June 27th, 1972
Ted could scarcely believe it. After so many years of schooling, of Hogwarts being a home away from home, he had graduated only a few days ago. He alongside his girlfriend Andromeda and his best friend Finola had all finished their education. They had all done well. Andromeda had done the best overall but he was the best in his favoured subjects; Defence Against the Dark Arts and Runes.
He had gone home to his parents' small house in the suburbs, and they'd been happy if conflicted. They knew he had graduated. They knew he'd done well—Outstanding in Defence and Runes, Exceeds Expectations in everything else that mattered. His mum had cried and hugged him so tight he could barely breathe, and his dad had clapped him on the shoulder with that particular expression that said he was proud but trying not to show too much emotion about it.
But they also knew what graduation meant. It meant he was on his way to leaving their world entirely.
His parents were Muggles—good people, loving people, but utterly ordinary in the way that word meant before Ted discovered magic existed. His dad worked at a factory making car parts. His mum was a seamstress, taking in mending and alterations from neighbours, spending her evenings bent over their kitchen table with needle and thread, squinting in the dim light to fix hems and replace buttons for a few shillings per job. They'd raised him in a council house with peeling wallpaper and a bathroom down the hall, and they'd been so bewildered when the Hogwarts letter arrived that they'd thought it was some elaborate prank.
Seven years later, they still didn't really understand what Ted's life had become. They knew he could do magic—he'd shown them small things, gentle things, levitating teacups and conjuring flowers for his mum. They knew he'd been happy at school, had made good friends, had found a girlfriend from a "very old magical family" which his mum seemed to think was posh even though she had no frame of reference for what that meant.
But they also knew that Ted had no education in the Muggle world beyond his years at primary school, which ended when he was eleven. No O-levels. No A-levels. No university prospects. No path back into the world they understood.
If magic didn't work out—if he couldn't find a job in the wizarding world, couldn't make a life there—he'd have nothing to fall back on. He'd be an eighteen-year-old school leaver with unexplainable gaps in his education and skills that couldn't be put on a CV.
That unspoken worry had hung over the past few days at home like a storm cloud. His mum kept making his favourite meals—shepherd's pie, treacle tart, full English breakfasts that left him almost too full to move. His dad kept suggesting maybe Ted should look into apprenticeships at the factory, just to have something practical, just in case.
Ted hadn't told them he'd already decided not to look for regular work. That he was waiting.
After two days of his parents' anxious hovering and carefully not asking what his plans were, the owl had arrived.
It had been late evening, the summer sun finally setting, Ted sitting in the tiny back garden with a cup of tea and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with his life. Then a large tawny owl had swooped down, landed on the garden fence with more grace than should be possible for something that size, and stuck out its leg imperiously.
The letter had been written in David's precise, controlled handwriting:
Ted—
Congratulations on your graduation. I trust your NEWTs went well.
I would like to meet with you, Andromeda, and Finola on Sunday, 27th June, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. My flat is in London—address below. We have much to discuss regarding The Circle's next steps.
Please confirm your attendance by return owl.
— David Price
Below that, an address in what Ted recognized as East London. Bethnal Green, specifically. Not the nice part of London where the wizarding shops were tucked away behind the Leaky Cauldron. Not even close.
Ted had read the letter three times, his tea going cold in his hand, before the reality of it settled over him.
This was it. This was what he'd been waiting for.
David wanted to meet. Wanted to discuss next steps. Wanted to move forward with everything they'd been building toward since that first meeting in The Circle's hidden room, back when Ted had been a shy fifth-year who'd only attended because Finola had dragged him there.
That had been two years ago. October 1970. Fifth year, and Ted had been... lost, if he was honest with himself.
Hogwarts was wonderful—magical in every sense of the word—but it was also isolating in ways his housemates didn't seem to understand. Ted was Hufflepuff through and through: loyal, hardworking, patient, kind. He'd made friends easily enough in his house, had study partners and Quidditch teammates and people who'd save him a seat at breakfast.
But he was also Muggleborn. And while Hufflepuff was better about blood status than Slytherin—better than most of Ravenclaw, honestly—there was still a distance. A subtle but persistent reminder that he wasn't quite the same. That his parents were different. That he didn't know the right families or the right history or the right way to do things.
People were nice about it. That was almost worse. The gentle corrections when he used Muggle phrases instead of wizarding ones. The patient explanations of customs he should have grown up knowing. The surprise—always surprised, even after five years—when he did well in class. "You're so clever for a Muggleborn, Ted!" As if being clever and Muggleborn were mutually exclusive categories that he'd somehow managed to bridge through sheer improbable luck.
And then there was the casual cruelty. Not directed at him specifically—Ted was well-liked, easy to get along with, non-threatening in that particular way that Hufflepuffs often were. But directed at others like him. The Slytherins who sneered at first-years with Muggle parents. The pure-blood students who "forgot" to include Muggleborns in group projects. The professors who somehow never called on certain students even when their hands were raised.
The word itself, whispered in corridors, shouted during arguments, wielded like a weapon: Mudblood.
Ted had heard it directed at him exactly once—some drunk seventh-year Slytherin after a Quidditch match Hufflepuff had won, late October of his fifth year. Ted's housemates had been outraged on his behalf, had wanted to report it, had surrounded him with support and indignation.
But they hadn't understood why Ted couldn't quite shake it off the way they expected him to. Why the word had burrowed under his skin and stayed there, festering. Why he'd spent the next week wondering if that's what everyone thought when they looked at him, even the ones who smiled and were nice and saved him seats at breakfast.
Mudblood. Dirty blood. Lesser.
A few days after that, Finola had found him in the library.
Finola Finnegan was everything Ted wasn't: loud, fierce, absolutely certain of herself and her opinions. She was Irish—from Dublin, with an accent that got thicker when she was angry—and she'd transferred to Hogwarts in fourth year after some incident at her previous school that she'd never fully explained. She'd been sorted into Gryffindor, naturally, and had immediately made her presence known by hexing a sixth-year who'd called her "the Irish girl" in a tone that suggested it was an insult.
She'd been in detention for a week. She hadn't regretted it for a second.
Ted had met her properly in fifth year when they'd been paired for a Defence project. She'd looked at his careful notes, his thorough research, his meticulously organized essay plan, and declared him "not half bad for a Hufflepuff." Coming from Finola, that was practically a declaration of friendship.
They'd become close quickly after that. Finola had a way of cutting through social niceties and getting straight to what mattered. She didn't care about blood status or house rivalries or any of the invisible rules that governed Hogwarts social hierarchy. She cared about whether you were genuine, whether you stood up for yourself, whether you gave a damn about things that actually mattered.
So when she'd sat down across from him in the library that October evening, looked at him with those sharp green eyes, and said "You look like you've been kicked in the teeth, Tonks. What happened?"—Ted had told her.
About the slur. About how it made him feel. About the casual cruelty he saw directed at other Muggleborns daily. About how tired he was of smiling and being nice and pretending it didn't bother him when people treated him like he was lucky to be allowed in their world.
Finola had listened without interrupting, which was unusual for her. Then she'd leaned forward, her red hair falling over her shoulders, and said quietly: "There's someone you should meet. Someone who's asking the same questions you are. Someone who's actually trying to do something about it."
That someone had been David Price.
When Ted first saw him, he thought maybe Finola had gone a bit mad. David was a second-year student—barely thirteen years old, shorter than Ted expected though not unusually so. His robes fit properly, well-maintained and pressed, his dark hair trimmed neatly. He carried himself with a deliberate composure that seemed strange for someone so young, his posture upright and controlled in a way that reminded Ted more of the seventh-year prefects than a second-year student.
