Beneath the vibrant heart of Paris, past the throngs of tourists snapping photos of the Eiffel Tower and the grandeur of the Louvre, a far darker meeting was unfolding in the ancient catacombs. Here, beneath centuries of history and millions of forgotten bones, a conclave of Pureblood supremacists had gathered, their hushed voices echoing against the damp stone walls.
At the center of the group, standing with an easy arrogance, was Lucien Malfoy. He was tall and lean, his pale hair combed back with an effortless precision that suggested both aristocratic grace and predatory cunning. Unlike his British relatives, he had no need for masks or theatrics. Lucien didn't hide behind a Death Eater cowl; he was the viper in plain sight. His piercing blue eyes swept across the assembled figures before he flicked his wand lazily, sealing the chamber with a whisper of dark magic.
"Frères et sœurs," he began, his voice smooth as silk, yet sharp as a knife. "Nous ne sommes pas ici simplement pour parler. Nous sommes ici pour prendre le contrôle du destin." (Brothers and sisters, we are not here merely to talk. We are here to take control of destiny.)
A murmur of approval rippled through the cloaked figures.
Adrienne Rosier leaned against a pillar of skulls, her manicured fingers trailing absently over the bones. Even in the dim light, her presence was commanding, her sharp features sculpted like some old-world goddess of war. She exhaled a curl of smoke from an elegant cigarette holder, eyes half-lidded with amusement.
"Ah, Lucien, toujours dramatique," she purred, smirking. "Et qu'est-ce qui distingue votre grand plan des idiots qui sont venus avant vous?" (Ah, Lucien, always dramatic.) (And what makes your grand plan different from the idiots who came before you?)
Lucien smirked. "Parce que, ma chère, je ne suis pas un idiot." (Because, ma chère, I am not an idiot.)
Donovan Burke chuckled—a low, rich sound that echoed through the chamber. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the easy confidence of a man who knew he could break most of the people in the room, Donovan exuded menace without the need for theatrics. His dark coat barely concealed the worn grip of his wand, and there was an air of calculated violence about him, like a storm waiting to break.
"Le monde a changé, Adrienne," Donovan said smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. "Le ministère est rempli d'imbéciles qui se livrent à des jeux politiques. L'ancienne méthode a échoué, car ils pensaient que le pouvoir venait de la pureté. Le véritable pouvoir vient du contrôle, de l'influence." (The world has changed, Adrienne.) (The Ministry is full of fools playing at politics. The old way failed because they thought power came from shouting about purity. True power comes from control. From influence.)
Lucien inclined his head. "Exactement. Les Mangemorts ont échoué parce qu'ils étaient brutaux. Voldemort pensait que la terreur lui donnerait le contrôle. Mais le contrôle vient de l'ombre, pas de hurlements « agenouillez-vous devant moi » comme un méchant dérangé de conte de fées." (Exactly. The Death Eaters failed because they were brutish. Voldemort thought terror would bring control. But control comes from the shadows, not from screaming 'kneel before me' like some deranged fairy tale villain.)
"Et alors?" came a crisp voice from the back of the group. (So what then?)
Veronica Travers stepped forward, her sharp eyes watching Lucien with a cool intensity. She was striking in an ice-carved sort of way—precise, poised, deadly. The kind of woman who could cut you to ribbons with words alone. Unlike the others, she did not posture. She simply was.
"On chuchote au lieu de crier ? On manipule au lieu de tuer ? Où est la limite, Lucien ?" Her voice was measured, but there was steel beneath it. "Laissons-nous la saleté prendre ce qui est à nous pendant que nous attendons le moment parfait ?" (We whisper instead of shout? Manipulate instead of kill? Where is the line, Lucien?) (Do we let the filth take what is ours while we wait for the perfect moment?)
Lucien's smirk widened, full of quiet malice. "Oh non, ma chère Veronica. On va frapper. Mais on le fera comme il faut." (Oh no, ma chère Veronica. We will strike. But we will do it properly.)
Adrienne arched a brow. "Properly?"
Donovan exhaled sharply, amused. "That's a Malfoy way of saying we're going to break them so completely they don't even realize it's happening."
