The next day, Harry found himself wandering the narrow aisles of Flourish and Blotts, a stack of textbooks floating neatly beside him. He was thumbing through a hefty book on advanced transfiguration, its pages yellowed and slightly crinkled, pretending to weigh whether it was worth adding to his haul. Truth be told, he wasn't all that focused on the words. His real attention was on the clock—or rather, the timing he'd been banking on since he'd rolled out of bed that morning. He'd picked this spot in Diagon Alley on purpose, figuring it was the perfect place to "accidentally" bump into someone he'd been itching to meet. Timing was everything, and if his hunch was right, that moment was about to pay off.
Right on cue, a voice cut through the quiet rustle of pages behind him—warm, chatty, and unmistakable. "That's an ambitious pick. Most students I've met would rather wrestle a troll than tackle that beast of a book."
Harry turned, smoothing his face into a mix of mild surprise and curiosity, like he hadn't been expecting this at all. Standing there was a tall, slim wizard with jet-black hair slicked back and dark eyes that had a sharp, lively glint.
Horace Slughorn, decades younger than the version Harry remembered, but still every bit the same guy—right down to the way he carried himself, like he was always half a step away from holding one of his Slug Club dinners.
"Albus keeps telling me transfiguration's out of my league," Slughorn went on with a chuckle, his mustache twitching. "He's probably right, mind you. But I like to think a Potions master can dabble in charms or transfiguration without making a complete fool of himself."
Harry let a flicker of recognition cross his face—not too obvious, just enough to hint he'd heard the name before, maybe in some dusty article rather than from a lifetime ago. He snapped the book shut with a casual thud and stuck out his hand. "Professor Slughorn?"
Slughorn's eyebrows shot up, surprise melting into a pleased grin. "Well, I'll be! That's me, yes. Don't think we've crossed paths before, have we?"
"Harry Peverell," he said, keeping his tone smooth and easy. "I've just applied to Hogwarts. Heard plenty about your potions work—hard not to, with a rep like yours."
The flattery hit exactly where Harry knew it would. Slughorn's eyes lit up, and he puffed out his chest just a little, like a peacock fluffing its feathers. "Peverell, eh? Now that's a name with some history! And you're too kind, my boy—though I'll admit, I've made a decent splash or two in the potions world."
"More than decent, I'd say," Harry replied, watching Slughorn soak it up. "That paper you wrote on Golpalott's Third Law and antidotes? Blew my mind when I read it."
It was a calculated move, tossing out a reference to something obscure—most kids his age wouldn't even know where to find that kind of article, let alone read it. But Harry had done his homework. Slughorn loved nothing more than a bright spark who could stroke his ego just right, and Harry needed that in if he was going to get close to the guy.
Slughorn's grin widened, practically glowing now. "You're too generous, Mr. Peverell! And sharp as a tack, too—don't often meet a student who's dug into my old scribblings like that."
"I've had a bit of a weird education," Harry said, picking his words carefully, keeping an eye on how Slughorn reacted. "Figured it was time to get the real deal at Hogwarts."
"Smart move, smart move," Slughorn said, nodding like he was personally approving the decision. "A lad with your brains and a taste for the finer points of magic? Hogwarts'll be lucky to have you."
Harry let a small smile slip out, just enough to show he appreciated the praise. That was the exact vibe he'd been aiming for—get Slughorn thinking he'd spotted a diamond in the rough.
"So what's a Peverell doing back in Britain?" Slughorn asked, tilting his head a bit, his tone still light but curious. "Thought your lot had faded out a while back."
"We've kept a low profile," Harry said, sticking to the line he'd practiced. "Lots of travel, some solo study. But my guardian figured with everything heating up in Europe, Hogwarts was the safest bet to finish things off."
Slughorn's face sobered up fast, his jovial air dimming. "Ah, yes. Grindelwald's stirring the pot, isn't he? Nasty business. That mess in America could've gone sideways quick if they hadn't nipped it in the bud." He leaned in a little, dropping his voice like they were sharing a secret. "Between you and me, lad, I've got a bad feeling things'll get uglier before they clear up."