He had not been what he was now—hadn't yet perfected that look of complete assurance, that cultivated appearance of someone who'd always belonged in the magical world. There were still small tells if you looked closely enough: the way his eyes tracked everything with too much focus, the careful precision with which he spoke, as if he was always aware of being watched and judged.
But when he spoke?
When David Price opened his mouth and started talking about the injustice of the Statute of Secrecy, about the moral bankruptcy of wizarding society's casual acceptance of Muggle suffering, about the systematic oppression of Muggleborns and the need for real, fundamental change—Ted couldn't see a small boy anymore.
He saw a presence that enveloped you. That filled the room. That made you lean forward in your seat without realizing you'd moved, that made you hang on every word, that made you believe.
And as the years went on, it had only gotten stronger.
David had grown, of course—filled out from that intense second-year into someone taller, more commanding, more assured. He'd learned how to move through spaces like he owned them, how to make even seventh-years listen when he spoke. He'd mastered wandless magic, created his own spells, debated Dumbledore himself on equal footing.
But more than that, he'd developed something Ted still didn't have a word for. Some quality that made people want to follow him. That made you trust him even when what he was saying should have been frightening. That made you willing to stand up and fight when everything in your Hufflepuff nature told you to keep your head down and stay safe.
David had a way of speaking directly to your heart. As if he could see you—really see you, not just your house colors or your blood status or the mask you wore to get through the day, but the person underneath. The anger you tried to hide. The hurt you pretended didn't exist. The small, desperate hope that things could be different.
Ted hadn't understood it then. He still didn't, not really. He couldn't explain what made David Price different from every other passionate student who ranted about injustice over breakfast or formed short-lived study groups that fizzled out after a few weeks. He couldn't put into words why David's certainty felt like bedrock instead of arrogance, why his intensity felt like purpose instead of obsession.
But as Ted ran his fingers along his Circle necklace—the silver pendant warm against his chest, the alchemical symbol catching the late afternoon light—he knew it didn't matter that he couldn't explain it.
David had given him a hope he didn't know he was lacking. A hopelessness had sat on his shoulder for years, so familiar he'd stopped noticing its weight. The quiet certainty that his future would go nowhere. That he'd graduate and find every door closed, every job application rejected, every opportunity given to someone with the right surname and the right blood. That he'd end up back in the Muggle world with no magical qualifications that mattered and no Muggle education to fall back on. Eighteen years old with nothing to offer and nowhere to belong.
David had looked at that hopelessness and said: No. Not for you. Not for any of us.
And Ted had believed him.
Still believed him, two years later, standing in his parents' garden with David's letter in his hand and a future that suddenly felt possible instead of foreclosed.
The Circle was going external. The real work was beginning.
And Ted was going to be part of it.
o–o–o–o
Ted Apparated to London just before two o'clock, the familiar pull and squeeze of Apparition still making his stomach twist uncomfortably even after a year of practice. He materialized in a narrow alley off a busy street, the sounds of Muggle traffic immediately assaulting his ears—car horns, rumbling engines, the shout of someone selling newspapers on the corner.
Bethnal Green. East London. Not the magical London Ted knew from Diagon Alley visits, but proper Muggle London, all concrete and brick and the particular grey griminess that seemed to coat everything in the city.
He checked the address on David's letter again. He'd looked through a street directory at his parents' house before he left, memorized the route, made sure he knew where he was going. His mum had looked worried when she'd seen him studying the map, had asked if he was sure this area was safe, but Ted had just kissed her cheek and promised he'd be careful.
He began moving toward his destination.
Bethnal Green in late June was sweltering. The heat seemed trapped between the buildings, radiating off pavement and brick with nowhere to escape. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, hot rubbish bins, and that particular London smell of too many people packed too close together. Ted loosened his collar—he'd worn Muggle clothes, jeans and a button-down shirt, trying to blend in—but the fabric still stuck to his back with sweat.
The streets were crowded even on a Sunday afternoon. Women pushed prams along cracked pavements, their summer dresses wilted and limp in the heat. Groups of men stood outside pubs, pints in hand, watching the world go by with the tired eyes of people who worked six days a week and spent the seventh recovering. Kids played football in the street, using jumpers as goalposts, shouting and laughing as they dodged around the occasional passing car.
The buildings were a mix of old and new, pre-war and post-war existing in uneasy proximity. Victorian terraces with soot-stained brick and peeling paint stood next to newer council blocks—brutalist concrete towers that had gone up in the fifties and sixties, already looking dingy despite being less than a decade old. Many of the older buildings still bore the scars of the Blitz: gaps in terraced rows where bombs had fallen, empty lots that hadn't been rebuilt, walls with visible patchwork repairs.
Shop fronts lined the main road, their windows displaying goods that looked tired even in the afternoon sun. A butcher with flies buzzing around hanging meat. A corner shop with bars on the windows and faded advertisements for cigarettes and sweets. A laundrette with its door propped open, the humid heat from the dryers spilling out onto the street. A betting shop with men clustered around the door, clutching slips of paper and looking hopeful or defeated depending on how their horses had done.
Ted passed a group of West Indian men sitting on a stoop, their conversation in patois rising and falling with easy rhythm. A few doors down, an elderly woman—probably Jewish, given the neighborhood's history—swept her front step with the same fierce determination Ted's gran used to show, as if cleanliness could hold back the general decay of everything around her.
This was working-class London. Poor London. The kind of place where people worked hard and still struggled, where every penny mattered, where council housing and factory jobs and the dole were just facts of life. The kind of place Ted recognized from his own childhood, though his suburb had been quieter, less crowded, less urban than this.
The kind of place, Ted realized with a jolt, where David Price had grown up.
He'd known David was Muggleborn, obviously. Had known he'd come from poverty—it was part of his story, part of what had radicalized him in the first place. But somehow Ted had never quite pictured it like this. Had never imagined David Price, who moved through Hogwarts like nobility, who spoke with such confidence and commanded such respect, coming from streets that looked like these.
It made something twist in Ted's chest. Made David's success—his transformation, his absolute refusal to be limited by his origins—even more remarkable.
It took a few minutes before he approached what was the building of David's address.
It was one of the older terraced houses, three stories of dark brick with white-painted window frames that had gone grey with age and city grime. The front door was a faded blue, the paint chipping at the edges. The small front garden—if you could call a four-foot square of concrete and struggling weeds a garden—was separated from the pavement by a low iron fence with several bars missing.
The building had been divided into flats, Ted could tell from the multiple doorbells beside the entrance. Six of them, each with a handwritten name card beside it. Some of the cards were old and yellowed, the ink faded. Others were newer, suggesting frequent turnover of tenants.
David's name was written in that same precise handwriting from the letter, on one of the newer cards. Flat 3.
Ted checked his watch. Two minutes to two. Right on time.
He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and reached for the doorbell.
"Ted!" someone called from behind him.
He turned to see both Finola and Andromeda approaching from the corner, walking side by side in the afternoon heat. Both wore clothes that could pass for Muggle, though with varying degrees of success. Finola looked natural in her summer dress and sandals, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun to keep it off her neck.
Andromeda, on the other hand...
She'd tried, Ted had to give her that. She was wearing what was probably meant to be casual Muggle attire—a light blouse and trousers—but everything about it screamed money. The fabric was too fine, too perfectly tailored, too expensive to blend in with the faded dresses and worn work clothes of the Bethnal Green locals. Even her jewelry—small pearl earrings, a delicate gold watch—marked her as someone who didn't belong in this neighborhood.
