Smoke and mirrors

by Dale4249

Summary:

John is a wizard he attended Hogwarts as a Slytherin he was two years above snape they were friends. Dumbledore needs a defense teacher and lucky for him he’s got some blackmail stuff to dangle over John’s head.

Chapter 1

It was raining when John Constantine arrived at Hogsmeade Station—because of course it bloody was.

He stepped off the train in a cloud of cigarette smoke, trench coat flapping around his legs like a half-hearted cloak, eyes flicking toward the looming castle in the distance with all the fondness of a man staring down a prison sentence. The air smelled like wet grass and nostalgia. He hated it.

He lit another cigarette before the first was finished.

A hunched figure waited for him near the edge of the platform. “Mr. Constantine?”

“Unfortunately.”

The figure straightened, revealing the unmistakable shape of Argus Filch. Still alive. Still hideous. “Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to escort you—”

“Not necessary,” John interrupted. “I remember the way. Still got the emotional scars to prove it.”

Filch scowled but said nothing as John turned and started the slow climb toward the castle, flicking ash onto the slick stone path. He didn’t need to be told why he was here. Dumbledore’s letter had been vague, as always—A matter of urgency, your talents required, blah blah blah—but the bastard wouldn’t have summoned him without a reason.

He could have ignored it. Should have.

But then he saw the second parchment. No signature. Just a word.

Newcastle.

⸻

The gargoyle moved aside before he even reached it. Smug old man probably enchanted it to open at the scent of nicotine and existential dread.

John stepped onto the spiral staircase, ascending into Dumbledore’s office like he was being ferried to the gallows. The door creaked open on its own, and there he was—Albus bloody Dumbledore, in all his eccentric, twinkly-eyed glory, seated behind his enormous desk like a wizarding Santa Claus with a secret hit list.

“John,” he said, voice warm, inviting. “It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough,” John muttered, not sitting. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. What the hell do you want?”

Dumbledore gestured to the chair across from him. “Please. Humor an old man.”

John didn’t move.

Dumbledore sighed, lacing his fingers together. “Very well. I’ll be blunt. I need you to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”

John laughed—once, sharp and mirthless. “No.”

“You’ll be well compensated. And—”

“Not interested.”

“You haven’t even heard the reason.”

John leaned forward, dropping ash onto the priceless carpet. “Don’t care. I don’t do classrooms. I don’t do children. And I sure as shit don’t work for institutions that hide behind tradition and send kids to die.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly, and there it was—the flicker behind the glasses, the calculation. “But you’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

Silence.

Dumbledore opened a drawer and set a manila envelope on the desk. Muggle, of course. So Constantine would understand the weight of it.

“Newcastle,” Dumbledore said, voice low and gentle, like a knife dipped in honey. “Such a tragedy. A failed exorcism. A young girl lost. A mistake… that could so easily be made public.”

John’s mouth went dry. His fists clenched.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“I would prefer not to,” Dumbledore said, with that maddening calm. “But should you refuse this request, I may find myself… unable to suppress the truth any longer. The wizarding world deserves to know who walks among them, don’t you think?”

John stared at him. “You manipulative, sanctimonious bastard.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

John snatched the envelope, not even bothering to look inside. He already knew what was in it—pictures, reports, the screams of a girl burned into paper. He’d lived it. He didn’t need a refresher.

“I’ll teach,” he said, voice raw with fury. “But don’t expect me to play nice with the staff, the students, or your bloody Ministry friends. I’ll do it my way, or not at all.”

Dumbledore smiled, maddeningly serene. “Of course, John. I knew I could count on you.”

John turned, coat whipping behind him as he stalked out of the office.

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore called after him.

John didn’t answer. He lit another cigarette with shaking fingers and muttered to himself:

“Place still smells like lies.”

Chapter 2

The dungeons hadn’t changed.

Same cold stone walls, same flickering torches casting shadows like reaching fingers. Same lingering smell of damp, chemicals, and ambition.

