"If we are truly going to protect this legacy, Owen, we cannot simply hide behind our garden walls anymore. We need to control the narrative," Aunt Josephine said, her voice dropping into a low, smooth register that sent a shiver of cold air through the hidden stone room. The vulnerability she had shown earlier had vanished, replaced by the sharp, calculating intellect of a woman who had survived for decades in a house of monsters.
Owen Harris rubbed his temples, a faint sigh escaping his lips. "The Daily Prophet is practically an extension of Cornelius Fudge's office, Josephine. Buying space for a few pleasant articles or paying off a junior editor to look the other way is easy enough. But outright controlling it? The Ministry would view any attempt to buy out the paper as a hostile political coup. They'd tie us up in regulatory red tape before we could even sign the galleon transfers."
Allen stood quietly by the edge of the invisible platform, his hand resting on the smooth leather of the Duke's notebook. He didn't mention Rita Skeeter. He kept the memory of the blackmailed Animagus locked tightly behind his Occlumency shields; a weapon like her was far too volatile to share, even with family, until the perfect moment presented itself. Her venomous pen was a scalpel, but what they needed now was a shield.
"We don't need to buy the Prophet," Allen suggested, drawing his father and aunt's attention. "In fact, trying to use a mainstream paper is a mistake. The public expects propaganda from the Prophet. They read it with their guards up. What we need is a channel that people read when their guards are completely down."
"And what would that be, son?" Owen asked, looking skeptical.
"The Quibbler," Allen said. "The editor-in-chief is Xenophilius Lovegood. His daughter, Luna, is in my year in Ravenclaw. She's... unconventional, but brilliant. Her father's magazine is widely regarded as a joke because he prints stories about non-existent creatures and bizarre Ministry conspiracies."
Aunt Josephine's pale eyes flashed with sudden interest. "A joke... which means the Ministry's censors don't pay it any mind. They think it's harmless nonsense."
"Exactly," Allen nodded. "If we invest heavily in the Quibbler, we don't just gain a printing press; we gain a platform that is entirely beneath the Ministry's radar. If we slip hard, inconvenient truths between articles about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, the public will read them as satire or fantasy first. But the seed of doubt will be planted. And when the time comes to reveal the truth, the public will already have the vocabulary for it."
Josephine let out a soft, appreciative purr. She looked at her nephew with a mixture of awe and something bordering on fear. "To weaponize absurdity... Owen, your son has the mind of a veteran politician. Where did he learn to think like this?"
Owen's chest puffed out slightly, his initial skepticism melting into paternal pride. "He's a Ravenclaw, Josephine. They don't just read books; they dissect them. If the Lovegood man is as eccentric as the rumors suggest, a quiet injection of capital from an anonymous benefactor would likely buy us his total, unquestioning loyalty."
Josephine turned back to Allen, her dark velvet hat tilting as she studied him. The mention of Hogwarts seemed to trigger a memory. "Speaking of Ravenclaws and Potions... that dour man, Severus Snape, is still the Potions Master at the school, isn't he?"
"He is," Allen said, wondering where this sudden detour was leading.
"He was a strange boy," Josephine murmured, her silver eyes reflecting the cold starlight of the hidden chamber. "Always hiding in the corners, smelling of sulfur and damp dungeons. I remember when he was obsessed with Lily Evans—Lily Potter, as she became. It was a tragedy of class, really."
"A tragedy?" Allen asked.
"Lily was a darling girl, but she was desperate to prove she belonged in our world," Josephine said, her lip curling in a faint, aristocratic sneer. "And Gryffindor was a cult of personality back then. James Potter and his little gang were wealthy, loud, and arrogant. They bullied anyone who didn't fit their mold of 'light' wizards. Lily saw Snape as a social liability. She traded a genuine, if dark, friendship for the shining, acceptable heir of the Potter line. If she had stayed true to the boy from the gutters, she'd probably still be alive today."
"Josephine," Owen warned softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The dead are dead. And James was a magnificent Chaser, whatever else he might have been."
"He was a bully who hid behind his father's gold," Josephine snapped, though she quickly composed herself, offering a small, apologetic smile. "My apologies. Old bitterness. But it proves my point, brother. In our world, power and blood are the only currencies that don't depreciate. If we want Allen to be safe from the Snapes and the Malfoys of the world, we must build our own fortress."
She looked at Allen, her expression softening into something warmer. "And speaking of popular young wizards... I hear you have quite the following among the young ladies at school, Allen. Are you following in James Potter's footsteps after all?"
Allen felt the sudden, uncomfortable urge to adjust his collar. "I assure you, Aunt, my focus is entirely on my studies. The girls at school are... distracted."
"Distracted?" Owen laughed, the tension fully leaving his frame. "That's what they call it these days? Just make sure you don't get your heart tangled up before your mind is ready, son. Ambitious men are easily ruined by a pretty face."
"I'll be sure to tell Mother that you think I have a soft heart," Allen retorted, a small grin breaking through his analytical mask.
Owen's smile faltered, a sudden look of genuine panic crossing his face. "You wouldn't dare. If Morgan thinks I'm giving you romantic advice instead of focusing on your Occlumency, she'll have me sleeping in the greenhouse."