"Dromeda, Fin," Ted said with a cheeky grin as they reached him. "Me the first to arrive? What has the world come to? Out of Hogwarts for four days and you two are already becoming lazy."
Andromeda—or Dromeda as he liked to call her—merely rolled her eyes, walked up to him, and gave him a quick peck on the lips. Her hand found his automatically, their fingers interlacing with the easy familiarity of a relationship two years in the making.
Finola gave a snort. "Piss off, Tonks. Some of us had to travel across bloody London, not just pop over from the suburbs." She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, her Irish accent thicker than usual—it always got stronger when she was tired or annoyed. "And unlike you, I didn't want to Apparate directly into Muggle territory and risk some poor bastard seeing me materialize out of thin air."
"Language, Fin," Andromeda said mildly, though her lips quirked in amusement. "We're not at Hogwarts anymore. We're representing The Circle now."
"Representing The Circle by meeting in the arse-end of East London," Finola muttered, but without real heat. She looked up at the building, taking in the chipped paint and grimy windows with an assessing gaze. "This is really where David lives?"
Ted nodded, feeling that same twist in his chest from earlier. "According to the address."
Andromeda was quiet, her dark eyes studying the building with an expression Ted couldn't quite read. She'd grown up in Grimmauld Place—one of the most prestigious addresses in magical London, a townhouse that was probably worth more than this entire street. She'd never said much about her home life, but Ted knew enough about the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black to understand that this world—this working-class Muggle London—was as foreign to her as the moon.
"Well," Andromeda said finally, squeezing Ted's hand, "shall we?"
Ted reached for the doorbell again, this time pressing it firmly.
The buzzer sounded from somewhere deep inside the building—harsh and tinny. They waited, the three of them standing on the cracked pavement in the afternoon heat, listening to the sounds of the street behind them. A car backfired. Someone's radio played tinny music through an open window. Kids shrieked with laughter somewhere nearby.
Then footsteps echoed from inside. Growing louder. Descending stairs.
The blue door opened to a sight none of them expected.
A house-elf. Male and dressed in what looked like a Muggle suit minus the blazer. He had suspenders and polished shoes, his large ears poking out from beneath what might have been an attempt at a neat side-parting. "Yous be Master David's guests then? Come on then. Follow Dozy then," he said in a thick Yorkshire accent, already turning before they could respond.
They all looked at one another, surprised. The last thing they'd expected to see was a house-elf. For two particular reasons.
One, this was Muggle London—as in, the magical world was so far removed that any whiff of something magical would be obvious. House-elves didn't just wander around Muggle neighborhoods. They stayed hidden in wizarding homes, bound to magical families, invisible to non-magical eyes. Seeing one answer the door in broad daylight, in the middle of Bethnal Green, was bizarre enough to make Ted wonder if they'd somehow got the address wrong.
And two—more importantly—David had expressed on multiple occasions that he was disgusted with the way house-elves had been magically and mentally enslaved. That the enslavement had not only become so commonplace that most wizards didn't even question it, but that the enslavers themselves had convinced the elves that they would die without a Master. David's contempt for the system had been scathing, absolute. The idea that he'd own a house-elf seemed to contradict everything he stood for.
They moved to follow Dozy into the dim entrance hall, their eyes adjusting to the gloom after the bright afternoon sun. The interior was shabby but clean—worn linoleum floors, faded wallpaper with a pattern that had probably been fashionable in the thirties, a staircase with a banister that had been painted over so many times the wood grain was barely visible beneath the layers.
Ted was deciding whether he should probe the house-elf—ask Dozy how David had gained a house-elf when everything about The Circle's philosophy said he shouldn't have one. Before he could formulate the question diplomatically, Finola cut in with her usual bluntness.
"So you are David's elf then, Dozy? Didn't think he would have one."
Dozy looked over his shoulder at them as he climbed the stairs, his large tennis-ball eyes squinting with what might have been offense. "Dozy is a free elf, thanks," he said, his Yorkshire accent making the words sound even more emphatic. "Used to work in t'kitchens at Hogwarts. Master David helped me see that freedom were right and proper, didn't he? Dozy can leave whenever Dozy wants. Dozy just chooses to help Master David, on account of him bein' a good sort. Tryin' to do right by us all."
He paused on the landing, one knobby finger pointing at them for emphasis.
"And Dozy gets paid, he does. Two Galleons a month and Sundays off. That's more than what most wizards pay their elves—which is nowt, in case yous didn't know." His squint deepened. "Dozy knows what yous are thinkin'. That Master David's gone against his own word, keepin' an elf. But Dozy ain't kept. Dozy's employed. There's a difference, tha knows."
Ted felt a bit silly now. Of course David wouldn't own an elf. David was the living, breathing heart of The Circle. Its beliefs coursed through his veins like they had replaced his blood and sustained him on drive alone. Everything David did was deliberate, considered, aligned with his principles. If he had a house-elf, there would be a reason—a good reason, one that fit perfectly with his ideology even if it looked contradictory at first glance.
Fin waved her hands apologetically. "Sorry, sorry. Just thought it was strange is all."
Dromeda gave a chuckle—that particular soft laugh she often gave around Fin, equal parts amused and fond. When Fin had introduced Ted to The Circle all those years ago, he had in turn introduced her to Andromeda. They'd been friends since their second year, when Andromeda had slipped walking up one of the moving staircases and Ted had caught her before she could tumble backward. She'd been mortified—a Black didn't stumble, didn't show weakness, didn't need help from a Muggleborn Hufflepuff. But Ted had just grinned and said "careful there" like it was the most natural thing in the world, and somehow that had been the start of everything.
They finally made it to the third floor, slightly breathless from the climb. The narrow stairwell had grown progressively hotter as they ascended, the heat trapped beneath the roof with nowhere to escape. Ted could feel sweat trickling down his back.
Dozy stopped in front of a plain wooden door—number 3, just as the letter had said. He snapped his fingers as elves did when performing magic, and the door swung open.
Ted stepped through and stopped dead.
The room beyond was enormous.
Not just large—impossibly large. The kind of large that shouldn't exist in a third-floor flat in a cramped Victorian terrace. The entry hall alone was bigger than Ted's entire living room at home, stretching back a good twenty feet before opening into what looked like a larger main room beyond. The ceiling soared above them, easily twelve feet high, with exposed wooden beams that definitely hadn't been visible from the outside.
But despite its size, the space felt... unfinished. Sparse.
The entry hall had the basics: a coat rack by the door (currently holding only David's school cloak and a plain black jacket), a small table with a ceramic bowl for keys and loose change, a bookshelf against one wall that was maybe a quarter full. The floor was bare wood, no rugs to soften the sound of footsteps. The walls were painted a plain, serviceable off-white, with no pictures or decorations except a single framed photograph that Ted couldn't make out from this distance.
It was the furniture of someone who'd bought only what was absolutely necessary and nothing more. Functional. Modest. Almost austere in its simplicity.
Through the archway ahead, Ted could see into what must be the main living area: a sofa that looked secondhand but well-maintained, a low coffee table stacked with books and papers, a simple wooden desk positioned near a window where natural light would fall during working hours. More bookshelves—these better populated but still with empty spaces, as if David was gradually collecting volumes but hadn't filled out his library yet.
Everything was meticulously clean and organized. The books were arranged by subject and size. The papers on the desk were stacked in neat piles. Even the coat rack looked deliberate, with the cloak hanging at a precise angle.
This was David's space. You could tell just by looking at it—the careful order, the purposeful minimalism, the sense that every item present had been chosen for a reason and nothing was there merely for decoration or comfort.