Lucien spread his hands. "Les traîtres à leur sang et les Sang-de-Bourbe croient avoir gagné parce qu'on leur a donné le pouvoir. Or, ils ne le possèdent pas. Pas encore. Le Ministère est faible, rempli de bureaucrates sang-mêlé qui n'ont pas le courage de faire la guerre, mais manquent de l'intelligence nécessaire pour gouverner. Le monde des sorciers se fracture sous son propre poids." (The blood traitors and Mudbloods think they have won because they've been handed power. They don't own it. Not yet. The Ministry is weak, filled with half-blood bureaucrats who don't have the stomach for war but lack the intellect for real governance. The wizarding world is fracturing under its own weight.)
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "Nous n'avons pas besoin de prendre le pouvoir. Il nous suffit de nous assurer que les bonnes personnes viennent nous supplier de réparer le désordre qu'elles ne manqueront pas de créer. Et quand elles le feront ? Nous le ferons." (We don't need to take power. We just have to make sure the right people come begging us to fix the mess they will inevitably create. And when they do? We will.)
Adrienne exhaled another plume of smoke, considering. "Tu as toujours préféré le jeu à long terme, Lucien." (Tu as toujours préféré le jeu à long terme, Lucien.)
Donovan smirked. "C'est le seul jeu qui vaut la peine d'être joué." (C'est le seul jeu qui vaut la peine d'être joué.)
Veronica, however, was not quite satisfied. "And if we are discovered?"
Lucien chuckled, a cold, amused sound. "Then we do what we do best, Veronica. We make them believe they need us. And if they don't? Well…" He gave her a pointed look. "Accidents happen."
The air in the chamber felt heavier, charged with unspoken agreement. The gathered Purebloods exchanged knowing glances, their course set.
Adrienne flicked ash from her cigarette onto the catacomb floor. "Alors, par où commencer ?" (So. Where do we start?)
Lucien smiled. "Avec des murmures. Avec des rumeurs. Avec des alliances judicieuses et des malheurs… malheureux. Nous n'avons pas besoin de guerres pour gagner. Nous avons simplement besoin qu'elles perdent." (With whispers. With rumors. With well-placed alliances and unfortunate… misfortune. We do not need war to win. We simply need them to lose.)
Donovan's grin was predatory. "Et quand le monde tombera dans le chaos ?" (And when the world falls into chaos?)
Lucien's pale eyes gleamed. "Puis nous nous levons." (Then we rise.)
There was a beat of silence. Then, one by one, the figures faded into the tunnels, disappearing into the labyrinthine darkness of the catacombs, leaving only the flickering torchlight and the whisper of ancient bones in their wake.
—
Deep in the Carpathian wilderness, beneath the ancient canopy of black pines, Alaric Selwyn moved with cautious precision. The old Pureblood had never been a man of the wilds—his world was one of manor halls, candlelit parlors, and the smell of old parchment. But here, in the dark heart of Romania, surrounded by towering trees and the distant howls of unseen beasts, he was an intruder.
His fingers twitched on the handle of his wand, his ears straining at every rustle of leaves. Something large moved in the distance, circling. Watching.
Then, from the shadows of a gnarled oak, a low, rumbling growl slithered through the air. A hulking figure stepped into view—Fenrir Greyback.
Dressed in a tattered leather coat, his wild mane of hair barely contained, Greyback looked more wolf than man. His piercing yellow eyes glowed with predatory amusement, his smirk revealing sharp, uneven teeth.
"Well, well… an old dog like you, in my woods?" Greyback's voice was like gravel on steel, his massive frame moving with unsettling ease. "This better be good, Selwyn. Otherwise, I might just rip your throat out for sport."
Alaric straightened his coat with a theatrical huff, exuding the weary exasperation of an old noble forced to deal with uncouth savages. "Lucius Malfoy extends his regards—"
Greyback laughed, low and guttural. "Oh, I bet he does." He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a great beast readying for a pounce. "And what does the good Lord Malfoy want? Another pack of attack dogs? Tell him I don't fetch."
Alaric sighed, pulling a small, ornate box from his robes. "Lucius offers an alliance. A chance to rewrite the future of the wizarding world—your world. The Ministry of Magic is weak, and in the chaos to come, those who stand beside Malfoy will have dominion over their own."
Greyback scoffed, snatching the box from Selwyn's hands with a sneer. He popped it open, his yellow eyes scanning the blood-bound contract within. "And in return? What, exactly, do I get? Aside from the honor of licking Malfoy's boots?"
