Peace was good for business, Mr. Davies often thought.
As the owner of Quality Quidditch Supplies, quiet days meant steady sales and fewer shattered display cases. Still, he doubted the calm would last.
For six months now, the skies had been empty. No abrupt Dark Marks clawing at the clouds. No whispered reports of disappearances. No screams swallowed by the night. Just… normalcy.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
It had all begun at the Potter wedding. The day Albus Dumbledore stood before the Dark Lord and said Not today. The duel that followed shook the wizarding world, and when it ended, the Dark Lord vanished. Since then, the dark forces had gone eerily silent. As though they had simply evaporated.
Mr. Davies still remembered the Daily Prophet headlines splashed across every shop window:
DUMBLEDORE STANDS TALL: "NOT TODAY"
DARK LORD FLEES IN DEFEAT
DEATH EATERS IN HIDING
MINISTER DECLARES VICTORY AGAINST EVIL
Other articles followed, each more speculative than the last.
What Do We Really Know About Death Eaters?
Dark Lord's Defeat: Miscalculation or Betrayal?
Ministry Open to Negotiations
Too neat. Too eager.
Davies felt it in his bones. This was not peace. It was the quiet breath drawn before a storm.
"Hey, Davies," a customer called, snapping him out of his thoughts. "You checked out the new shop around the corner?"
Davies turned. "Which one? The one selling those… hoverbrooms?"
"Yeah. Marvelous Magical Marvels. 3M, they call it."
"Hmph." Davies snorted. "I took a look. Toys, that's all. Zonko's competition, not mine. No self-respecting wizard would buy a Hoverbroom over a proper broomstick."
He paused, then added grudgingly, "Kids love it, though. Even my boy's obsessed. Doesn't go higher than knee level. You either power it with your own magic or get it charged. Or whatever nonsense they call it."
"But that's not all they sell," the customer said, lowering his voice. "They've got something called the OniTrix. A gauntlet. Casts spells. Even Squibs can use it."
Davies frowned. "That thing?"
"They're selling them in droves. Shields. Invisibility. Even clones. I heard Ministry Aurors bought a few."
Davies waved it off. "Toys again. Shieldtrix, InviTrix, Clonetrix. You charge it once, use it once, then recharge. I tried one. Nothing special."
The customer leaned closer. "Still… I heard the Blacks, Lestranges, and Malfoys bought the shop the moment it opened. Threatened the owner into selling."
Davies' mouth tightened. "Typical. Anything interesting, they want a slice of it. From what I heard, the owner was a half-blood."
The customer blinked. "Really?"
"Oh yes. Ministry started harassing him too. Aurors involved and all. He sold everything and fled to Australia, shouting that they'd regret it."
Davies turned back to the counter. "Let's not get into that. Three galleons for the pair of Puddlemere jerseys."
The customer paid, hesitated, then asked, "You said you met him? The owner?"
"Nah. Didn't know him." Davies shrugged. "Saw him once at the Leaky Cauldron. Drunk on Firewhisky. Cursing the Ministry like it owed him blood."
Davies watched the man leave.
The shop bell chimed softly.
Outside, the sky remained clear.
The calm shattered without warning.
Aurors poured into Diagon Alley, not just into his shop but into every shop. Blue robes, wands drawn, voices clipped and urgent. The street that had been humming with commerce moments ago froze mid-breath.
An Auror stepped into Quality Quidditch Supplies.
"Sir," he said, not unkindly but without room for argument, "you need to close the shop immediately. There is intelligence of a planned attack on Diagon Alley. For your safety, you must evacuate."
Davies stared at him.
"What? Today?" His hands curled into fists. "Damn it. Just when business finally picked up again, they start this nonsense."
"I understand, sir," the Auror replied, tone firm. "But we received a credible tip. One of the Death Eaters was captured. He talked."
Davies' irritation faltered, replaced by a cold prickle along his spine.
"So this isn't rumor," he muttered.
"No. For your safety, please evacuate at once."
"Yes, yes," Davies said, waving a hand. "I'll comply."
The Auror nodded once and moved on, shouting instructions to the neighboring shops.
Davies locked the front door, pulled down the shutters, and extinguished the lights.
But he didn't leave.
Instead, he slipped behind the counter, wand in hand, breath held, eyes fixed on the narrow gaps between the wooden slats.
Six months of silence.
A warning delivered too neatly.
A city told to run.
Davies had lived through enough false victories to know better.
If the Dark forces were truly gone, Aurors wouldn't look this tense.
And if they were coming…
He intended to see it with his own eyes.
______________________________
"Sir… do you really think this tip is reliable?" the young Auror asked, lowering his voice as they took position. "Usually we get information after things go wrong. Or during. This time we got it before. Isn't that… strange?"
The senior Auror scoffed.
"You fool. That's because this is the first time we've captured a Death Eater who actually confessed."
He straightened his collar, pride bleeding through his tone.
"I led the raid myself. Ravenclaw, back in his school days. Coward to the core. The moment Senior Moody stepped into the room, he cracked like a canary. Hah!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the recruit said quickly. "I'm just… nervous. First field operation."
"That'll pass," the senior Auror replied. "Just follow my lead and you'll be fine."
His eyes flicked to the gauntlet on the recruit's arm.
"I see you got yourself one of those Trixes. Which one?"
"The Shield variant, sir. You have one too?"
"Yes," the senior Auror said, flexing his fingers. "Speed model. Offense is the best defense."
Across the street, Frank Longbottom listened to the chatter of his team, his expression grim.
Something was wrong.
Everything felt… too easy.