"Bloody hell," Finola breathed, looking around with wide eyes. "This place is massive. How—"
"Extension Charms," Dozy said proudly, puffing out his small chest. "Dozy did it, he did. Just after Christmas holidays when Dozy decided to sign on proper-like." He gestured around at the expanded space with obvious satisfaction. "Would've cost Master David a right fortune to get a wizard to do it—fifty Galleons at least, maybe more for a full flat expansion. But elf magic can do it just fine, and Dozy did it for nowt but his regular wages."
Ted's eyebrows rose. Extension Charms were complicated, finicky magic that required both power and precision. The fact that Dozy had managed to expand an entire flat—and done it so seamlessly that the space felt natural rather than distorted—spoke to considerable skill.
"That's..." Andromeda started, then paused, clearly recalibrating her understanding of house-elf capabilities. "That's very impressive work, Dozy."
The elf's large ears went slightly pink with pleasure. "Aye, well. Dozy's been doin' magic since before most wizards were born, hasn't he? Just 'cause wizards don't see what elves can do don't mean elves can't do it." He sniffed, then gestured toward the main room. "Master David's in t'study, he is. Through there, second door on t'left. Dozy'll bring tea in a bit, once yous are all settled."
He bustled off toward what must be the kitchen, leaving the three of them standing in the entrance hall, still taking in the impossible space.
"Well," Ted said after a moment. "I suppose we should—"
"Yes," Andromeda said, squeezing his hand. "We should."
They moved forward together, footsteps echoing slightly on the bare wooden floor, toward the study where David Price was waiting.
"I thought his house would be more... I dunno, more grand? With the Circle room being what it is," Finola whispered, her Irish lilt making the words sound almost apologetic.
"As did I," Dromeda whispered back, her dark eyes still scanning the sparse furnishings, the empty walls, the deliberate minimalism that spoke more of necessity than choice.
"I'm sure there's a reason," Ted added quietly, though he understood what they meant. The Circle's meeting room at Hogwarts was magnificent—spacious and well-appointed, with comfortable furniture, extensive bookshelves, practice areas equipped with everything they needed. It felt established. Permanent. Like a headquarters befitting the movement David was building.
This flat, by contrast, felt temporary. Like David was camping here rather than living here.
They approached the door Dozy had indicated—second on the left—and heard the soft call of David's voice from within: "Come in."
Ted pushed the door open and stepped through.
The contrast was immediate and striking.
The study was huge—even larger than the already-expanded entry hall, taking up what must be a quarter of the entire flat's space. And unlike the sparse, utilitarian rooms they'd just passed through, this space was furnished. Thoughtfully, deliberately, beautifully furnished in a way that made Ted's breath catch slightly.
It looked a lot like the Headmaster's office, Ted noted with a jolt of recognition. He'd been there once last year, called in with several other seventh-years to discuss career counseling. Dumbledore's office had been circular, crammed with whirring silver instruments and sleeping portraits, every surface covered with the accumulated artifacts of a long life.
This room was much better furnished than the rest of the flat, and felt much more like David. It was calming and regal in equal measure.
The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, dark wood that gleamed with polish and care. Unlike the partially-filled shelves in the entry hall, these were packed—hundreds of volumes, maybe thousands, their spines creating a patchwork of colors and textures. Ted could see magical texts mixed with Muggle books, ancient leather-bound tomes sitting beside modern paperbacks, subjects ranging from magical theory to philosophy to history to what looked like Muggle science.
A massive desk dominated one end of the room—not ornate, but solid and imposing, made of the same dark wood as the bookshelves. Its surface was organized with military precision: stacks of parchment weighted down with smooth stones, quills arranged by size in a brass holder, ink bottles lined up like soldiers, a few open books marked with ribbons. Behind the desk, tall windows let in afternoon light that fell across the workspace in golden bars.
The opposite end of the room held a seating area that managed to be both comfortable and formal: a leather sofa the color of aged whiskey, two matching armchairs positioned at angles that encouraged conversation, a low table between them with an intricate inlay pattern. The furniture looked expensive but not ostentatious—quality pieces chosen to last, not to impress.
A fireplace took up part of one wall, currently cold in the summer heat but clearly functional, with a brass screen and tools arranged neatly on the hearth. Above the mantle hung the only decoration in the room: a large banner displaying The Circle's symbol—the alchemical circle with its overlapping triangles, rendered in gold and crimson that seemed to catch and hold the light.
The floor here was covered with a single large rug, deep blue with gold geometric patterns woven through it, muffling footsteps and adding warmth to the space.
And sitting behind the desk, rising as they entered, was David Price.
He looked different out of school robes. Older, somehow, though it had only been days since they'd seen him. He wore simple clothes—dark trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a grey waistcoat that fit him perfectly. His dark hair was neat as always, pushed back from his face. His grey eyes were sharp and assessing as they took in the three of them.
But more than his appearance, it was his presence that struck Ted. The same quality that had drawn him to The Circle two years ago, amplified by the context of this space. David in his own study, surrounded by his books and his carefully chosen furniture, with The Circle's banner hanging behind him like a declaration—he looked like exactly what he was.
A leader. An architect. Someone building something that would change the world.
"Ted. Finola. Andromeda," David said, and his voice carried that familiar warmth that made you feel welcomed, valued, seen. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
He gestured to the seating area, already moving around the desk to join them.
Ted sank into the plush sofa—it was comfortable, the leather worn soft with age and use, the kind of quality that lasted decades. The cushions gave just enough to be welcoming without being so soft you'd struggle to get back up. Finola settled beside him with a satisfied sigh, while Andromeda took one of the armchairs, smoothing her trousers as she sat with the unconscious grace of someone trained from birth in proper deportment.
David took the other armchair, sitting forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his posture open and engaged. Even in casual clothes, in his own home, he maintained that quality of focused attention—as if the three of them were the only thing in the world that mattered right now.
Just as they all settled, there was a soft pop and Dozy appeared beside the low table, a tray floating ahead of him laden with tea service.
"Tea for Master David and his guests," Dozy announced in his Yorkshire accent, settling the tray on the table with surprising delicacy for someone with such large, knobby hands. The tea set was simple but elegant—white porcelain with a thin gold rim, four cups and saucers, a matching teapot that steamed gently, a small pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes with tiny silver tongs. A plate of biscuits—proper digestives and custard creams, the kind you'd buy from any corner shop—sat beside the tea things.
"Cheers, Dozy," David said easily, with genuine appreciation rather than the dismissive tone most wizards used with house-elves.
"Aye, well. Yous let Dozy know if yous need owt else," the elf said, giving them all a squint-eyed look as if daring them to be rude or demanding. Then he popped away again, presumably back to the kitchen.
David reached forward and began pouring tea with practiced ease, his movements efficient and unselfconscious. "Milk? Sugar?" he asked, looking at each of them in turn.
"Just milk, ta," Finola said.
"Both, please," Andromeda added.
"Same as Fin," Ted said, watching as David prepared each cup exactly as requested, then passed them around before pouring his own—black, no sugar.
It was such a normal, domestic moment—sitting in someone's home, drinking tea on a Sunday afternoon—and yet Ted felt the weight of significance beneath it. This wasn't a social call. This was the beginning of something.
The beginning of The Circle moving beyond Hogwarts walls into the real world.
David took a sip of his tea, his grey eyes moving between the three of them with that assessing look Ted had come to recognize. Not judging—David didn't judge—but reading. Understanding. Seeing what they needed before they knew they needed it.
"I imagine," David said quietly, setting his cup down with a soft clink, "you have questions."