Alaric gave a thin, knowing smile. "Power, Greyback. Real power. Influence. The right to shape laws rather than break them. Imagine—a wizarding world where you decide the fate of your kind. No more scraps from the Purebloods' table. You'd own the whole damn feast."
Greyback tapped a clawed finger against the parchment, considering. "Hmmm. A tempting offer…"
Then, something shifted. A presence.
The night itself seemed to contract, the air thickening with an unseen force. The shadows between the trees darkened, swallowing the moonlight.
And then she stepped into the clearing.
Regina Lupa.
The Alpha of the Black Dragon Legion moved like a whisper of death, her black leather coat billowing around her tall, slender frame. Long dark curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face as sharp and unforgiving as the blade strapped to her thigh.
Her eyes—dark, bottomless wells of cold calculation—locked onto Greyback with a slow, deliberate intensity.
"Fenrir." Her thick Italian accent wrapped around the name like silk over steel. "You are making deals… without me?"
Greyback's smirk faltered. "This has nothing to do with you, Regina."
Regina stepped forward, each movement a slow, deliberate threat. "Oh? Nothing to do with me?" She clicked her tongue, circling him like a panther. "See… I think everything in this land has to do with me. And you?" She let the silence stretch, her eyes drinking in his every twitch. "You have forgotten… who is the Apex Predator."
Greyback's muscles tensed. "You don't scare me, Regina."
Her lips curled into a smile—cold, deadly, amused. "Oh, lupo, you should be afraid."
In a blur of motion, Regina's hand shot out, seizing Alaric Selwyn by the throat.
He barely had time to gasp before—
CRACK.
His neck snapped like dry kindling.
Greyback barely had time to react before Regina's pack emerged from the darkness—ten, twenty werewolves, their eyes gleaming with ruthless hunger.
Greyback snarled, lunging at Regina—
But she was faster.
With lightning precision, she sidestepped his charge, her dagger flashing. The blade ripped through his ribs, a twist of her wrist sending him crashing to his knees.
The pack descended upon him like a storm.
Fangs tore into muscle. Claws ripped through flesh.
Greyback screamed—a sound that started as a howl and ended as a wet, gurgling choke.
When the frenzy ended, only his severed head remained, rolling to a stop at Regina's feet.
She bent down, gripping his hair and lifting the head high for all to see.
Her voice, calm and razor-sharp, cut through the silence.
"The Black Dragon Legion does not suffer disobedience."
She turned, her wolves melting into the forest. As she strode into the darkness, she cast one last glance at Selwyn's lifeless corpse, her lips curling in amusement.
"Maleducato…" she muttered under her breath.
And then, as suddenly as they had come, they were gone.
The Carpathian forest was silent once more.
—
The wind howled between the jagged peaks, sweeping snow from the treetops like fine dust beneath the boot of some unseen giant. The clearing, hidden deep within the ancient forests of the French Alps, was bathed in moonlight, a perfect stage for those who played at power.
Regina Lupa strode through the snow with effortless grace, her thick black cloak flowing behind her like the trailing shadow of a predator. The frost-bitten air did nothing to dull the fire in her golden eyes, nor the ever-present smirk that hinted at both amusement and cruelty. She had no need for grandeur—her presence alone was enough.
Awaiting her were two men whose names carried weight even among those who thought themselves untouchable. Charlus Potter, a man of sharp wit and sharper steel, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his presence exuding the effortless arrogance of old money and older power. Even without the famed Potter charm, his very bearing was enough to make lesser men shrink. Arcturus Black, beside him, was more shadow than man, his deep-set eyes cold as the snow beneath them. He regarded the world with the patience of one who had outlived fools and intended to outlive many more.
Charlus, ever the one to break the silence first, lifted a brow as Regina approached. "Ah, Regina, my dear. I assume Greyback is no longer polluting the gene pool?"
Regina smirked, pulling back her hood. "You assume correct, caro mio. He is dead." She rolled her wrist as if brushing off something trivial. "The kind of dead that does not come back, sì?"
Arcturus gave her an approving nod, though his face remained as unreadable as carved stone. "Good. It was about time someone put down that rabid beast." His gaze flickered to her hands. "I take it you didn't bother bringing us his head? A pity. It would have made an excellent decoration for my study."
Regina let out a throaty laugh, rich and full of mockery. "I would have, Arcturus, but—ah—his face was already so ugly. I do not think even your walls deserve such a crime."