Harry nodded, matching the serious vibe. "I'm with you there, Professor. That's why I'm keen on Defense Against the Dark Arts—feels like the right time to brush up."
Slughorn's mustache gave a little twitch, and he nodded approvingly. "Good head on your shoulders. Smart choice. Though—" he wagged a finger, his tone turning playful again, "—don't go neglecting potions, eh? I'd hate to lose a mind like yours to another subject."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry said with a grin, keeping it smooth. He let a beat pass, then tossed out his next card, casual as anything. "Actually, I've been messing around with the Draught of Living Death—tweaking it a bit. Would love to get your take on it."
That did it. Slughorn's eyes practically sparkled, caught somewhere between delight and downright nosiness. "Have you, now? That's bold stuff! What got you tinkering with a tricky brew like that?"
Harry knew he had to play this just right—smart but not cocky, curious but not careless. "Found an old journal while I was studying," he said, keeping his voice even. "Had some wild ideas about moonstone ratios and how fast you infuse it. I gave a couple a shot, and the results were… well, not what I expected."
"Moonstone, you say?" Slughorn muttered, his fingers twitching like he was dying to grab a quill. "Now that's a twist I haven't heard in a while. Unexpected, eh? You've got notes on this, I hope?"
"Wouldn't experiment without 'em," Harry said easily. "Happy to show you sometime, if you're up for it."
And there it was—the hook was set, and Slughorn was already reeling himself in. "Sometime? Nonsense!" Slughorn said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "How about next week? I'm throwing a little get-together—nothing fancy, just a few students and folks I like to chat with. Good company, good conversation. You'd fit right in."
Harry kept his reaction low-key, just a nod and a hint of a smile—interested, not desperate. "Sounds great, Professor. I'd love to."
"Splendid!" Slughorn clapped his hands together, looking like he'd just won a prize. "I'll owl you the details—keep an eye out."
"Will do," Harry said, dipping his head slightly.
Slughorn pulled out a pocket watch, squinting at it with a small frown. "Blimey, look at the time. Got to move—more supplies to grab before term kicks off. It's my usual day to take care of these things, you see. You take care, Mr. Peverell!"
Harry smiled as he gave the man a nod, having known exactly that he'd be here today.
As Slughorn spun around to leave, his elbow nearly knocked into Nymeria, who'd slipped up behind them so quietly they hadn't even noticed until she was right there. The professor stumbled back half a step, tugging at his waistcoat with a flustered little chuckle. "Oh! Pardon me, miss—I didn't see you there!"
"No harm done, Professor," Nymeria said, her voice smooth and warm, like she hadn't just appeared out of nowhere. "I couldn't help overhearing, though. You're Professor Slughorn, right? I've read your stuff on antidotes—especially that bit about grinding bezoars into powder instead of just swallowing them whole. Blew my mind, honestly. I always thought they were a one-and-done kind of deal."
Slughorn's face lit up like someone had just handed him a shiny new trophy. His eyes widened, and that delighted grin of his stretched even wider. "Well, well! Another fan of the subtle art of potion-making! This day just keeps getting better!"
Nymeria tilted her head in a polite little nod, her dark braid swinging slightly. "Nymeria Black."
Slughorn's mustache gave a happy twitch, and he clapped his hands together like he'd just won a bet. "A Black! Fantastic! I've had the pleasure of teaching quite a few of your kin over the years—sharp bunch, especially when it comes to brewing. Talent runs in the blood, I'd wager."
"You're too kind," Nymeria said, flashing a smile that was just the right mix of modest and charming. "Though I'm afraid I might be a little rusty. I've been studying on my own up 'til now."
"Psh, nonsense!" Slughorn waved the idea away like it was a pesky fly. "With a name like Black, you've got the makings of a natural. You'll be up to speed in no time—mark my words!" He paused, then perked up even more, his voice brimming with excitement. "In fact, you've got to join us for tea next week! Mr. Peverell here's already on board—haven't you, lad?"
Nymeria turned to Harry, her face a perfect mask of polite surprise, though her dark eyes flickered with something sharper—like she was sizing him up all over again. "Have you?" she said, tilting her head just enough to sell the act. "How lucky. I'd love to get to know you better, Mr. Peverell."