They had spoken about this already—him, Fin, and Dromeda. They did have questions. Now that they'd left Hogwarts, they were unsure what that meant for The Circle. David had said during that final meeting before graduation that they would play the most important part of everyone for a good while. That they would be making the foundations of their faction, building the external movement from the ground up.
They'd nominated Andromeda to do the majority of the talking.
Ted knew he was rubbish at this sort of thing. He'd happily admit he was more of a follower than a leader—give him clear directions and he'd execute them perfectly, work harder than anyone, stay loyal through anything. But strategic planning? Political maneuvering? That wasn't his strength. He trusted David, so he would follow his directions. That was enough.
Finola was insightful in her way—fierce and passionate and brilliant at cutting through bullshit to see what actually mattered. But she came from an insular family that didn't interact with the overall politics of their world. Her parents were Irish working-class magical folk who kept their heads down, did their jobs, and stayed well clear of Ministry politics or pure-blood society games. Finola had inherited their directness but not any training in how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of British wizarding society.
Dromeda, though. Dromeda did.
She'd been trained for this from birth—the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black didn't produce daughters who couldn't hold their own in political conversation. She'd sat through formal dinners with Ministry officials and Wizengamot members since she was old enough to use proper cutlery. She'd been taught which families mattered, which alliances held power, how to read subtext and implication in every casual remark. The Blacks might be traditionalist pure-blood supremacists, but they were politically savvy traditionalist pure-blood supremacists.
Andromeda had turned all that training against everything her family stood for. But she still had the skills.
She also still had her reservations about David and the cause, Ted knew. Not about the fundamental rightness of it—she believed in Muggleborn equality, believed the current system was unjust, believed change was necessary. But she was cautious in ways Ted and Finola weren't. Careful. Always watching for the signs that good intentions were sliding into something darker.
A large amount of her family had followed Grindelwald, after all. Her uncle Arcturus had been an early supporter before the war turned and the Blacks had quietly distanced themselves. Her cousin Pollux still spoke admiringly of Grindelwald's "vision" at family dinners, though never loud enough for anyone outside the family to hear. The promise of being the powers of the world—of magical people taking their "rightful place" above Muggles—had been too much for the Blacks to resist.
Until it became clear Grindelwald would lose, anyway. Then suddenly the Blacks had always been neutral, had always been cautious, had never really supported him at all.
Andromeda had only joined The Circle last year—their sixth year. She'd known about it for ages, of course. Ted had told her about The Circle early in their relationship, back in fifth year when they were still figuring out if a Muggleborn Hufflepuff and a pure-blood Slytherin could actually make it work. She'd been interested but hesitant, sympathetic but uncommitted.
She hadn't thought to join until they became more serious. Not her and Ted—though that mattered too—but The Circle itself. Until it stopped being a student discussion group and started becoming a real movement with real goals and real consequences.
Until she'd decided she would pick Ted over her family.
That had been the turning point. The moment when Andromeda Black—witch of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, daughter of Cygnus and Druella, sister to Bellatrix and Narcissa—had looked at the future her family had planned for her and said no.
They'd wanted her to marry Thoros Nott. Or maybe Evan Rosier. Someone pure-blood, someone appropriate, someone who would strengthen the Black family's position and produce proper heirs to continue the bloodline. They'd made it clear that Ted Tonks—Muggleborn, Hufflepuff, nobody with no name and no prospects—was an amusing school romance that would naturally end upon graduation.
Andromeda had made it equally clear that they were wrong.
It was then she'd realized that Muggleborn rights mattered to her a lot more than they once did. Hard to maintain pure-blood supremacist beliefs when you were in love with someone your family considered subhuman. Hard to accept the system when it said the person you loved wasn't good enough to exist in your world.
So she'd joined The Circle. Started attending meetings, started learning the history she'd never been taught, started understanding just how broken the system really was.
And now here they were. Graduated. Free of Hogwarts. About to step into the real work.
Andromeda set down her teacup with a soft clink, her posture straightening slightly—that unconscious shift into formal mode that Ted recognized from every time she had to deal with something important. Her dark eyes met David's grey ones directly, no hesitation, no deference.
"We do have questions," she said, her voice clear and controlled. "Several, actually. But I think the most fundamental one is this: what exactly do you need us to do?"
David steepled his fingers together on his lap as he leaned back into the armchair, his grey eyes thoughtful. "That depends. I would like your input into this next step. The overarching goal is to build. Which means, we need people. We need resources. We need eyes and ears. We need to begin seeding ourselves into the psyche of the British wizarding world. How we go about that is something we need to decide together."
Ted felt something settle in his chest at those words—together. Not orders handed down from on high, not David telling them exactly what to do and expecting blind obedience. He wanted their input. Their ideas. Their partnership in building this.
It made sense, Ted supposed. David was brilliant, but he was also still at Hogwarts. Still limited by school terms and professors watching him and Dumbledore's careful scrutiny. He couldn't be everywhere, couldn't do everything himself. That's what this meeting was—delegation, yes, but also collaboration. David needed people he trusted in the wider world, making connections he couldn't make, laying groundwork he couldn't lay.
Andromeda nodded slowly, processing this. "People, resources, intelligence, and cultural influence," she summarized, her political training showing in how quickly she organized the priorities. "Four different objectives that will require four different approaches—though obviously there will be overlap."
"Exactly," David said, and there was approval in his voice. "We have twenty six members still at Hogwarts who will continue their education and training. But you three—" his gaze moved between them, "—you're free to act in the wider world. To start building the infrastructure we'll need when the others graduate."
"So we're the vanguard," Finola said, leaning forward with growing excitement. Her Irish accent thickened slightly. "The first wave. Setting things up so that when everyone else leaves school, there's already a network in place."
"Precisely." David's lips quirked in a slight smile. "Though I'd prefer we not use military terminology quite so openly. At least not yet. We're a grassroots organization advocating for Muggleborn rights and magical-Muggle cooperation. Not an army."
"Not yet," Finola muttered, but she was grinning.
Ted saw Andromeda's expression flicker—just for a moment, that wariness he'd learned to recognize. The fear that this would become what her family had followed with Grindelwald. But she didn't voice it. Not here, not now. That was a conversation for later, probably, when it was just the three of them.
"Let's break it down," David continued, his tone shifting into something more businesslike. "People first. We need to identify and recruit Muggleborns, sympathetic half-bloods, and even Squibs who are already in the workforce, who've experienced discrimination firsthand, who understand why change is necessary. People who are tired of keeping their heads down and accepting injustice."
He paused, picking up his teacup and taking a sip before continuing.
"We need to stay under the purview of the Ministry for now, which shouldn't be difficult at this stage. Those that would sympathize with us are those that are beneath the Ministry's notice in the first place."
Ted nodded slowly, understanding the logic. The Ministry cared about influential pure-bloods, about threats to the status quo, about anything that might disrupt their comfortable power structure. They didn't pay attention to struggling Muggleborns working menial jobs, or half-bloods stuck in dead-end positions, or Squibs who'd been shoved to the margins of magical society entirely. Those people were invisible—which made them perfect recruits. No one would notice them organizing until it was too late.
"Next, resources," David continued, setting his teacup down and leaning forward again, his grey eyes intent. "We need funds, safehouses, potion ingredients, and so much more. This will be something that will be easier if the people we can get on side are willing to contribute these things, but we shouldn't rely on that."
"Because most Muggleborns don't have resources to spare," Andromeda said quietly, her political mind already seeing the problem. "They're struggling themselves. Working low-paid jobs, supporting families, barely getting by. They can offer their time and their commitment, but not their Galleons."
"Exactly," David said. "Which means we need other sources of income. Legal ones, preferably, at least for now. We need to establish businesses, find patrons, create revenue streams that can fund the movement without drawing suspicion."