Charlus chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "She has a point, cousin. Even the Blacks have standards, however dubious."
Arcturus gave a long-suffering sigh. "You both mistake me. I wasn't thinking of displaying it—I was thinking of sending it. Imagine the delight on Malfoy's face when he opens a fine mahogany box only to find Greyback's severed head staring back at him." He allowed himself a slight smirk. "Perhaps with a note: 'Loyalty has its consequences.'"
Charlus hummed in thought. "A bit on the nose, don't you think?"
Regina grinned. "I like it."
A new voice cut through the cold air. "Men and their obsession with theatrics."
Augusta Longbottom stepped into the clearing, wrapped in fur and disdain. The years had not softened her; they had tempered her into something sharp and indomitable. Even Charlus—who bowed for no one—inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"Augusta," he greeted smoothly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"I came to ensure that you two hadn't lost your spines in my absence," Augusta replied coolly. Her sharp eyes flickered to Regina. "And to meet the woman who kills werewolves as easily as one swats flies."
Regina, rather than bristle at the remark, tilted her head in amusement. "Ah, Signora Longbottom. Your reputation precedes you."
"As does yours." Augusta studied her for a long moment, then nodded approvingly. "Efficient. I like that."
Charlus sighed dramatically. "And yet, no such approval for me, dear Augusta? I'm wounded."
"You'll live," Augusta deadpanned. "Unfortunately."
Arcturus chuckled. "A rare occasion indeed, Charlus—being outmatched."
Charlus sighed, looking up at the sky as though asking some higher power why he was burdened with fools. "I am surrounded by critics."
Regina folded her arms. "Si, and yet you survive."
He smirked. "Potter resilience, my dear."
Arcturus rolled his eyes. "Enough games. What of the Black Dragon Legion?"
Regina's smirk faded into something more serious. "We are ready," she said simply. "The wolves follow me. The packs in Italy and the Balkans know what is at stake. When the time comes, they will fight."
Augusta nodded, satisfied. "Then we're in agreement." She turned to Charlus and Arcturus. "It seems we have our war."
Charlus gave her a sharp grin, the same one that had sent generations of enemies to their knees. "Then let us make sure we win."
And in the moonlit clearing, among the whispering snow and shifting shadows, the fate of nations was sealed with words and promises, spoken by those who shaped history in silence.
—
Lucius Malfoy sat behind his grand mahogany desk, his fingers tracing absentmindedly over the embossed silver inlay as he studied the documents before him. The flickering fire in the hearth bathed the room in warm, golden light, casting long, wavering shadows across the richly furnished study. A crystal decanter of aged elf-made wine sat untouched beside him, its contents as still as the air in the manor—a silence only interrupted by the occasional crackling of the flames.
He had sent Alaric Selwyn to Romania with a simple task: secure Fenrir Greyback's allegiance. The werewolf's brutality, while distasteful, was a useful tool. With the Ministry of Magic within his grasp, Lucius needed muscle to reinforce the Dark Lord's ambitions, and Greyback's pack could provide just that. Alaric was competent—pragmatic, cunning, and well-versed in diplomacy. There should have been no difficulty.
So why had a house-elf just entered his study carrying two ornate boxes?
The tiny creature, its oversized eyes brimming with fearful anticipation, stepped forward hesitantly and placed the boxes upon the desk. They were masterfully crafted—dark oak, polished to an almost liquid sheen, inlaid with intricate carvings of a dragon and a wolf intertwined. Atop the first lay a card, its edges gilded, the lettering elegant yet undeniably firm.
"The Legion sends their regards. – Regina Lupa."
Lucius' pale fingers curled slightly as he read the name. Regina Lupa. The Alpha of the Italian werewolves. A name he had not anticipated encountering tonight.
He did not speak. He did not move. His expression did not falter, but his entire being sharpened with suspicion, like a blade poised above a victim's throat. A single glance at the ornate craftsmanship of the boxes was enough to recognize the intent behind them. Gifts wrapped with too much care were rarely given with good intentions.
With deliberate grace, Lucius lifted the lid of the first box.
Alaric Selwyn's severed head greeted him.
His once-sharp blue eyes, forever frozen in an expression of abject horror, stared up at Lucius—accusatory, pleading, empty. Dried blood crusted the severed edges of his neck, staining the silken lining of the box a deep, rust-colored hue. His lips were parted slightly, as though his last breath had been stolen mid-plea.
