"Congratulations, Harry—you're finally free of those venomous Dursleys. No more torture!" The voice on the line practically sang with glee.
Harry tilted his head, glancing down the hallway toward the living room. Dudley was sprawled in front of the telly, controller in hand. He lowered his own voice. "Don't say stuff like that. It's a party line—living-room extension. Dudley's right there playing games. He might hear."
Ron clearly didn't understand half the Muggle jargon, but he rolled with it anyway. "Got it, got it."
Static crackled for a few seconds. The conversation drifted to summer plans and the mountain of holiday homework—especially the new third-year electives. Muggle Studies essays in particular had Harry questioning his entire existence.
"You really can't come to the Burrow?" Ron muttered. "Percy's already started at the Ministry—International Magical Cooperation, same hours as Dad. George and Fred are interning at that Muggle factory and mysteriously vanish on weekends. Ginny's playing perfect angel in front of Mum… so guess who gets the full blast of nagging now?"
"I already sorted it with Sirius," Harry said quietly.
"Oh… right." Ron sounded deflated for half a second before perking up again. "But you're coming to the World Cup final, yeah? Dad says he can get box tickets. You could watch with us—then head back to school together when term starts."
"Tell Mr Weasley thanks from me." Harry couldn't help smiling.
"As your best mate, obviously I'm saving you a spot. And next term when Quidditch trials open—put in a good word for me, eh?" Ron laughed, all fake nonchalance.
Harry felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest. He knew the jokey bit at the end was Ron's clumsy way of saying don't feel weird about accepting. Box seats for the World Cup final weren't cheap, and they definitely weren't easy to come by. Ron was worried Harry would refuse out of pride.
Blood ties might chain him to Privet Drive, but in the parts of his life he couldn't see from this hallway, people actually cared. A newly-cleared godfather. Friends who'd risk their lives for him.
This was shaping up to be the most peaceful summer he'd ever had.
"I probably won't need them," Harry said with a small laugh. "The Blacks are… loaded. Sirius is the last heir. He already bought tickets. If you've got extras, give them to Hermione. We could all go together."
"Speaking of—Hermione's been radio silent. Wonder what she's up to."
"Daily Prophet internship. Probably having the time of her life."
"These swotty types never switch off, even in summer…" Ron grumbled under his breath.
"We might even see her byline in the paper."
"Merlin forbid Mum spots it. I'll never hear the end of the comparisons." Ron shuddered, then changed tack fast. "Dad's borrowing a magical tent. We can all bunk together at the campsite."
"Magical tent?"
"You know—Undetectable Extension Charm. Looks like a normal tent outside. Inside it's basically a full house."
"…"
The wall clock ticked steadily. Time slipped past. The quiet Surrey street outside grew still. Streetlamps glowed on empty pavements. Neighbours' windows lit up one by one, accompanied by the distant clatter of pots and pans.
At one of the neat two-storey houses, a housewife pushed through the front gate with bulging shopping bags. Her heels clicked sharply on the path.
Dudley pulled a face, glanced toward the hallway phone, jabbed the pause button on his controller and bellowed, "Harry! Lazy git— Mum's back! Go help with the bags!"
…
Upstairs at the Three Broomsticks, a polished cherry-wood table stood in the centre of the private room. Fresh mead, still fizzing from the wax seal, sat beside delicate tea pastries. The people around it were the Mirror Club's inner circle—this was a working tea, not a social one.
Wright from the Monkstanley alchemists (now pub owner Old Wil), a handful of familiar faces, and one newcomer: Terry Tools, owner of Diagon Alley's "Terror Tours" travel agency.
No formal seating plan. Windows half-open. July sunlight slanted across the table, catching Professor Levent's profile where he sat by the sill.
Terry Tools was practically vibrating with excitement. He'd been seated next to Old Wil and looked ready to faint.
Terror Tours specialised in "thrilling" wizarding adventures: renting out Transylvanian vampire castles, camping in zombie graveyards, Bermuda Triangle boat trips. Their blanket disclaimer ("we accept no liability for death or injury") hadn't exactly made them a household name.
Every shopkeeper in the room secretly hoped Levent would drop one of his casual, world-altering suggestions their way. Tacklow's custom luxury lanterns had exploded after a five-minute chat at the last sponsor meet—orders booked solid through Christmas, half-bloods and pure-bloods alike buying them as status pieces.
"Merlin's beard… that's Professor Levent. The business legend himself. And he personally invited me…" Tools's lips trembled. He was already mentally rebranding Terror Tours as a multinational empire.
"Stop acting Imperiused," Old Wil hissed. "I swear if Melvin told you to eat dragon dung right now you'd ask for seconds."
"If it'd make the agency profitable… I mean…" Tools shifted awkwardly.
"One more disgusting sentence and I yeet you out that window," Old Wil said flatly.
Tools snapped his mouth shut and sat ramrod straight. He knew the old retired Auror wasn't bluffing—he'd personally raided enough of Tools's more questionable tour sites over the years.