John stood outside the Potions classroom door, debating whether to knock or just kick it in. He opted for neither and let himself in, because courtesy was never his style—and because he knew it would piss Snape off.

It worked.

Severus Snape looked up from a cauldron with a scowl that could curdle milk. The years had sharpened him, narrowed him into something blade-like and dangerous. The black robes, the tightly clenched jaw, the unmistakable air of contempt—it was like time had folded in on itself.

“Constantine,” Snape said, as though the name tasted like bile. “To what do I owe the desecration of my workspace?”

“Missed me, then?”

Snape sneered. “Like a hole in the head.”

John stepped in, flicking ash onto the stone floor as he surveyed the room. It looked almost exactly like it had when they were students—cold, clinical, unforgiving.

Like Severus.

“I hear you’re teaching Defense this year,” Snape said, returning to his stirring. “Dumbledore must be truly desperate.”

“He is,” John replied. “But then again, so was I once.”

Snape’s hand stilled for just a second. Just enough.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.

“Neither should you,” John countered, casually circling the room like a wolf testing the boundaries. “But here we are.”

“You’re going to get someone killed.”

“Probably. But I’ll teach them how to fight first.”

Snape looked up again, eyes like two chips of obsidian. “You never change.”

“And you never let go.”

The tension snapped taut between them like a tripwire.

There had been a time when they didn’t speak with words. When sharp glances across common room tables meant follow me, and slammed doors meant shut up and take your clothes off. When everything they felt had to be buried under sarcasm and bruises, because softness was dangerous and vulnerability was suicide.

They had ended like they began—messily. No goodbyes. No clean cuts.

John moved closer, slow, deliberate. “Still pissed at me?”

Snape scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But I do wonder—” John leaned in, dropping his voice, “—if you ever think about it. About us.”

Snape’s expression didn’t flicker, but John saw the pulse in his throat. The small, involuntary catch in his breath.

“I think about a lot of mistakes,” Snape said. “You’re merely one of the more spectacular ones.”

John grinned. “Still poetic.”

“And you’re still insufferable.”

They stood there in the dim light, surrounded by vials and silence, ghosts of what they used to be pressed against the walls.

Finally, Snape turned back to his cauldron. “If you’re finished wasting my time, I suggest you prepare your lesson plans. The first years are easy. The older ones are… more complicated.”

“I don’t do lesson plans.”

“Of course not.”

John paused at the door. “You know he’s blackmailing me, right?”

Snape didn’t look up. “He blackmails all of us, in his own way.”

John’s smile faded.

“See you around, Severus.”

Snape didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him.

Chapter 3

The Hogwarts staffroom looked smaller than John remembered.

It was still the same drafty stone box with mismatched chairs, a crackling fireplace, and a faint smell of burnt tea leaves. He hadn’t been in here since his final year, when he’d been summoned once to explain how half a dozen sixth years had ended up hexed to think they were frogs.

He hadn’t told them the frogs were actually an improvement.

Now, he was back. And older. And somehow more tired than ever.

When he walked in, the room quieted—just a beat. Not dramatic, but noticeable. The kind of silence that says someone interesting just walked into the room, and we don’t know if we’re glad about it.

McGonagall looked up first.

“John Constantine,” she said, in that clipped, Scottish tone that could still freeze fire. “I can’t decide if I should be surprised or alarmed.”

He grinned, flicking ash into a floating tray someone had charmed ages ago. “You always did say I had potential.”

“You also had detention every other week,” she said. But her mouth twitched upward—just slightly.

“Good to see you too, Professor.”

“It’s Minerva now,” she said, standing to greet him properly. “We’re colleagues, not jailor and inmate anymore.”

He took her hand, just for a second. Her grip was firm, warm. “I think I preferred it the other way.”

Flitwick’s voice piped up cheerfully from a small chair near the fire. “Well, well, Mr. Constantine! You’ve managed not to explode anything since walking through the door—I’m impressed!”

John gave him a half-bow. “Good to see you, Professor. I still remember that Shield Charm you taught me—saved my life more than once.”

Flitwick beamed. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic. And the illegal.”