"Same here, Miss Black," Harry replied, keeping his tone formal and clipped, playing along like they hadn't spent the last hour plotting in Gringotts the day before.
"You're acquainted already?"
"We've crossed paths a few times, yes," Nymeria replied with a polite smile, glancing at Harry.
"You can say we are partners, Professor," Harry added. "A little venture of sorts. It's a new thing."
"Splendid!" Slughorn practically crowed, rubbing his hands together. "I'll send you both the details by owl. Looking forward to it—until next week, then!"
And with that, he bustled off, his robes flapping as he disappeared between the towering shelves, leaving behind a faint whiff of something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit.
Harry turned back to the bookshelf, picking up a random book and flipping through it like he cared about the title. His mind was still on Slughorn, though—every word, every gesture filed away for later. Nymeria mirrored him, reaching for a dusty tome she clearly had no interest in, her voice dropping to a whisper just loud enough for him to hear. "Nicely done."
"You're not half bad yourself," Harry muttered back, keeping his eyes on the pages. "Timed that perfectly—slid right in."
"That was the easy part," she said, her tone dry as she traced a finger along the book's spine. "Slughorn's a sucker for flattery and a good family name. You had him eating out of your hand before I even opened my mouth."
"It's not just flattery," Harry said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Slughorn's got his fingers in everything—knows all the right people. Those connections are gold for us."
Nymeria snorted softly, barely audible. "Yeah, and he collects shiny new students like they're rare potion ingredients. Still, it works for what we're aiming at."
Harry caught the edge in her voice—like there was more she wanted to say, something chewing at her. He didn't have to wait long. She shifted slightly, her fingers pausing on the book, and her whisper took on a sharper bite. "Are we pushing this too hard, though? First Dumbledore sniffing around yesterday, now Slughorn today. It's been what, twenty-four hours? And we're already cozying up to the big names at Hogwarts."
Harry let the question hang there for a second, turning it over in his head. He kept his hands busy, flipping another page he wasn't reading, buying time to sort out his answer.
"We have to," he said finally, keeping his voice low and steady. "These first few days are make-or-break. By the time we're on that train to Hogwarts, we need our pieces on the board."
Nymeria's frown deepened, her brow creasing just enough to show she wasn't sold yet. "I get needing a foothold, Harry, but this feels like we're sprinting when we could be pacing ourselves. A little more shadow, a little less spotlight—wouldn't that keep us safer?"
"This is the shadow," he shot back, his tone firm but quiet. "If we wait 'til late into the term, we're reacting, not leading. People will already have their ideas about us—who we are, why we're there. We've got to shape that story first, before anyone else does."
She didn't say anything right away, just kept her eyes on the shelf, her fingers tapping lightly against the leather cover in her hands. Harry could tell she was chewing on it, weighing his words against whatever instincts were tugging at her.
"You're betting Slughorn's gonna start talking us up," she said at last, her voice still hushed. "Spreading our names around like gossip."
"Count on it," Harry said, nodding slightly. "He loves showing off his finds. He'll drop hints to his pet students, his buddies outside Hogwarts. By the time we walk through those castle doors, people will already know and be more agreeable, and not just because of the family names."
Nymeria's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue. She tilted her head, looking at him full-on now, her dark eyes digging into his. "So the plan's to hit the ground running—be players, not pawns."
"Exactly," Harry said, meeting her gaze. "We can't just be the weird adult students from old bloodlines who showed up late. We need to walk in with weight beyond our names—enough that no one questions why we're there."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a quiet breath, the tension in her shoulders easing a bit. "Okay. But we've got to steer this thing ourselves. What they hear about us—it's our call, not Slughorn's or anyone else's."
"Deal," Harry said, his voice firm. "We write the script."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of something harder flashing in them. "No more curveballs, then. If you're cooking up another move like this, I need the heads-up."
"Same goes for you," he said, locking eyes with her. It wasn't just a request—it was a line in the sand, a quiet pact they both knew they had to stick to. The air between them hummed with it for a second, unspoken but solid.
Nymeria's lips quirked into a smirk, breaking the tension. "Well then, Mr. Peverell, ready to keep this little charade rolling?"