Finola frowned, drumming her fingers on her knee. "That's going to be the hard part, isn't it? Getting money without looking like we're getting money for something dodgy. The Ministry tracks large transactions. Gringotts reports suspicious activity. Even if we're not doing anything illegal yet, if they see Muggleborns suddenly moving around significant funds, they'll start asking questions."
"They will," David agreed. "Which is why we need to be clever about it. Small amounts from multiple sources. Legitimate business fronts. Investments that seem ordinary. Nothing large enough or suspicious enough to trigger Ministry oversight."
He paused, his gaze moving to Andromeda specifically.
"This is where your background becomes particularly valuable, Andromeda. You understand how pure-blood families move money, how they hide assets, how they use proxies and shell companies to obscure their financial activities. The Blacks are masters at it."
Andromeda's expression was carefully neutral, but Ted saw her hand tighten slightly on her teacup. Talking about her family's business practices—the very mechanisms that maintained pure-blood power and oppressed people like Ted—was clearly uncomfortable. But she didn't deny the knowledge.
"I know how they do it," she said quietly. "And I know how we could do the same. Though it would require setup. False identities, potentially. Goblin cooperation, which won't be cheap. And someone who can pass as pure-blood when necessary, because certain financial instruments are only available to certain bloodlines."
"Which you can do," David said. It wasn't quite a question, but close.
Andromeda met his eyes steadily. "I can. Though it cannot be as a Black. My family has disowned me. Only this morning, actually."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water.
Ted's head snapped toward her, his hand tightening on hers. "What? Dromeda, you didn't—why didn't you say anything?"
She gave him a small, slightly sad smile. "Because there was nothing to say, really. It was something I knew was coming. I've been preparing for it since I told them at Christmas that I intended to continue seeing you after graduation." Her voice was calm, controlled, but Ted could hear the thread of hurt underneath. "The formal notice arrived by owl this morning. My name has been burned from the family tapestry. My vault access revoked. My inheritance forfeit. I am no longer a Black."
Finola leaned forward, her expression fierce. "Dromeda, I'm so—"
"Don't," Andromeda said gently, cutting her off. "I knew what I was choosing. I made my decision with full understanding of the consequences." She looked at Ted, her dark eyes soft. "Some things are worth more than family approval or vault access."
Ted felt his throat tighten. He wanted to say something—something that would make this better, that would undo the pain her family had inflicted, that would be adequate to the magnitude of what she'd sacrificed for him, for them, for the cause.
But before he could find the words, Andromeda was already moving forward. Already being practical. Already turning loss into action.
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch, placing it on the low table between them. She pulled out her wand and tapped it once.
"Finite Incantatem."
The shrinking charm dissipated, and the pouch expanded with a soft whump, suddenly the size of a large sack. The leather was fine quality, dark brown and well-made, with the Black family crest embossed on the front—though Andromeda had clearly tried to scratch it off, leaving the leather scarred but the symbol still faintly visible.
"I obviously no longer have access to my personal vault as it was tied to the main Black Vaults," Andromeda said, her tone businesslike now, as if discussing mundane financial arrangements rather than the theft she'd committed from her own family. "So I helped myself to what funds were there before they could lock me out completely. Eight hundred fifty-three Galleons. I also took a few of the artifacts and books from the main Black Estate—things that were in my room or that I could access without triggering the wards."
She looked at David directly, her expression calm but determined.
"I will be keeping six hundred of the Galleons for myself. I need to establish independence, find lodging, support myself until I can secure employment. But The Circle is welcome to the rest."
The silence that followed was profound.
Two hundred fifty-three Galleons.
Ted's mind reeled trying to comprehend that amount. His parents made maybe thirty Galleons a year between them in Muggle currency conversion. The entire contents of his Hogwarts vault—scraped together from his parents' savings and part-time work earnings over seven years—had been perhaps fifty Galleons total.
Andromeda was offering The Circle more money than most Muggleborn families saw in a decade.
And keeping six hundred for herself, which seemed like a fortune to Ted but was probably barely adequate for someone accustomed to Black family standards of living.
David's expression was unreadable. He looked at the pouch, at Andromeda, at the scratched-out family crest on the leather.
"That's an extraordinarily generous contribution," he said quietly. "And one that comes at significant personal cost. Are you certain? Six hundred Galleons won't last forever, especially in London. If you need more—"
"I'm certain," Andromeda said firmly. "I chose this, David. I chose Ted, I chose The Circle, I chose this path. The money doesn't matter if I'm not using it for something that actually means something." She paused, then added more softly, "Besides, my family spent centuries accumulating wealth through oppression and exploitation. If some of that wealth can now fund efforts to dismantle the system they built? That feels like justice."
Finola let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell, Dromeda. That's... that's not just generous, that's—" She shook her head, seeming lost for words. "You're either the bravest person I know or the maddest."
"Can't it be both?" Andromeda asked with a slight smile.
Ted squeezed her hand again, and this time she turned to look at him properly. Her dark eyes were steady, certain, without regret.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "Really?"
"I am," she said, and she sounded like she meant it. "It hurts, yes. Losing my family, my name, everything I grew up with. But Ted—" her voice dropped even lower, intimate despite their audience, "—I look at you and I know I made the right choice. I look at what we're building and I know this matters more than blood purity or family legacy or any of the things my parents value."
She turned back to David, her posture straightening again into that formal mode.
"So yes. Two hundred fifty-three Galleons for The Circle. Use it however you need."
David was quiet for a long moment, his grey eyes studying Andromeda with that intense focus he brought to important moments. Then he reached forward and picked up his teacup, raising it slightly.
"To Andromeda Black—" he paused, "—or should I say, Andromeda Tonks-to-be?"
Ted felt his face flush. They'd talked about marriage, obviously, but mostly in vague future terms. After they were established. After they had jobs. After things were more settled. The idea of David just casually mentioning it like it was a foregone conclusion made his heart race.
Andromeda's cheeks colored slightly too, but she didn't correct him. Just raised her own teacup in response.
"To The Circle," she said instead. "And to everything we're going to build."
They all raised their cups—even Finola, grinning broadly—and drank.
When David set his cup down again, his expression had shifted back to businesslike efficiency.
"Two hundred fifty-three Galleons is an excellent start," he said. "Enough to rent a small office space, perhaps. Or purchase initial supplies. Or establish a legitimate business front that can serve as both cover and revenue source." He looked at each of them. "We will decide what to do with it later. For now, we still need to continue to outline the rest of the plan."
He leaned back slightly, his fingers steepling again in that characteristic gesture Ted had come to associate with David thinking through complex problems.
"Thirdly, we need eyes and ears. For us to begin effecting change, we need to know what to effect. We need people that will give us information. Every little tidbit helps." His grey eyes sharpened, took on that intensity that meant he was quoting something important. "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."
"Sun Tzu," Andromeda said immediately, recognizing the quote. "Muggle military strategist. Ancient China." She paused, looking slightly surprised at herself. "My father had a copy in his library. He believed that Muggle military theory had some applicable insights, even if Muggles themselves were..." She trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
"Inferior?" David supplied quietly, without judgment. Just stating the fact of what her father would have said.
"Yes," Andromeda admitted. "Though he'd never have admitted to reading Muggle texts if anyone outside the family asked. The Blacks are very good at privately learning from Muggles while publicly disdaining them."
"Which is useful knowledge in itself," David said. "It tells us that even pure-blood supremacists recognize the value of Muggle wisdom when it serves their purposes. They're hypocrites, but strategic hypocrites."
