The morning air is crisp as Adam makes his way alone toward Hogsmeade. A gentle breeze carries the scent of damp earth and chimney smoke, the remnants of the village's nightly fires still lingering in the air. It’s early—so early that the sun has barely begun its ascent, painting the sky in hues of soft orange and gold. The cobbled streets, usually bustling with life, are nearly deserted save for a few shopkeepers setting up for the day. A distant chime from the clock tower signals the steady approach of morning.

Perched comfortably on his shoulder, Seraphina, fluffs her feathers against the chill. She has long since decided that accompanying Adam to Hogsmeade is part of her morning routine. Experience has taught her that the Three Broomsticks—specifically, Madam Rosmerta—is a reliable source of extra treats. Her sharp amber eyes flicker toward the inn as they approach, as if anticipating the inevitable spoiling she is about to receive.

As Adam steps inside, warmth immediately envelops him. The air is thick with the scent of butterbeer, roasted nuts, and the faint trace of spiced mead. Despite the absence of Hogwarts students at this hour, the inn is already lively. A handful of early patrons sit scattered around, engaged in quiet conversations, their voices mingling with the clinking of tankards and the occasional burst of laughter. The fire in the hearth crackles, casting a golden glow over the polished wooden tables.

At the bar, Madam Rosmerta is wiping down a few tankards, her practiced movements quick and efficient. She looks up as Adam approaches, a knowing smile curving her lips.

"Master Adam," she greets, setting a mug aside. “I don’t know what kind of organization you’ve put together, but I must say, they’ve been good for business. More people come through here now, and while they’re polite, they’re also rather… intimidating.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “They seem to know everything about us, yet we know so little about them. Even the ones I’ve befriended don’t say much. A mysterious lot, your people.”

Adam merely inclines his head, unsurprised. "Don’t worry, Rosmerta. I’m not raising an army," he says lightly, resting an elbow on the bar. "It’s just a side project, like I told you before."

Rosmerta gives him a skeptical look, her eyes twinkling with curiosity, but she knows better than to push. Instead, she gestures toward Seraphina, who has already begun preening herself with deliberate nonchalance.

"Well, I hope your 'side project' keeps bringing business," she remarks. "Now, let me see what I have for this little lady."

With a knowing wink, she reaches beneath the counter and produces a small dish of treats. Seraphina hoots approvingly, hopping from Adam’s shoulder onto the bar with a graceful flutter of wings.

Leaving her in Rosmerta’s capable hands, Adam takes his leave and steps back onto the cobbled streets. His destination is just a short walk away—a modest-looking building nestled between two larger shops, its exterior unassuming.

Inside, Adam is immediately greeted by Old Man Barry, who bows slightly in respect. His graying hair is neatly combed back, and his ever-practical robes bear faint traces of magical residue—evidence of a morning spent ensuring everything runs as it should.

“Young master,” Barry begins, his voice steady. “As you requested, we’ve expanded our numbers. We now have around 150 dedicated to intelligence gathering and another 100 handling magical creatures. Recruitment has been steady, and training is progressing well.”

Adam folds his arms, his gaze assessing. “And your son? Is he managing well?”

Barry chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You needn’t worry, young master. He’s a natural at this. Everything is running smoothly. We’ve divided tasks based on individual capabilities and have been tracking their progress over the past month. There have been no major issues.”

“Good.” Adam glances around the room, noting the quiet hum of activity—quills scratching against parchment, murmured discussions, and the occasional flare of magic from one of the training areas deeper within the headquarters. “Is he inside?”

“No, young master. He’s out handling organization matters.”

Adam nods in understanding before stepping further inside, his mind already shifting toward the task ahead. The headquarters, though outwardly modest, houses an operation that thrives in secrecy. Every member is carefully vetted, their skills honed, their loyalty ensured. Over the past few weeks, there had been no irregularities. But today is different.