He had voiced his concerns to the Minister earlier. The response had been dismissive. Irritated, even. The Minister wanted this operation to succeed. No, not just succeed, it needed to be spectacular.
A show.
Everyone knew the truth. This peace was only the calm before the storm. The Aurors had never believed otherwise. They never rested easy.
And ever since the confrontation between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, the Minister had grown restless. Paranoid. He believed Dumbledore was undermining the Ministry, eroding public trust, positioning himself to place his own people into power.
So this operation was meant to be proof.
Proof that the Ministry was strong.
That it was in control.
Foolish, Frank thought.
Despite heavy opposition, the Minister had ordered the use of the Trix devices in the field. Experimental. Unregulated. Untested under real combat conditions. Mr Crouch however, readily agreed to use any equipment necessary.
Frank's hand tightened around his wand.
He could feel it in his bones.
Something was about to go terribly wrong.
They say when things are expected to go wrong, they do.
This time, they didn't even bother waiting.
With a thunderous crack, a group of masked men Apparated straight into the heart of Diagon Alley. Cobblestones shattered under the pressure of their arrival. Screams followed a heartbeat later.
One of them raised his wand.
A spell tore upward, slicing through the clear sky like a wound.
The Dark Mark bloomed above the alley. Vast. Green. Mocking. Its skull leered down at the street, the serpent writhing from its mouth as if tasting the air.
For a split second, everything froze.
Then Edgar Bones shouted, "Attack!"
Hell broke loose.
Spells screamed through the alley. Shields flared into existence, some natural, some artificial, humming with the cold glow of Trix enchantments. Shop windows exploded outward. Stalls overturned. Civilians scattered, trampling each other in panic.
Masked figures moved with terrifying coordination, vanishing and reappearing, striking from angles Aurors hadn't yet turned to face. One split into three, clones darting in different directions. Another shimmered, vanishing from sight entirely.
Aurors responded in force.
Blue and red bolts collided midair. Speed-enhanced Aurors blurred forward, only to be slammed back by unseen barriers. Shieldtrix gauntlets flared again and again, draining fast, their glow flickering with every impact.
Frank Longbottom raised his wand, barking orders, trying to impose structure on the madness.
This wasn't a raid.
It was a statement.
Above them, the Dark Mark pulsed once.
As if laughing.
For a fleeting moment, Frank thought of Alice.
Then instinct took over.
"Stupefy!"
The masked man jerked back. For a heartbeat, Frank thought he had him.
Then the figure split.
Two. Three. Four clones burst outward, scattering like shards of broken glass. The spell struck one and passed through it as if it were smoke.
Pain exploded in Frank's gut.
A brutal punch drove the air from his lungs. His feet left the ground. The world lurched sideways as he crashed onto the cobblestones, breath refusing to return.
A shadow loomed over him.
"Stay down, blood traitor."
The voice was cold. Familiar in its hatred.
Frank tried to lift his wand.
Darkness swallowed his vision before his arm could move.
________________________
Today was the day.
The day I would prove it to the world.
To my colleagues.
To my father.
To the Dark Lord.
I was not just Barty Crouch's son.
Not a junior.
Not an echo.
Ever since childhood, I had been lesser. Whatever I achieved, Father had done it better. Faster. Cleaner. Not once did he say well done, son. Not once.
When I fell short, he blamed my mother.
"She's too soft on him," he would sneer.
"She ruined him."
"He's useless because of her."
I hated him then.
I hate him now.
Twelve O.W.L.s. Twelve.
Not enough.
Then I met the Dark Lord.
He spoke to me. Looked at me. Saw me.
More of a father than my own ever was.
Sometimes, in quieter moments, I wished he was my father.
Today, I served him.
Though I was new, the Dark Lord named me one of the team leaders. His trust burned brighter than any praise I had ever received. I would prove it was not misplaced.
The Aurors were laughably easy.
Our new gear turned the fight into a game. We attacked from three points. I took the center, Apparating directly into Diagon Alley Square.
There were six of us. But, not to our opponents.
The Trix activated instantly. Clones split and multiplied until we appeared to be twelve. And then we appeared right in the middle of Diagon Alley.
The Aurors froze. My father's men couldn't comprehend what they were seeing.
Clones. Speed. Shields. Impact.
We slammed straight into their ranks.
They didn't know which target to strike. We positioned the clones carefully, baiting them, guiding their panic. When they attacked, they hit each other instead.
Friendly fire. Confusion. Fear.
Regulus Black devised the tactic.
The mission leader.
I dislike taking orders, but I'll admit it. Clever.
He even had the Trixes modified to conjure solid metal shields, immune to transfiguration. Said he knew the creator. Of course he did.
The Blacks are always like that. Smug. Always eager to remind the world of their wealth, their lineage, their connections. Even when they whisper, it sounds like a boast.
Father had been livid when the Blacks, Lestranges, and Malfoys bought the 3M shop. Absolutely furious. He ranted for weeks, convinced the entire venture reeked of Dark influence.
"They're all the same," he had spat. "Rot dressed in gold."
But you are wrong father, you are the rot, and we are the gold.
Just then I felt it.
Someone targeting me.
I split into three without thinking.
Frank Longbottom.
My cousin.
I accelerated.
The world stretched and blurred as I crossed the distance in a heartbeat. My fist drove into his gut. The air left him in a single, pathetic gasp as he flew backward, slamming into the wall like an insect.
"Stay down, blood traitor," I told him calmly.
I petrified him.
The wall collapsed over his frozen body.
I stood there for a moment, chest rising, magic humming through my veins.
This was far more enjoyable than I had expected.
Say what you will, pushing someone cold, has a nice feeling..