Finola snorted. "So we need spies, basically. People in the Ministry, in shops, in hospitals—anywhere that information flows. People who can tell us what the Ministry is planning, what the pure-bloods are scheming, where the weaknesses in the system are."
"Not spies," David corrected gently. "Not yet. Spies implies active espionage, which is illegal and would give the Ministry grounds to arrest us if discovered. What we need are informants. People who work in various places and simply... share what they observe in the course of their normal duties. Nothing illegal about a shop clerk mentioning that certain families have been buying unusual quantities of potion ingredients. Nothing criminal about a Ministry clerk complaining to friends about policy changes in their department."
Ted nodded slowly, understanding the distinction. "It's just gossip. Just people talking about their day."
"Exactly," David said. "Except we collect that gossip, organize it, analyze it, and turn scattered pieces of information into actionable intelligence. One person knowing that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is hiring more Aurors doesn't mean much. But if we know that and we know that certain pure-blood families are increasing their charitable donations to Ministry officials and we know that anti-Muggleborn sentiment has been growing in the Wizengamot—suddenly we can see a pattern. We can predict what's coming and prepare accordingly."
"So we need people in key positions," Andromeda said thoughtfully. "Or at least people who have access to those positions. Ministry workers, obviously. But also shop owners who see what people are buying. Pub owners who hear what people are saying. Healers who treat important families. Journalists who know what stories are being buried."
"Gringotts," Finola added. "If we could get anyone in Gringotts—even just a clerk—that would be gold. Literally. They'd know who's moving money, who's broke, who's making suspicious transactions."
"Goblins won't cooperate easily," David said. "They have their own grievances with wizarding society, their own agenda. But yes, if we could establish a relationship with even one goblin sympathetic to our cause, the financial intelligence alone would be invaluable."
He paused, reaching for a biscuit and taking a thoughtful bite before continuing.
"The challenge is recruitment. How do we identify people in these positions who might be sympathetic? How do we approach them without exposing ourselves if they're not sympathetic? And how do we maintain operational security once we have a network of informants who don't all know each other but all report to us?"
Ted felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. This was so much more complex than he'd imagined. At Hogwarts, The Circle had been straightforward: meet in the hidden room, practice defensive magic, discuss ideology, support each other. Simple. Clear.
Andromeda swallowed hard before speaking. "I... I can do that."
Ted snapped toward her, his eyes widening. If she was talking about what he thought she was talking about, then he'd thought she would be keeping that a secret. She'd been so careful at Hogwarts, never showing anyone, never even mentioning it except to him in private whispers late at night.
It was her insurance, she'd said. Her escape route if everything went wrong with her family. The one thing they didn't know about, couldn't track, couldn't use against her.
And now she was offering to reveal it.
David gave her a look of confusion, leaning forward slightly. "You can do what exactly?"
Andromeda looked at Ted, her dark eyes seeking permission, seeking support. He gave a small nod, his throat tight. If she was willing to tell them, he would support her. Always.
She took a breath, then her form began to shift like liquid.
It wasn't dramatic—no flash of light, no theatrical transformation. Just a smooth, seamless change that rippled across her body like water flowing over stones. Her features began changing first: her nose lengthening slightly, becoming more severe; her cheekbones sharpening; her jawline becoming more pronounced and angular. Her dark hair lightened to black threaded with silver, pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes shifted from brown to a piercing grey-blue behind square spectacles that hadn't been there a moment before.
Even her posture changed, her spine straightening to an almost rigid formality, her shoulders squaring in a way that spoke of decades of perfect deportment and stern authority.
Where Andromeda had sat, slowly the image they were all familiar with took shape. Every detail perfect, from the tartan pattern on the robes to the slight tightness around the mouth that suggested decades of maintaining discipline over wayward students.
The image of Professor McGonagall.
Finola made a strangled sound, her hand flying to her mouth. "Merlin's—"
David whispered in awe, "You're a Metamorphmagus."
The figure that looked exactly like their Transfiguration professor nodded, and when she spoke, even the voice was perfect—that crisp Scottish accent, that particular tone of brisk efficiency. "I am."
Then she shifted back, the transformation flowing in reverse until Andromeda sat before them again, looking slightly drained but determined. The entire process had taken perhaps ten seconds.
"Bloody hell," Finola breathed. "Dromeda, that's—that's incredibly rare. I've read about Metamorphmagi but I've never actually seen one. There's only a handful in Britain at any given time."
"Seven, currently," Andromeda said quietly. "According to the last census my father mentioned. Most keep it quiet. It makes pure-blood families... uncomfortable. The ability to change your appearance so completely, to potentially infiltrate bloodlines, to question the very concept of inherited features—it goes against everything they believe about blood purity and lineage."
She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if checking they were properly her own again.
"My family had no idea," she said quietly. "I imagine if I'd told them, I may have even been able to leverage it to be with Ted."
David, still with that expression of awe on his face—a look Ted had never seen there before, not even when discussing the most complex magical theory—spoke again. "Why didn't you do so?"
Andromeda gave a light chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "I would never put Ted in that position. My family would have treated us like pets. Me doing the tricks, Ted looking the part of the acceptable Muggleborn who'd been elevated by association with a Black." Her voice hardened. "They would have paraded me at Ministry functions, shown off my abilities to their pure-blood friends, used me as a tool to gather intelligence or blackmail or whatever suited their political purposes that week. And Ted would have been tolerated—barely—as my handler. My keeper."
She looked up at Ted, her dark eyes fierce and certain.
"I refuse to allow that to happen. I'd rather be disowned, rather lose everything, than let them turn something beautiful between us into something twisted and transactional." Her hand squeezed his. "You're not my ticket to keeping my family's approval. You're the person I chose over my family's approval. There's a difference."
Ted felt his chest constrict with an overwhelming mixture of love and gratitude and guilt. She'd given up so much for him. Her name, her inheritance, her family, her entire world. And now she was offering to put herself at extraordinary risk for The Circle, using the very ability her family had tried to hide away.
"Dromeda," he managed, his voice rough. "I don't—I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything," she said softly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Just know that I chose this. All of it. And I'd choose it again."
Finola made a sound that might have been a sniffle, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Right, well. Now you've gone and made me emotional, haven't you?" She tried for her usual brash tone but didn't quite manage it. "Stop being so bloody noble, both of you. Makes the rest of us look bad."
David was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried a weight Ted had rarely heard from him—something deeper than his usual controlled passion, something more personal.
"What you're offering to do for The Circle, Andromeda—the risk you're willing to take, the sacrifice you've already made—it matters. Not just strategically, though obviously having a Metamorphmagus changes our capabilities dramatically." He paused, meeting her eyes directly. "But it matters because it proves something I've always believed: that blood status doesn't determine worth or courage or commitment. That pure-bloods aren't inherently superior, and Muggleborns aren't inherently lesser. That people are defined by their choices, not their ancestry."
His grey eyes moved between all three of them.
"You've all made choices that prove that. Ted, joining The Circle when it would have been safer to keep your head down. Finola, standing up when others stayed silent. Andromeda, walking away from everything you were raised to value because you saw it was wrong." His voice dropped, became more intimate. "This is what we're building. Not a movement of Muggleborns seeking revenge against pure-bloods. But a coalition of people—all blood statuses, all backgrounds—who've decided that the current system is unacceptable and are willing to do something about it."
He leaned back, and that moment of emotional vulnerability closed, his expression shifting back to thoughtful efficiency.
"Which brings us to the fourth objective," David said, picking up his teacup again. "The hardest one, perhaps. Cultural influence."
He took a sip, organizing his thoughts.