Around thirty members are present, gathered in the main hall for the usual assessments. Adam wastes no time, moving through the room with quiet precision, conducting individual Legilimency interviews. He probes gently, searching for inconsistencies, deceit, or hidden loyalties. Most minds are open books—some filled with excitement for their roles, others carrying the disciplined focus of seasoned operatives. All pass without issue.

Until Adam reaches one man.

The moment their eyes meet, Adam senses something is off. The man’s Occlumency is decent, far better than most, but it’s nothing compared to Adam’s skill. With practiced ease, he slips past the man’s mental barriers, unraveling layers of thought, and that’s when he sees it—dark robes, a snarling mask, the unmistakable brand burned into flesh.

A Death Eater.

Despite the revelation, Adam doesn’t so much as blink. The man, oblivious to the fact that his secret is already laid bare, continues answering each question smoothly, his responses measured, his demeanor impeccable. He reveals nothing beyond what is expected, nothing that would raise suspicion—at least, not to an untrained eye.

He listens, nods in all the right places, and never lets on that he knows the truth. The interview concludes as seamlessly as the others, but when Adam compiles the final list of those who have passed, one name is deliberately absent.

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Turning to Barry, Adam lowers his voice. “Obliviate his memories of our organization,” he instructs. His tone is calm, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. “And keep a close watch on him. He’s a Death Eater.”

Barry’s expression darkens, his usual easy demeanor replaced with quiet steel. “Understood.”

With that settled, Adam steps out of the headquarters, the weight of the encounter pressing against his thoughts. He has no doubt that more infiltrators will come.

For now, however, there are other matters to attend to.

The rest of the day unfolds in its usual rhythm—meeting up with Ron, Hermione, and their friends at the Three Broomsticks, sharing some stories, feigning normalcy in a world that is anything but. Then, as dusk settles over the castle grounds, Adam makes his way toward the creatures around hogwarts.

Argos stirs in the Black Lake, his massive form creating ripples across the darkened water. The Grindyowls watches from afar. The Acromantula colony shifts in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, their webbed domain stretching like ghostly threads. The Diricawls bob about, their bright plumage ruffling in the cool breeze. Puffskeins roll over one another playfully, while the Fire Salamanders flicker like embers, their scales glowing faintly in the dim light. The Thestrals remain eerily still, their skeletal wings folded neatly at their sides.

And then there are Thor and Buckbeak, lingering near Hagrid’s hut.

As Adam moves among them, offering food, checking for injuries, and murmuring quiet reassurances.

Sunday arrives under a sky heavy with storm clouds, the air thick with the scent of rain and ozone. The first Quidditch match of the year—Gryffindor versus Slytherin—proceeds despite the relentless downpour, a decision met with both excitement and dread. Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance as students, bundled in cloaks and scarves, trudge toward the Quidditch stadium.

Rain lashes against Adam’s face as he walks alongside Ron and Hermione, their steps careful on the slippery stone paths. Puddles form in the dips of the castle grounds, and the howling wind makes even simple conversation a challenge.

“This is a terrible day for a match,” Ron grumbles, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as a particularly strong gust nearly knocks him off balance.

“I don’t like this weather either,” Hermione mutters, shaking out her already frizzing hair with a sigh of frustration.

Despite the miserable conditions, the stadium is packed, the crowd’s enthusiasm unfazed by the elements. Fans wave their house banners with soaked, freezing hands, their cheers barely audible over the roaring wind. The players mount their brooms, rainwater streaming off their Quidditch robes as Madam Hooch steps forward, whistle at the ready.

With a sharp blast, the match begins.

Gryffindor fights hard, but the storm makes flying treacherous. Visibility is abysmal, and the Quaffle slips through wet fingers more often than not. Slytherin quickly pulls ahead, their players using brute force to muscle through the wind, gaining a forty-point lead within the first hour. The Gryffindor Keeper struggles against the unpredictable gusts, and even Adam, watching from the stands, can tell that controlling a broom in this weather is nearly impossible.