Lucius inhaled slowly, willing himself to remain utterly still.
Carefully, he replaced the lid and turned to the second box, lifting it with the same measured patience.
The snarling, lifeless visage of Fenrir Greyback stared back at him.
Even in death, the beast exuded menace. His sharp, yellowed teeth jutted from his mouth in an eternal snarl, his matted hair tangled with blood, his eyes—once burning with feral hunger—now glazed over in a grim, vacant glare. Lucius exhaled through his nose, shutting the box with a quiet click before leaning back into his chair.
Regina Lupa had sent her message.
It was not merely a rejection of his offer; it was a warning.
For the first time in years, a flicker of unease slithered down Lucius' spine. He was no stranger to threats, nor to the calculated brutality of men like Voldemort, but this—this was different. The Legion did not operate on the whims of ideology or the arrogance of pureblood supremacy. They answered only to power. Their movements were precise, their methods absolute.
And they had decided that Fenrir Greyback—and by extension, Lucius Malfoy—were beneath them.
With slow, practiced control, he reached for the gilded card once more. His cold, grey eyes roved over the inked letters again, as though searching for some hidden meaning. Finding none, he flicked the card into the fire. He watched impassively as it curled and blackened, its edges turning to ash before crumbling into the flames.
The Black Dragon Legion had chosen a side.
This was not merely an inconvenience. It was a problem.
Still, Lucius Malfoy was no fool. He would not react rashly. His mind was already moving through contingencies, recalculating alliances, reassessing weaknesses. The Legion had drawn their line. That did not mean it could not be crossed.
He straightened, smoothing a hand over his pristine waistcoat, and reached for his quill. There were letters to be written, alliances to reconsider. The board had shifted. The game was no longer what he had planned.
But he would not be bested.
Not by them.
—
French Alps, 1986
The crisp mountain air carried the laughter of children and adults alike as snow crunched beneath playful footsteps. High in the secluded peaks of the French Alps, a luxurious ski resort played host to the most chaotic, cutthroat snowball fight in wizarding history.
On one side: Sirius Black, the self-proclaimed captain of Team Adults, stood tall with a mischievous glint in his grey eyes, his thick black coat dusted with snow from previous ambushes. The towering wizard, broad-shouldered and exuding the easy confidence of a man who could charm or outfight just about anyone, grinned as he surveyed his team like a battlefield general.
"Alright, listen up, you magnificent bastards," Sirius declared, dusting snow off his gloves. "We've got experience, size, and superior intellect on our side—"
"—and yet, you're the first one who got hit in the face," Amelia Bones interrupted smoothly, adjusting her scarf. Amelia, all sharp wit and deadly precision, stood beside Andromeda Tonks and Appoline Delacour, who were exchanging amused glances.
Sirius scowled dramatically, rubbing his cheek. "That was a cheap shot, Amelia. Who taught these gremlins to aim?"
From across the snow-covered battlefield, Fleur Delacour, only nine years old and already commanding her team with all the grace and arrogance of a future champion, tossed her silver-blonde hair over her shoulder and smirked. "I deed," she said proudly, her French accent thick as she tilted her chin defiantly.
Beside her, six-year-old Gabrielle Delacour nodded eagerly, her brown eyes wide with excitement. "Oui! We will destroy you!"
Sirius raised a brow. "Gabrielle, sweetheart, you're six. The only thing you're destroying is my faith in karma because I know I was a little shit at your age, and yet this is still happening to me."
"Language!" Dorea Potter, regal and composed even in a snowy war zone, chided from the sidelines. She stood beside Melania Black and Augusta Longbottom, all three witches wrapped in rich furs and watching the chaos unfold with the air of queens observing their unruly subjects.
Sirius sighed dramatically. "Right, no cursing in front of the children. Wouldn't want them to learn such horrible words like—oh, I don't know—'self-control' or 'patience.'"
Augusta, unimpressed, arched a single, steel-hard brow. "You'll be learning the word hospital if you don't start winning, Black."
Sirius whistled low. "Damn, Augusta. Ever consider taking up motivational speaking?"
Augusta smirked. "I motivate with fear, dear boy."
On the children's side, Harry Potter, small but scrappy, crouched behind a makeshift snow fortress, his green eyes alight with determination. Beside him, Neville Longbottom, looking slightly less terrified than usual, packed a snowball with the intense focus of someone preparing for battle. Susan Bones, freckles dusted across her cold-reddened cheeks, adjusted her earmuffs before tossing a freshly made snowball to Tonks, who was already giggling at the chaos.