“I like to think of it as innovative.”

Sprout gave him a nod from behind a pile of seed catalogs. “Don’t bring dark magic into my greenhouses and we’ll get along just fine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Trelawney blinked at him from behind her thick glasses, eyes narrowed. “You’re surrounded by spirits,” she said airily. “Terrible, restless ones.”

John exhaled a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah, well, they can get in line.”

Snape swept in a moment later, robes billowing as always. His eyes landed on John for a fraction of a second, then flicked away like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just spoken hours ago in the dungeons. Like John didn’t know every inch of that man’s skin and every place it hurt.

Typical.

Dumbledore was last, gliding in with his damnable calm and twinkling eyes. “Ah, you’ve met the team.”

“You make it sound like I’m joining a bloody Quidditch league.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Language, Constantine.”

He smirked. “That’s probably not going to stick.”

Dumbledore ignored him. “You’ll have your classroom keys by morning. Your first lesson will be with the fourth years. I trust you’ll make a strong impression.”

“Oh, I always do.”

They moved on, conversation slipping into other matters—tournament security, enchanted wards, class schedules. John stayed near the back, smoking quietly, listening.

It felt strange—being among them. Being on the other side of it all. For the first time, he realized they weren’t all just professors. They were tired, brilliant, flawed people, too. People who had once looked at him and seen… something worth salvaging.

McGonagall passed by him on the way out.

“You may be a disaster waiting to happen, John,” she said under her breath. “But I always did enjoy watching you burn.”

He smiled.

“Stick around, Professor,” he said. “I’ve got a hell of a show planned.”

Chapter 4

The Great Hall looked just like it had when John was a student: too bright, too loud, and trying far too hard to impress.

The enchanted ceiling shimmered with stars, the candles floated serenely overhead, and the four house tables were packed with excited, chattering students in freshly pressed robes. Even now, it set something sour in his stomach—nostalgia laced with bitterness, like biting into an apple and finding it rotting from the core.

John sat at the far end of the staff table, slouched low in his chair with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He’d been warned—repeatedly—that smoking during the feast was “strongly discouraged.” Which was precisely why he hadn’t lit one yet. He liked to make people nervous.

“Looking regal as ever,” he muttered to Snape, who was seated two chairs down, arms folded and expression set in stone.

Snape didn’t look at him. “Try not to speak unless absolutely necessary.”

John grinned. “I’ve missed this delightful back-and-forth.”

The chatter in the Hall swelled as the doors opened and the first-years were led in. Tiny, wide-eyed things. They looked more like bait than students. John scanned the crowd without meaning to. His eyes caught Harry Potter near the center of the Gryffindor table, surrounded by Weasley red and Granger hair and too much legacy for one body to hold.

The scar practically hummed from here.

Poor bastard doesn’t even know how doomed he is, John thought grimly, just as the Sorting Hat launched into another warbly, overwrought song.

He tuned it out. He knew the game—divide the children, give them colors and rivalries, then pretend they all belonged to the same world. It was a prettier illusion than most he’d seen, but an illusion all the same.

Finally, when the Sorting ended and food had filled the tables, Dumbledore stood, arms raised.

John sat up slightly. He could feel the tension ripple through the staff table. Something was coming.

“As many of you may already know,” Dumbledore began, his voice warm and far too calm, “this year, Hogwarts has the great honor of hosting a most exciting and historic event—the Triwizard Tournament.”

A ripple of gasps and excited whispers swept through the hall like a breeze. Constantine didn’t move. He’d known, of course. But hearing it spoken aloud—feeling the weight of it settle into the room—it hit different.

Dumbledore continued. “For the first time in over a century, three great magical schools—Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Hogwarts—shall once again compete in a test of skill, strength, and courage. One champion from each school shall be selected to represent their institution.”

“Sounds like a bloody suicide pact,” John muttered.

“Three tasks will take place over the course of the year,” Dumbledore said, smiling as though announcing a charity event. “And our impartial judge—the Goblet of Fire—shall select the champions.”

More murmurs. Excitement. Curiosity. A touch of fear.