The shared laughter did much to wash away the grim residue of their conversation. But the true shock came when Allen led them back into the study and pulled the two ancient grimoires from his robes—the Clark family's illusion magic and the pristine alchemical notes he had salvaged from the sub-chamber.
Owen and Josephine stared at the books as if they were holding holy relics. In the wizarding world, gold was useful, but true power lay in the accumulation of family magic. These books represented generations of specialized, highly guarded secrets that could elevate a family's standing from middle-class to unstoppable.
"This is... this is the real hoard," Owen whispered, his fingers trembling as he traced the faded silver runes on the cover of the illusion grimoire. "With this, we aren't just rich, Josephine. We are dangerous."
Allen watched them, his analytical mind mapping out the long-term path. He knew his family. They weren't like the traditional, decaying pureblood families of Britain, rotting from the inside out due to inbreeding and political stagnation. The Harrises were tight-knit, harmonious, and surprisingly practical.
Even little Emily, whom everyone treated like a sweet, innocent bear, had a sharp, manipulative streak that she used to get extra sweets from the pantry. Albert was blunt but fiercely loyal, and Daisy's vanity was merely the outer shell of a deeply proud, ambitious young witch. If Allen could feed them the knowledge from these books—along with the resources of the Ravenclaw Tower—he wouldn't have to carry the weight of the family's defense alone. He could delegate the political planning to his father and aunt, allowing him to focus on what truly mattered: absolute, personal magical growth.
By the time they finally left the hidden room, the sun had fully set, and the manor felt warmer, as if the shadows themselves had accepted their new masters.
Morgan le Fay and Emily had returned from their shopping trip, their bags spilling over with silver-wrapped parcels and festive decorations. Josephine, her usual melancholic air entirely replaced by a bright, maternal energy, immediately took over the kitchen, her wand dancing through the air as she prepared a feast that smelled of roasted goose and sage.
The only moment of tension occurred when Morgan handed a magnificent, gilded mirror to Daisy.
Daisy stared at the reflective glass as if it were a dormant bomb. "A... mirror, Mum? Really?"
"You've been complaining about your hair all morning, darling," Morgan said, entirely oblivious to the secret history of the night before. "I thought you'd be pleased."
Daisy caught Allen's eye, her cheeks flushing a bright pink as she quickly hid the mirror in her velvet bag. Allen merely offered a silent, teasing toast with his goblet of pumpkin juice.
The dinner was a triumphant, joyous affair, a stark contrast to the quiet, haunted meals of the previous years. The only empty chair belonged to Albert, whose Auror duties had kept him late at the Ministry.
It was the following morning that the reality of their dangerous world crashed back down.
Allen woke early, the cold grey light of the Scottish winter filtering through his window. He washed quickly, intending to slip outside for his morning physical routine, but as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a low, muffled groan echoed from the living room.
He rounded the corner and stopped.
Albert was sitting on the sofa, his coat discarded on the floor, clutching his left arm. The sleeve of his shirt had been torn away, revealing a nasty, jagged laceration that wept a dark, purplish blood. The edges of the wound were blackened, smelling faintly of sulfur and dark magic.
"Albert?" Allen ran forward, his hand already reaching for his wand. "What happened?"
"Quiet," Albert hissed, his face pale and slick with sweat. He tried to force a reassuring smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "Don't wake Mum. It's... it's nothing. Just a stupid accident on shift. Some low-life with a dark hex. It's part of the job."
"That's not a standard hex, Albert," Allen said, his voice cold and precise as he knelt beside his brother. He examined the wound, his magical sight picking up the faint, greasy residue of a tracking curse. "The Auror office is sending you into situations you aren't prepared for. Is this because of the search for Sirius Black?"
Albert didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. "I've had it treated, Allen. The Ministry healers gave me a paste, but it... it takes time to work."
"It's taking too long," Allen said. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, crystal vial filled with a pale, silver-blue liquid—a specialized pain-relieving and tissue-knitting potion he had brewed in his private workshop. "Drink this."
Albert took the vial, draining it in one gulp. Almost instantly, a cool, soothing sensation spread through his veins, like the gentle touch of icy hands erasing the fire in his flesh. The blackness around the wound began to recede, turning into a healthy, pink scar.
"Blimey," Albert breathed, looking at his arm in astonishment. "What is in this stuff? The St. Mungo's healers would pay a fortune for this."
"Keep it between us," Allen said, his eyes dark.
He stood up, his mind churning with a cold, protective fury. Seeing his brother bleed in their own living room was a boundary he could not allow to be crossed. It wasn't enough to have gold, and it wasn't enough to have ancient books. If the Ministry's political instability was going to drag his family into the crosshairs, he needed to create something absolute—a set of emergency escape and defense mechanisms that could pull his loved ones out of the fire before they even realized they were burning.
His dark thoughts were only interrupted by a sharp, rhythmic tapping at the window.
Bennie, his large school owl, was perched on the sill, a thick parchment letter clutched in its talons. The seal was wax, stamped with a design that Allen recognized instantly. He walked over and opened the window, the cold wind blowing the snow across his face as he took the letter, his mind already shifting back to the chess match that awaited him.