"Alright," Fleur whispered to her team, her face the picture of seriousness. "Zey are big, oui, but zey are slow. We 'ave de speed. And we 'ave Tonks."
Tonks, her vibrant hair now a cheeky shade of bright blue, grinned. "Are you saying I'm a secret weapon?"
Fleur smirked. "No, I am saying you are a distraction."
Tonks gasped. "I feel used."
"You are," Gabrielle chirped.
Meanwhile, Amelia was already forming a very adult counter-strategy. "Andromeda, Appoline—focus on their leaders. Sirius needs to be taken out first. Fleur will be next—she's got too much strategy for a kid."
"And what about the six-year-olds?" Andromeda asked dryly.
"We'll pick them off later," Amelia said with a wicked grin.
"Wow," Sirius deadpanned. "Remind me to never let you babysit."
The war began.
Sirius was the first to charge, letting out a battle cry that was equal parts terrifying and ridiculous. "For honor! For glory! For the fact that I refuse to lose to children!"
A snowball smacked him square in the face.
"Zat was for earlier!" Fleur called triumphantly.
Amelia laughed so hard she nearly fell into a snowdrift. "Oh, that was satisfying."
Sirius wiped the snow from his face and nodded, impressed. "Alright. That was fair. NEVILLE, YOU'RE NEXT."
Neville let out a very unheroic yelp and ducked behind Harry.
Harry, meanwhile, was in his element. "Tonks, flank left! Fleur, keep the adults distracted! Neville, throw something!"
Neville hesitated—then lobbed a snowball directly at Andromeda, hitting her square in the shoulder.
Andromeda blinked. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" She calmly rolled up her sleeves.
Meanwhile, Gabrielle—small, ruthless, adorable—had somehow climbed onto Sirius' back and was shoving snow down his coat.
"BETRAYAL!" Sirius bellowed, flailing. "MELANIA, CALL OFF YOUR RELATIVES!"
Melania Black, watching with a perfectly serene expression, sipped her hot cocoa. "Non."
Half an hour later…
The battlefield was a mess. Snow was everywhere. Dorea and Melania had, at some point, been caught in the crossfire and were now furious. Augusta, somehow untouched, simply smirked.
On the ground, covered in snow, Sirius groaned. "We lost."
Harry, standing victoriously atop the remains of a snow fortress, beamed. "Yes. Yes, you did."
Fleur stood beside him, looking far too smug. "It eez what eet eez, mon ami."
Sirius sighed. "I don't know why I expected anything else from a kid raised by the French."
Gabrielle, bouncing beside her sister, grinned. "We are ze best."
Sirius groaned. "I think my ego is frostbitten."
Amelia, lying in the snow beside him, grinned. "Oh, I could warm it up for you—"
"Absolutely not," Sirius interrupted. "I know exactly what that means, and the answer is no."
Augusta clapped her hands. "Alright, enough foolishness. Inside. Hot chocolate. Now."
They trailed inside, still laughing, still teasing, still family.
And if Sirius spent the entire evening plotting revenge against a bunch of six-year-olds?
Well.
That was his business.
—
The morning sun painted the French Alps in a breathtaking glow, the snow-capped peaks gleaming like something out of a postcard. It was the perfect day for skiing—or, in Sirius Black's words, "the perfect day to risk life and limb for the sake of adrenaline and style."
With his signature roguish grin, Sirius clapped his hands together, surveying the assembled children and adults. "Alright, my little daredevils, time to slap on some skis and pretend we know what we're doing!"
"Correction," Amelia Bones interjected, adjusting her sleek ski jacket with military efficiency, "time to learn properly before you break something and I have to write an incident report."
Andromeda Tonks smirked. "You say that like you don't secretly enjoy paperwork."
Ted Tonks, ever the voice of reason (or at least trying to be), knelt to help Susan and Neville tighten their ski boots. "We'll start slow, get used to the feel of it first," he said in his calm, reassuring way.
Meanwhile, Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour were already standing effortlessly on their skis, looking infuriatingly elegant despite their young ages. Fleur tossed her golden hair and called out to Harry, who was currently wobbling like a newborn deer.
"'Arry, bend your knees! And do not fall on your face, oui?"