John’s eyes swept the students again. Most of them were wide-eyed with anticipation. A few—Potter among them—looked cautious. Too late, mate. You’re already in the game.

Dumbledore went on about age limits and rules and “under no circumstances,” but John wasn’t listening anymore. He was watching the crowd, watching the way Barty Crouch Jr.—disguised as Moody—watched Harry.

There it was again. That twitch. That flicker of attention that lasted just a heartbeat too long.

Got you, John thought.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving “Moody.”

The game had started.

And no one in this Hall knew just how rigged the board really was.

Chapter 5

The castle was quiet.

It was that strange kind of Hogwarts quiet—never truly silent, just muted. A hum beneath the stone, a rustle in the portraits, the occasional whisper of magic moving through ancient walls. John preferred it this way. The ghosts kept to themselves, and the shadows didn’t pretend to be anything else.

He found Snape exactly where he expected to: in his office, hunched over a stack of essays like a man trying to bleed meaning out of incompetence. The air reeked of ink, candle wax, and mugwort. And bitterness, of course. Always bitterness.

John let himself in.

“You know,” he said, stepping inside with no warning, “you haven’t changed a damn bit.”

Snape didn’t look up. “It’s nearly midnight. Haven’t you got somewhere better to haunt?”

“I figured I’d bother you instead. Tradition, and all.”

Snape dropped his quill, finally raising his eyes—cold, sharp, and unamused. “Get to the point.”

John leaned against a bookshelf, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. “You saw it too, didn’t you? The way Moody looked at Potter during the feast. That’s not our Moody.”

Snape’s mouth curled, just slightly. “I don’t need you to tell me how to read a man’s intentions.”

“No,” John said, exhaling a curl of smoke. “But you need someone who’s not wrapped around Dumbledore’s bloody finger to do something about it.”

Snape stood then, slow and deliberate, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t pretend you’re here out of concern. You’ve never done anything unless it served you.”

John smirked. “That’s rich coming from the man who’s been playing double-agent since puberty.”

They stared at each other, the years between them taut like wire—full of things unsaid, of nights remembered and never spoken of again. John took a step closer.

Snape didn’t move.

“You’re angry,” John said, soft now, dangerous. “Still? After all this time?”

“You left,” Snape said, voice razor-thin. “You always leave.”

John’s eyes darkened. “Because staying with you was like bleeding out slowly.”

“And you would have rather burned it all down at once?” Snape snapped.

“Yeah,” John hissed. “At least then I’d feel something.”

It happened like lightning—fast, hot, and violent. One moment they were snarling at each other, the next their mouths collided like a crash. Teeth, lips, heat—anger twisted into desire like a live wire snapping between them. John shoved him back against the desk, Snape’s hands fisting in his coat, years of frustration and want crashing into each other with brutal, desperate clarity.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was unfinished business.

Snape broke the kiss first, breath ragged, eyes wild and glittering with too much history.

“This changes nothing,” he spat, though his voice trembled.

John didn’t smile.

“Didn’t expect it to.”

He stepped back, adjusted his coat, and walked out—heart thudding like a war drum.

Neither of them spoke again that night.

But neither of them slept, either.

Chapter 6

The first official staff meeting of the term took place the morning before classes began. The sun streamed through the tall windows of the staff room like it didn’t know better. The room smelled of parchment, weak tea, and restrained judgment.

John walked in late.

On purpose.

He dropped into a chair at the end of the long table, slouching with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a half-empty mug of black coffee in his hand. He didn’t look at Snape, and Snape didn’t look at him—but the tension between them was thick enough to write with.

It did not go unnoticed.

Minerva McGonagall, seated at the head beside Dumbledore, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. She had the look of someone who could sense a scandal from three corridors away. Her lips tightened as she scanned between them.

Dumbledore was speaking about tournament protocols, but John barely registered the words. Something about restricted corridors and security measures. Something about dragons, probably. He let it blur into background noise while his eyes stayed fixed on the knot in the wood of the table.