"Naturally, Miss Black," Harry said, matching her smirk with one of his own. He set the book back on the shelf, brushing off his hands like he was dusting off the moment. "What'd you grab, anyway?"
She glanced at the tome she'd been holding—a thick, faded thing titled Properties of Venomous Tentacula—and snorted. "No clue. Looked boring enough to blend in."
Harry chuckled under his breath.
They remained in the shop for another hour, mostly perusing through books that detailed current events, reacquainting themselves with discoveries that had not happened in this world yet. It was an opportunity for further gains that they believed should be explored later.
Harry was flipping through the thin booklet in his hands when the sound of soft footsteps drew his attention.
Two young women approached the same cluttered bookshelf he and Nymeria were browsing, their presence cutting through the quiet hum of the dusty bookshop. He glanced up, taking them in quickly. Both carried themselves with the kind of polished ease that screamed old money and pureblood upbringing.
The first had dark hair swept up neatly, framing a face that could've stepped out of one of the Black family portraits he'd studied—sharp cheekbones, a delicate jaw, and eyes that held a quiet intensity. The second was taller, her light brown hair catching the dim light of the shop, her posture straight and her gaze sharp. His eyes fell on the locket she was wearing that marked her as a MacMillan, another one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Harry racked his brain through the family trees and his pulse kicked up a notch as recognition hit. He recognized them from faded photographs and lineage records—Dorea Black and Melania MacMillan. His grandmother-to-be and her friend who would go on to marry Arcturus Black, standing here years before the paths that would shape his own life.
"Excuse me," the brunette said, her voice polite but firm as she gestured toward the shelf. "I need to reach that book."
Harry stepped aside with a smooth nod, keeping his tone light. "Of course, Miss…?"
"MacMillan," she replied, plucking a thick volume on advanced charms from the shelf. "Melania MacMillan."
The other girl's lips twitched into a faint, curious smile as she watched the exchange. "And Dorea Black," she added, her voice warmer but still holding that reserved edge of someone used to sizing people up.
Harry dipped his head, fighting the urge to react too strongly to the name that tied so closely to his own history. "Harry Peverell. Pleasure to meet you both."
At his surname, Melania paused, her book hovering just above her bag. Dorea's reaction was more obvious—her dark eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity sparking as she studied him.
"Peverell?" she repeated, tilting her head. "I wasn't aware any were still around."
Harry flashed an easy smile, keeping it vague. "We tend to keep to ourselves."
Melania hummed softly, her expression thoughtful as she tucked the book away. "A name with quite some weight to it. I don't think I've heard it outside of old genealogy scrolls."
Harry let that slide without adding anything, his gaze flicking to Nymeria. He could feel the question coming, and sure enough, Dorea turned her attention next. "And you are?"
"Nymeria Black," she answered, meeting Dorea's eyes with a steady look.
Dorea's brows lifted just a touch, her interest sharpening. "A Black? I don't recall a Nymeria in the family—and I know most of the branches, distant or not."
Nymeria didn't miss a beat, her voice smooth. "I'm from a squib line. Been abroad for a while."
A faint shadow crossed Dorea's face at the word squib, her lips pressing together briefly before she smoothed it over. Melania's expression stayed neutral, though her sharp eyes darted between them like she was piecing something together.
"Interesting," Melania said, her tone even. "The Blacks usually stick close to home—tradition and all that. Living abroad must've been quite a change."
Nymeria inclined her head slightly. "It had its perks."
Dorea didn't let it drop there, though her tone stayed gentle, more intrigued than pushy. "A squib line, you say? That's… rare for us, meeting one, I mean. The family's never been kind about those who don't carry magic—or at least, that's what the older generations like to grumble about. Where abroad, if you don't mind me asking?"
Nymeria hesitated for just a heartbeat, long enough for Harry to notice but not enough to seem rattled. "Eastern Europe, mostly," she said, sticking to the truth—or part of it.
Dorea's eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. "The East? That's fascinating. I've always wanted to see that part of the world—Romania, Bulgaria, those old wizarding enclaves. Did you spend much time there?"
"Some," Nymeria said, keeping it vague but offering a small smile. "Enough to pick up a few odd habits."