Wright, who'd vouched for Tools, discreetly turned his face away, radiating second-hand exhaustion.
"Mr Tools," Melvin began, swirling the new mead, "the Club would like to partner with Terror Tours on a few projects. Not heavily Mirror-related, but high-potential."
"Anything, Professor," Tools said instantly.
Melvin tapped the tabletop. Golden liquid rose as white vapour; ghostly projections formed in the mist—Paris Disneyland's Haunted Mansion: floating enchanted puppets, spectral illusions that looked disturbingly real.
"Last summer the Rosier family partnered with Muggle developers to open a magical theme park in Paris. Open to both worlds. First-year revenue was dozens of times what they projected."
He pointed at the iconic castle logo. "If Terror Tours did the same—build haunted houses or escape rooms aimed at Muggles—the revenue jump would be immediate."
"Partner… with Muggles?" Tools echoed, puzzled. Dream guidance, yes—but how did that tie back to the Club?
"Disney is the biggest, most professional theme-park operator on the planet. The Rosiers sent wizards to enhance the rides with magic. Terror Tours has never run fixed attractions before, so in the early stages the Club would second Muggle professionals for design consulting… plus provide alchemy support and dark-creature handling expertise."
Tools looked ready to sign an Unbreakable Vow on the spot.
Melvin continued smoothly. "Also—you've probably heard—the Ministry is reviving the Triwizard Tournament. Venue is Hogwarts. Mr Crouch asked me to help design events and rules. I have ideas. Terror Tours could help deliver them."
"And… funding?" Tools asked cautiously.
"International Cooperation Department and the organising committee," Melvin replied with a faint smile.
By sunset the deal was done. Conversation turned easy and enthusiastic. Everyone peppered Melvin with questions about the Paris park—even though they'd all read the articles, hearing it straight from the man who'd quietly brokered the deal felt different.
As Melvin rose to leave, Tools grabbed his sleeve. "Professor—dinner? I still have so many questions."
"Sorry." Melvin's smile was polite but final. "I already have plans."
…
12 Grimmauld Place
Melvin stood on the summer pavement, checking the address scribbled on a scrap of paper. He looked up at the neglected square the rest of London had forgotten.
Streetlamps flickered weakly—some bulbs long dead. Houses loomed, paint peeling in leprous patches. Broken windows. Rubbish piled on steps. A sour, indefinable stench hung in the air.
He stopped outside number 11, glanced left (10), right (13).
No 12.
The moment the thought formed, invisible ripples spread through the air like pond water. A battered black door forced its way into existence between the two houses. Filthy steps. Grimy windows. The entire grim façade squeezed itself into reality.
No keyhole. A silver serpent door-knocker coiled on peeling paint.
Before Melvin could knock, chains rattled inside. Metal groaned. The door creaked open on protesting hinges.
"Melvin!"
Sirius no longer looked like a fugitive. Freshly shaved (mostly), cheeks still faintly blue with stubble shadow. Lean face sharp and alive again. Eyes bright as candle flames. Blue plaid shirt, loose cargo shorts—peak Muggle casual.
Not a look you expected on the last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
"Brilliant timing—come in, come in! Help me figure out what else needs scrubbing. Harry moves in two weeks. I want the place… livable."
The godfather was clearly trying very hard to impress.
"Sorry I came empty-handed," Melvin said with a courteous smile, stepping inside.
The entrance hall smelled aggressively of artificial pine air freshener. Wallpaper peeled despite hasty Reparo patches—oxidation stains still visible. Over-cleaned wool runner fraying at the edges. Chandelier webbed with faint silver light. Every sconce and torch shaped like twisting black snakes.
Everything had been scrubbed and mended—except one oddity: a corner alcove blocked by two moth-eaten velvet curtains, yellow with dust and broken cobwebs.
"Shh…" Sirius dropped his voice. "Behind there are the Black family portraits. All raving lunatics. Trust me—you do not want to wake them. Especially my mother."
Melvin's memory supplied the name: Walburga Black. Died during the war.
He wasn't here for genealogy or mad witch portraits. He followed Sirius deeper into the house, footsteps soft.
The corridor beyond the hall felt more like a macabre gallery. Troll-leg umbrella stand. Pickled house-elf heads—shriveled, big-nosed, eyes glinting unnaturally in dark sockets.
Melvin glanced sideways. "You sure you want Harry seeing this?"
Sirius opened his mouth—then froze. His eyes flicked toward the staircase landing.
A house-elf stood there. Bald skull. Grey-white skin hanging in loose folds. Tufts of white hair sprouting from enormous ears. Wrapped in a filthy scrap of cloth.
It opened its mouth and wailed in heartbroken fury:
"Look at him—dressed like a filthy Mudblood! Strutting about without shame! If my Mistress were alive, she'd never allow such vermin to cross the threshold!"
Melvin studied the creature. A faint, cool smile curved his lips.
Found you, Kreacher.