Snape was two seats down, straight-backed, arms folded, jaw clenched. He hadn’t said a word since the meeting began.

John hadn’t said much either.

And it was killing McGonagall.

When the meeting adjourned, chairs scraped and professors filed out in murmurs and clusters. Dumbledore floated off toward his tower, humming something far too cheery. Most of the others followed—Sprout discussing plant-based barriers with Flitwick, Hooch grumbling about brooms not being allowed near the lake.

Only three remained.

Snape stood, gathering his notes without acknowledging John.

And then: “Sit back down, Severus.”

Minerva’s voice was low but sharp as a spell. Snape hesitated. Slowly, he obeyed, setting his folder down with controlled precision.

John blinked. “Well, I was just going to—”

“You can sit too, Mr. Constantine,” she said crisply.

John raised a brow, but complied.

Minerva folded her hands on the table, her gaze cutting between them like a blade. “Would either of you like to tell me what’s happened, or should I guess?”

Snape said nothing.

John exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “Look, Professor—”

“Minerva.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Fine. Minerva. Nothing’s happened.”

“Something’s happened,” she said. “Because last week, you two were sniping at each other like normal, and now I’ve seen teenagers with better impulse control.”

Snape bristled. “This is hardly—”

“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence, Severus,” she snapped. “You’re both walking around with all the subtlety of a Howler in the library.”

John ran a hand through his hair. “We had… a disagreement.”

“A disagreement?” Minerva echoed, arching an eyebrow so high it nearly touched her hairline.

Snape didn’t look at either of them.

John’s smirk faded. “We’ve got history. That’s all.”

Minerva sighed. Not disappointed—just tired. “I am too old to play referee for two grown men with unresolved issues.”

“Then don’t,” John said. “We’ll keep it civil.”

“You’d better,” she said, standing with her usual stern grace. “Because like it or not, the students are watching us now. And I won’t have them learn bitterness before they’ve learned a proper Shield Charm.”

Snape stood. “Understood.”

“Good,” she said, then added as she turned to leave, “And, John?”

“Yeah?”

“I always liked you,” she said without looking back. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Chapter 7

The classroom was dim when they arrived. No warm candlelight. No chalkboard notes. Just John Constantine, sitting on the edge of his desk with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, a battered leather coat slung over the back of his chair, and a look that screamed I don’t care, but I dare you to test me.

The fourth years filtered in—Gryffindors to the left, Slytherins to the right, as always. The space between them might as well have been a battlefield.

Harry stepped in flanked by Ron and Hermione, eyeing the new professor warily.

From the opposite side, Draco Malfoy strolled in with his usual swagger. He barely looked at Constantine before tossing off, “Looks like someone dragged a Muggle pub through Knockturn Alley.”

John grinned without looking up. “Nice to see Hogwarts still keeps its finest little bastards right where I can see ’em.”

The Slytherins bristled. Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

John stood, slow and casual. “Malfoy, yeah?”

Draco raised his chin. “That’s right.”

“Thought so,” John said, tapping ash from a cigarette he hadn’t lit. “Lucius never did know when to shut up, either. Narcissa had better sense—though she kept worse company.”

The whole room went quiet.

Draco stiffened. “You knew my parents?”

John leaned against the desk again, crossing his arms. “Acquaintances. Same house, different circles. I was the one who didn’t give a toss about pureblood politics or kissing arse for a Ministry job. Your dad always hated that about me.”

He flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell him I said hello.”

Draco didn’t respond. He just sat down—back stiff, expression tight.

John looked out over the class. “Right, then. I’m Professor Constantine. You’re stuck with me this year. I’ve got a simple policy: you don’t waste my time, I won’t waste yours.”

Hermione’s hand shot up.

John blinked. “You’ve been in the room less than a minute and already you’ve got a question?”

She hesitated. “Er—your cigarette. You’re not supposed to smoke inside the castle, are you?”

He plucked it from behind his ear and flicked it into the bin without breaking eye contact. “Happy now?”

“…Yes.”

“Brilliant. Now let’s talk about monsters.”