Dorea chuckled softly, her posture relaxing a bit. "I thought I caught a hint of something in your voice. Nothing obvious, just… different. It's nice, though." She paused, then added, "You know, the family's got a long history of brushing squibs under the rug. My great-uncle Marius—he was one, or so the rumors go. They don't talk about him much, but I've always wondered what happened to that line."
Nymeria nodded, her expression neutral but attentive. "It's not a story they like to tell, I've noticed. My branch kept quiet, stayed out of the way. Probably for the best."
"Maybe," Dorea said, her tone thoughtful. "Still, it's a shame. Magic or not, blood's blood. I'd have liked to know more about them." She didn't press further, though her eyes lingered on Nymeria like she was filing the information away for later.
Melania shifted the conversation, her voice cutting in smoothly. "Are you both headed to Hogwarts, then?"
"We are," Harry confirmed, grateful for the shift. "Though we're a bit past the usual first-year age."
"Advanced placement?" Melania asked, nodding like it made sense. "Not common, but it happens. Professor Dumbledore must've taken a keen interest in your applications."
Harry's lips quirked into a faint smile. "He didn't exactly hide it, yeah."
Dorea tilted her head again, her curiosity shifting back to them as a pair. "Have you thought about where you might end up? Houses, I mean."
"We haven't hashed it out yet," Harry said easily. "We'll see where we land."
Melania and Dorea exchanged a quick glance, their expressions hard to read. It wasn't much of an answer, and they both seemed to clock that. "Fair enough," Melania said after a beat, her tone light but her eyes still sharp. "We'll find out soon enough, I suppose."
Dorea nodded, but her focus stayed on Nymeria. "If you're a Black—even from a squib line—you'll have family at Hogwarts. My brother Arcturus is there, and a few cousins. It might be worth getting to know them before term starts."
Nymeria considered it, her gaze steady. There was no edge to Dorea's words, just a quiet offer laced with interest. "That could work," she said, a faint note of caution in her voice that Dorea didn't seem to pick up on. "I wouldn't mind hearing more about the family—fill in some gaps."
Dorea's face brightened, a genuine smile breaking through. "Good. Arcturus'll want to meet you too, I'm sure. He's a bit prickly, but he's got a sharp mind—keeps track of the family better than I do. And honestly, it'd be nice to have another Black around who isn't obsessed with the usual nonsense."
Nymeria's lips twitched into a half-smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
Melania glanced toward the shop's entrance, her posture shifting slightly. "We should get going. Plenty to do before term, and I'd rather not be late for supper."
"Agreed," Dorea said, though she gave Nymeria and Harry one last look. "I'm sure we'll see you both again soon."
"Looking forward to it," Harry replied, keeping his tone casual.
The two witches gathered their books and headed out, their steps measured and their voices fading into the bustle of Diagon Alley beyond the shop's grimy windows. Once they were gone, Nymeria let out a quiet breath, turning to Harry. "Well, that was… unexpected."
"Another thread to watch," Harry muttered, flipping through a random book to look busy.
Nymeria made a small noise of agreement, her brow furrowing slightly. "They weren't as bad as I figured, though. Dorea especially—she's nosy, but not in a bad way."
Harry glanced at her, his fingers pausing on the page. "Yeah. She's sharp, though. And that bit about the squibs—she's digging, even if she's playing it nice."
"True," Nymeria said, her gaze drifting back to the door. "Still, I didn't hate talking to her. Felt almost… normal."
Harry smirked faintly. "Normal's a stretch for us."
She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Fair. Still, this whole thing—bumping into them over textbooks? Feels like the start of something bigger."
"Probably is," Harry said, setting the book back on the shelf. He scanned the shop, clocking the handful of other customers who'd started to glance their way. "We should split. Keep it low-key."
Nymeria nodded, catching his drift. "Yeah. Acquaintances in public 'til we're forced otherwise."
"Exactly," Harry said.
"Strangers out here," Nymeria said, her voice dropping to a teasing lilt as she shot him a sideways look. "But not for long."
Harry glanced at her as she turned around and walked away with a purposeful sway of her hips. He felt her thoughts through their bond and merely smirked. "Not for long indeed," he agreed.
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