Adam’s gaze flickers upward, tracking Harry as he suddenly spots the Golden Snitch. In an instant, he takes off, the Slytherin Seeker hot on his trail. The two soar higher and higher, disappearing into the storm clouds, their forms swallowed by the relentless sheets of rain.

Then, something shifts.

Minutes pass, and only one player returns.

The Slytherin Seeker descends, scanning the field—but he does not hold the Snitch.

And then everyone sees it.

From the heavens, a body plummets—limp, unconscious.

Harry.

A murmur of horror sweeps through the stadium, but Adam barely hears it. His focus is on the dark, wraithlike figures descending rapidly after Harry, their skeletal hands outstretched. Dementors.

His grip tightens on the railing, his heart pounding. The temperature plummets as their presence spreads an unnatural chill through the air. The storm rages around them, but all the students feel is the suffocating weight of the creatures drawing closer to Harry’s falling form.

And then—

A flash of silver.

Dumbledore’s Patronus streaks across the sky like a comet, driving the Dementors back with a blinding surge of light. At the same moment, a well-timed slowing charm eases Harry’s descent, turning his near-fatal fall into a controlled landing. The Headmaster stands among the professors in the sitting area, his expression unreadable, but the fury radiating from him is undeniable.

The match is over.

Professors hurry onto the field, shielding Harry as he is taken to the hospital wing. The murmurs from the stands grow louder as students are ushered back toward the castle, the energy of the crowd shifting from excitement to unease. Adam reaches the hospital wing with the other students and watches as Harry is levitated onto a bed, Madam Pomfrey muttering about reckless decisions and “the absolute state of his condition.” She declares that he will wake later, but Adam already knows that.

Adam turns away, slipping from the main crowd and making his way toward Hogsmeade. The rain has eased, but the air remains thick with tension.

There, waiting at the entrance of the headquarters, stands a figure Adam has yet to meet in person—William, Old Man Barry’s son.

The young man is composed, his posture straight with a quiet confidence that speaks of years spent learning under his father. Though he has graduated from Hogwarts, he has chosen to stay, managing his father’s business and now overseeing aspects of the growing organization.

William inclines his head respectfully. “Young master.”

Adam studies him for a moment, then nods approvingly. “You’ve done well. Keep up the good work—this organization will only grow larger.”

William’s lips curl into a small, determined smile. “I won’t let you down.”

By afternoon, the storm has finally passed, leaving the grounds damp and glistening under the weak winter sun. The air is still heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and puddles reflect the gray sky as Adam makes his way back to Hogwarts.

Before heading to his own affairs, Adam takes a detour to the hospital wing.

Inside, the scent of antiseptic potions and fresh linens fills the air, and the room is hushed despite the steady bustle of Madam Pomfrey tending to her patients. At the far end, Harry sits propped up on a bed, looking unusually pale. Ron stands beside him, his expression hesitant, while Hermione perches on a nearby chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Adam arrives just in time to hear Ron break the bad news.

“…And then, well—your broom sort of—” Ron falters, glancing at Hermione for help.

“It got blown by what happened,” she finishes quietly.

The devastation on Harry’s face is immediate. His fingers grip the blanket as he stares ahead, processing the loss of his Nimbus 2000. It wasn’t just any broom—it was a gift from professor Minerva McGonagall.

Adam steps closer. “How are you feeling?”

Harry lets out a tired sigh. “Like I fell from a hundred feet in the air.”

Adam smirks. “That’s because you did.”

Harry doesn’t laugh. He barely musters a half-hearted huff before groaning and sinking back onto his pillow.

“Don’t worry,” Adam reassures him, his voice steady. “Just rest. Everything else can wait.”

Harry doesn’t reply, but his tense shoulders relax slightly. Satisfied, Adam takes a step back, exchanging a glance with Ron and Hermione before turning to leave. They’ll take care of him—of that, he has no doubt.