The class shifted. Curiosity sparked behind their eyes.

“You’ve all had theory. Charts. Maybe a duel or two if your last professor had a spine. But most of what you’ve learned won’t save you when something with teeth and spite shows up.”

He walked between the desks, slow and deliberate. “This year we’ll deal with real curses. Real dangers. The kind that leave marks inside you.”

He stopped beside Malfoy, who hadn’t looked up again.

“I don’t teach fairy tales. I teach survival. Some of you won’t like it.”

Malfoy raised his hand lazily. “And what exactly makes you qualified to teach us anything?”

John leaned down, voice low. “I’ve walked through Hell, kid. Twice. I’ve buried more friends than you’ve got house points. I’ve watched men turn into monsters and monsters pretend to be men.”

He straightened. “You want to test me? I’ll leave a mark you’ll be explaining to your grandkids.”

Draco looked away.

John turned to the rest of the class. “Today, we start with curses. Binding, bleeding, soul-sapping ones. Anyone know the difference between a hex and a binding curse?”

Hermione twitched toward raising her hand.

John pointed at her. “Not you. You already know. Let someone else.”

No one moved.

“Didn’t think so.”

He summoned a box from under his desk and dropped it on the table with a thud. Inside were cursed trinkets—withered lockets, bone charms, a cracked obsidian ring that made the air colder.

“These? Cursed objects. We’ll talk about how to break them. And how to survive touching one before it eats you from the inside out.”

Ron whispered, “Are we even allowed to touch those?”

“No,” John said. “Which is why we’re going to anyway.”

The class fell silent again, somewhere between awe and unease.

Harry stared at Constantine, something tugging at the edges of recognition. Like the man didn’t fit here. Like he was carrying some piece of the outside world that didn’t belong at Hogwarts.

Constantine looked back—just for a moment.

And smiled like he knew exactly what Harry was thinking.

Chapter 8

The bell rang, loud and final.

Students bolted like someone had set off a curse under their desks. Even Malfoy didn’t hang around to sneer—he left with a stiff spine and a scowl, his usual entourage trailing behind him.

Hermione was halfway through muttering about Ministry regulations when Ron tugged at her sleeve and nodded toward Harry, who hadn’t moved from his seat.

“Coming, mate?” Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’ll catch up.”

They didn’t argue.

He waited until the room was empty. Constantine had already pulled out a cigarette—not lit, just rolling it between his fingers like a nervous tick. He didn’t look surprised when Harry stepped up to the desk.

“You don’t exactly teach like the others,” Harry said.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? I thought calling your class a bunch of soft-handed brats who wouldn’t last a week outside the castle might’ve made me fit right in.”

Harry didn’t smile. “Where did you get those cursed objects?”

John didn’t answer right away. He picked up one of the trinkets—a tarnished silver locket with a blood-red stone—and turned it over in his hand.

“Every one of these came from someone who thought they could control power they didn’t understand,” he said finally. “Some of them died. Some of them didn’t. The ones who lived… wish they hadn’t.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you’ve used them before.”

John met his gaze. “I’ve survived them.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked, voice quieter now.

John leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, cigarette still twirling between his fingers. “You’ll have to be more specific. Existentially? Emotionally? At Hogwarts?”

“At Hogwarts,” Harry said.

“Dumbledore asked.”

Harry didn’t believe that for a second. He didn’t know how he knew—but something in the way Constantine said it, too quickly, too dry, told him it wasn’t the whole story.

“And you just said yes?”

John gave a humorless smile. “Let’s just say I owed him.”

That sat heavy in the air. Owed Dumbledore. That could mean anything. A favor, a debt, a secret.

Harry looked down at the box of cursed objects. “You shouldn’t be showing those to students.”

“Maybe,” John said. “But the world outside these walls isn’t going to wait until you’ve passed your N.E.W.T.s. You’ve seen that firsthand, haven’t you?”

Harry’s head snapped up.

John’s voice didn’t soften. “Third year. Dementors. Second year—basilisk. Year before that? Troll. And that’s just the stuff on the record. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Harry didn’t.