"We can recruit people, accumulate resources, gather intelligence—but none of that matters if we can't shift the broader cultural narrative. Right now, blood purity is so deeply embedded in wizarding society that most people don't even question it. It's just 'how things are.' The natural order. Common sense."
David set his cup down with a soft clink.
"We need to make it not common sense. We need to plant seeds of doubt, spread alternative ideas, create spaces where people can question the status quo without being immediately labeled as radical or dangerous." His eyes sharpened. "We need to change hearts and minds, not just accumulate power. Because lasting change doesn't come from force alone—it comes from making people want the change. Making them see that the world we're building is better than the world they've inherited."
"That's..." Finola trailed off, frowning. "That's much harder than the other three objectives. You can recruit people one at a time. You can steal money or earn it. You can gather information through informants. But changing an entire culture's beliefs? How do you even start?"
"Slowly," David said. "Carefully. Through a thousand small interventions rather than one large one." He leaned forward again, his intensity building. "We publish articles in minor publications questioning pure-blood policies. We fund research into Muggleborn magical abilities to counter claims of inferiority. We support businesses owned by Muggleborns so they can't be dismissed as economically irrelevant. We create social spaces—clubs, organizations, meeting places—where blood status doesn't matter and people can see that mixed-blood communities function just fine."
He paused, his gaze moving between them.
"We become visible. Undeniable. Successful. We prove through our existence that the pure-blood narrative is wrong. And we do it in ways that don't trigger immediate Ministry crackdown, because we're not breaking laws—we're just... living. Working. Succeeding. Being impossible to ignore."
Ted felt something shift in his understanding. This wasn't just about building a secret revolutionary movement. This was about building an alternative society that existed alongside the current one, proving by example that another way was possible.
David's expression shifted to one of consideration, as if weighing something up. His fingers drummed once against his knee—a rare tell that meant he was deciding how much to reveal, how honest to be.
"In truth," he said slowly, "the cultural erosion will happen naturally. Especially when the pure-bloods choose to respond in the only way they know how. Force." His grey eyes grew distant, calculating. "It will not happen immediately. But it will happen. History proves it."
He leaned forward, his voice taking on that teaching quality Ted recognized from Circle meetings.
"Look at recent history. Only a handful of decades ago—1968, to be precise—Nobby Leach became the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic ever elected." David's jaw tightened. "He served for less than a year before he was assassinated. Officially, they called it a 'tragic accident during a routine inspection of the Department of Mysteries.' Unofficially, everyone knew what it was. Pure-blood families couldn't tolerate a Muggleborn holding the highest office in the land, so they killed him."
Ted felt cold despite the summer heat. He'd heard of Nobby Leach—every Muggleborn had, whispered about in common rooms and libraries as a cautionary tale. But hearing David lay it out so baldly, connecting the dots so explicitly, made it real in a way it hadn't been before.
"And what happened after?" David continued, his voice hardening. "The Squib Rights movement, which had been gaining momentum, which had been pushing for equal treatment and legal protections—it was crushed. Systematically dismantled. By our current Minister, no less." He practically spat the words. "Eugenia Jenkins. A woman with pure-blood leanings who came into power promising 'stability' and 'traditional values.' Who made it clear that the brief experiment with Muggleborn leadership had been a mistake that wouldn't be repeated."
Andromeda nodded slowly, her political education showing. "I remember my father celebrating Jenkins' election. Said it was a return to proper order. That Leach had been an aberration, a dangerous precedent that needed to be corrected." Her voice went flat. "He and his friends drank a toast to 'stability' that night. I was twelve. I didn't understand what they were really celebrating."
"They were celebrating the re-establishment of pure-blood supremacy," David said bluntly. "The confirmation that Muggleborns and Squibs would remain in their place, that the hierarchy would be maintained, that the natural order—as they see it—was secure."
He paused, his expression darkening further.
"But here's what they didn't understand. What they never understand. Every time they use force to maintain their power, every time they crush a movement or assassinate a leader or pass discriminatory legislation—they prove our point. They demonstrate that the system can only sustain itself through violence and oppression. That it has no moral legitimacy, only raw power."
David's voice dropped, became almost intimate despite the weight of what he was saying.
"So yes, cultural change will happen naturally. Because we're going to build something visible and successful and undeniable. And when the pure-bloods respond with force—which they will, because it's the only language they know—they'll expose themselves. They'll show the wizarding world exactly what their 'traditional values' really mean. Violence. Oppression. The willingness to murder anyone who threatens their privilege."
Finola was staring at him with wide eyes. "You're counting on them to attack us."
"Not counting on it," David corrected. "Anticipating it. There's a difference." His gaze swept across all three of them. "We're not provoking them deliberately. We're not seeking martyrdom. But we are being realistic about what happens when you challenge entrenched power. They will push back. They will use force. And when they do—"
"We make sure everyone sees it," Andromeda finished quietly, understanding dawning in her expression. "We document it. Spread the word. Make it impossible to ignore or justify. Turn their violence into our recruiting tool."
"Exactly," David said. "Every Muggleborn they attack becomes evidence of the system's brutality. Every discriminatory law they pass proves we're right to fight back. Every heavy-handed Ministry crackdown makes moderates question whose side they're really on."
He sat back, his intensity not diminishing but becoming more controlled.
"This is why cultural influence matters so much. We need enough people to see what's happening, to understand it, to care about it. Because when the backlash comes—and it will come—we need public sympathy. We need people who will shelter our members, fund our activities, refuse to cooperate with Ministry persecution. We need the moral high ground so firmly established that even when we're forced to defend ourselves, people understand why."
Ted felt that headache intensifying. The scope of what David was describing—the years of careful work, the calculated risks, the willingness to let people get hurt to prove a point—it was overwhelming.
But it was also, he had to admit, probably right.
The pure-bloods would attack. History proved that. Nobby Leach proved that. The crushed Squib Rights movement proved that. And when they did, The Circle needed to be positioned to turn that violence against them.
"So our job," Finola said slowly, working through it out loud, "is to build the foundation. Recruit people, gather resources, establish intelligence networks, create cultural presence. All while staying under the Ministry's radar. And then... what? We just wait for them to come after us?"
"We prepare," David corrected. "We make ourselves strong enough to survive their response. We establish enough legitimacy that they can't simply disappear us without consequences. We build enough support that crushing us would be politically costly." His eyes hardened. "And yes, eventually, we wait. Because they will come. They always do."
He leaned forward one more time, his voice dropping to something almost gentle despite the weight of his words.
"I know this sounds cold. Calculating. Like I'm planning to use people's suffering as a political tool." His grey eyes found each of theirs in turn. "But understand—this is going to happen whether we plan for it or not. The pure-bloods will attack. The Ministry will crack down. Muggleborns will suffer. That's the reality of challenging this system."
"The only question," David continued, "is whether that suffering means something. Whether it serves a purpose. Whether the people who get hurt—and some will get hurt—whether their sacrifice actually changes things, or whether it's just more senseless violence that gets forgotten like Nobby Leach's assassination, like the Squib Rights movement, like every other failed attempt at reform."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"So yes. We're building toward confrontation. Not because we want it, but because it's inevitable. And when it comes, we're going to make damn sure it counts."
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of what they were really signing up for. This wasn't just student activism anymore. This was revolutionary work with all the risks that implied.
Ted looked at Finola, saw her jaw set with determination despite the fear in her eyes. Looked at Andromeda, saw her hand tight on his but her expression resolute.
They understood. They were still in.
"Right then," Ted said, surprised by how steady his own voice sounded. "Where do we start?"
o–o–o–o