Harry, determined not to fall on his face in front of the ridiculously pretty French girl, nodded fiercely. He immediately lost balance and crashed into Tonks, sending them both into the snow in a flurry of limbs.
"MERLIN'S BEARD, POTTER!" Tonks squeaked from beneath him, her pink hair flashing through the snow like a beacon of bad luck.
Sirius, who had absolutely seen that coming, doubled over in laughter. "That was beautiful. Ten out of ten, would watch again."
Amelia crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Maybe instead of mocking the kids, you could help them."
Sirius wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, come on, Amelia, you know me—I believe in tough love. Like throwing them down the hill and letting them learn through sheer survival instincts."
Susan, tightening her scarf, gave him a skeptical look. "That doesn't sound like a good teaching method."
"Depends," Sirius mused. "Are we talking good as in effective, or good as in won't get me yelled at?"
"Sirius, I will throw you down the hill," Amelia threatened, her piercing blue eyes locked onto him like a trained predator.
Sirius held up his hands. "Fine, fine, I'll be good." A beat. "Or at least sneaky about it."
After a fair amount of struggle, bribery, and threats (mostly from Amelia), the group finally got into position on a beginner's slope.
"Alright," Ted called out, adjusting his own skis like the responsible adult he pretended to be. "Everyone, take it slow. Just a little glide forward, keep your weight centered, and—"
Neville, the human disaster, immediately lost control and barreled forward at an alarming speed.
"OH NO—OH NO, OH NO, OH NO!"
Augusta Longbottom, watching from a safe distance, sighed dramatically. "Merlin help us all."
Fleur, having the reflexes of an angelic Quidditch-playing goddess, swerved expertly in front of Neville, blocking his path with the precision of a seasoned champion.
"NEVILLE!" she scolded. "Lean back, not forward, you will crash!"
Neville immediately crashed into her.
Gabrielle, watching from the sidelines, giggled behind her mittens. "Zat was not very elegant."
Harry, meanwhile, had managed to stay upright for a solid twenty seconds before Sirius decided to help.
"Oi, kiddo, time to see if you've got your dad's reflexes!" Sirius cackled and gave Harry the lightest push.
Harry yelped as he shot down the slope, wobbling dangerously.
"You absolute menace!" Amelia shouted as she took off after him, her skis slicing through the snow in perfect, controlled movements.
"That's what they used to call me!" Sirius called back smugly. "Now, they just call me legendary."
Susan, watching this chaos unfold, turned to Tonks. "I feel like this is going to end badly."
Tonks grinned. "Oh, absolutely. But isn't it fun?"
Unfortunately for Sirius, karma was swift and merciless.
As he stood laughing at his own antics, Fleur and Gabrielle exchanged a silent sisterly glance. Then, with a perfectly synchronized shove, they sent him down the slope at full speed.
"MERDE!" Sirius bellowed as he lost control, arms pinwheeling.
"Balance, Sirius!" Gabrielle called sweetly. "Remember, eet's all about balance and control!"
Amelia, watching Sirius hurtle past her, smirked. "Oh, that was satisfying."
Ted, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, nodded solemnly. "I think that just made my entire trip."
Sirius, now an undignified snow-covered mess at the bottom of the slope, groaned. "I hate those girls."
Harry, breathless from laughing, skied down and skidded to a perfect stop beside him. "You love them."
Sirius sighed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
By the time they made it back to the lodge, everyone was in dire need of warmth, snacks, and perhaps therapy.
"To surviving Sirius' teaching methods," Amelia said dryly, raising her mug of hot chocolate.
"To Sirius finally getting humbled," Andromeda added, smirking as Sirius flipped her off.
"To making memories zat will last forever!" Fleur chimed in, eyes sparkling.
"To not dying!" Neville declared, looking immensely proud of himself.
Harry grinned, toasting his own mug. "And to next time!"
Sirius, recovering his usual cocky grin, leaned back in his chair. "Oh, next time, I'm winning. Just you wait."
Tonks snorted. "You literally ate snow today."
"Details, details," Sirius dismissed with a wave. "All I know is, I'm the best damn ski instructor you lot will ever have."
Amelia gave him a long, unimpressed stare.
"…The most entertaining ski instructor," he corrected with a wink.
And as the laughter rang through the cozy lodge, it was clear that this day, chaotic as it was, would be remembered as one of their best.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!