far too well, Mister Potter... Dolores Umbridge."
Harry's fingers clenched. His gaze dipped briefly to the pale scar etched across the back of his hand.
"Fudge's failure didn't just get people killed," Shaw went on. "It nearly shattered the fragile veil that separates our world from the Muggle one. And needless to say, the other side of that veil—the non-magical world? Well, they weren't too thrilled about being left in the dark while a genocidal maniac tried to rewrite history."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood of the table.
"Muggles may not have wands, but they've got satellites, drones, and nuclear warheads. And when they realized just how bad things got, they weren't too keen on trusting wizarding governments to keep their house in order."
Harry and Ron remained silent, the weight of the moment settling around them.
"So came the consensus," Shaw said. "Across borders. Across bloodlines. A pact between the most powerful leaders—magical and Muggle alike. To prevent another catastrophe, they founded a new kind of task force. One without red tape. Without politics. Without the fragile egos of ministers and officials."
He let the next words land like a hammer:
"An independent, international intelligence agency. Working from the shadows. Answerable only to the Board. Our one mission: to fix the failures of the past... and ensure they're never repeated."
He paused—eyes hard now.
"Whatever it takes."
Shaw drew a sharp breath, his gaze shifting toward Chief Robards. "Which brings us neatly to our current problem," he said. "Augustus Rookwood."
Harry's brow arched, while Ron's expression hardened, his jaw twitching.
"Potter. Weasley," Robards began, folding his hands on the table. "You've both been leading the Rookwood investigation. He's been loose for months now, slipping through cracks, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake—including two Muggle families, as you're aware."
Harry gave a slow nod. Ron said nothing, though his fingers curled into fists against his legs.
"Ordinarily," Robards continued, "we'd treat this as a high-risk fugitive case. But according to Mister Shaw, there's more at play here than a single man on the run."
"Rookwood's been in contact with some very dangerous people," Shaw interjected. "Individuals tied to an organization the Watch has been monitoring closely. And if our sources are right, these people make the Death Eaters look like amateurs playing dress-up."
Harry's gaze sharpened. "What organization?"
Shaw offered a tight-lipped smile. "Classified."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Convenient."
"Don't take it personally, Potter," Shaw said, calmly. "But like you, I don't hand out trust just because someone's a national icon. Even if he is The Boy Who Lived."
He turned his attention to Ron. "And I'm aware of your history with Rookwood… including his alleged connection to your brother's death." A pause. "You have my condolences. But experience tells me that personal stakes can cloud even the best judgment."
Ron's face darkened. "With respect, you don't need to worry about that," he snapped. "I might hate the bastard, but I know how to do my job—and I'm damn good at it."
Shaw nodded. "So, I've heard."
Ron leaned forward slightly. "That said, you expect us to charge in blind? You say Rookwood's got something you need, but we've been chasing the bastard for months. He's slippery. We need more than just shadows and secrets."
"That's precisely why we're here," Robards said. "Mister Shaw has offered one of his agents to assist in the hunt. A specialist. One of their very best."
Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, then looked back at Shaw.
"And this agent of yours," he said, quietly. "Are they coming in to help… or to take over?"
Shaw offered a faint smile—but didn't answer.
"That," he then said, "depends entirely on you."
A sharp click rang through the air—the strike of flint—and a low whoosh followed as flame ignited. Everyone turned toward the far end of the room.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
The flare of the lighter briefly lit his face as he brought the flame to the tip of his cigarette. Smoke curled up through the sterile light, catching in lazy coils beneath the halogen glare. He exhaled once, then lowered the cigarette between his fingers. His suit was immaculate—jet-black from shirt to tie to polished shoes. A gold chain hung from his waistcoat, disappearing into his pocket. His dark eyes scanned the room, unreadable, assessing.
Harry's stomach dropped. He hadn't seen him. Hadn't heard him. It was as if the man had been nowhere—until he was.
A ghost in a room full of Aurors.
Shaw smirked as he gestured toward the man. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce one of the Darkwatch's finest."
He gave a nod. "Agent Ryan Ashford."