Because he wasn’t.

John watched him a moment longer, then added, “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been in the dark and come back with their eyes still adjusting.”

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means you pay attention. More than most. And it means you’re going to start seeing things you can’t unsee.”

Harry stood a little straighter. “Is that a warning?”

John dropped the cigarette into his coat pocket. “It’s advice.”

Harry turned toward the door, hesitated, then glanced back. “You really knew Malfoy’s parents?”

“Too well.”

“Did you like them?”

John shrugged. “Didn’t hate Narcissa. She hated everyone, but she did it with style. Lucius… no. The man was always a snake looking for a bigger snake to bow to.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Sounds familiar.”

John didn’t return it. He just said, “Keep your wand steady, Potter. Things are going to get worse before they get better.”

And Harry left, feeling like he’d just had a conversation that meant something—but he didn’t know what yet.

Chapter 9

The Great Hall shimmered with anticipation.

Floating candles burned brighter than usual, casting golden light over every student craning to see what would happen next. Rumors of visiting schools had been spreading like wildfire all week, but now it was real. Tangible. The plates were cleared, and all eyes turned to the grand doors.

John Constantine sat at the staff table, slouched in his chair between Hagrid and a silently fuming Snape. He’d refused to wear formal robes, naturally—just a black button-down, sleeves rolled up, old ring on his finger and the same long coat slung over the back of his chair like a dare.

Snape hadn’t spoken a word to him since the argument and the kiss in the corridor. Not even a sneer.

John wasn’t sure if that was a punishment or a warning.

The doors opened.

Durmstrang arrived first—dark coats, heavy boots, coordinated intimidation. They marched in like a military unit, with Viktor Krum front and center, expression unreadable.

Trailing behind them like a shadow was Igor Karkaroff.

He looked older than John remembered. Paler, too. The kind of pale that came from running—desperation stretched too thin across smugness.

John watched him with mild interest, sipping his drink.

Then Karkaroff saw him.

He stopped mid-step.

The color drained from his face faster than a poorly contained hex.

John raised his glass in a mocking little toast.

Karkaroff recovered quickly—barely a heartbeat later, he was moving again, his composure snapping into place with practiced ease. But his eyes kept flicking back to the staff table. To him.

Flitwick leaned in. “Friend of yours?”

John snorted. “Hardly.”

The Beauxbatons contingent swept in next—elegant, glittering, far too graceful for a place like this. The students applauded, some more enthusiastic than others. Dumbledore stood, arms wide.

“Let us welcome our guests from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, who will be joining us for the duration of the Triwizard Tournament!”

Polite applause. A few whistles. A chorus of whispers and second glances toward Krum and the Veela-heavy Beauxbatons party.

Karkaroff moved up to the staff table, ignoring every other professor entirely.

He stopped in front of John.

“Constantine,” he said, like the name itself was sour.

John didn’t rise. Just smirked. “Still carrying that debt, I see.”

“I thought you were gone,” Karkaroff said, voice low and biting. “Done with our world. Out of the business.”

“Yeah, I thought you were smarter than trying to summon a demon with half a rune and a vodka-soaked prayer, but here we are.”

Snape’s fork paused on his plate.

McGonagall’s brow rose sharply.

Karkaroff’s smile was tight. “That matter was… resolved.”

“You call what you did ‘resolving’? I call it running.”

Karkaroff leaned in. “You should not be here.”

“Tell Dumbledore,” John said, sipping from his glass. “He’s the one who called me in. Must’ve figured Hogwarts needed a few more bastards on staff.”

“I won’t have you interfering,” Karkaroff said, still smiling like a man clinging to civility by his fingernails. “This is a delicate time.”

John’s smile was razor-sharp. “That’s what people always say right before everything explodes.”

Karkaroff stepped back, nostrils flaring, then swept away to the far end of the table, whispering furiously in Russian to one of his staff.

Snape leaned over. “Do I want to know what you did to him?”

“Saved his sorry arse from a demon he couldn’t control. He’s been pissing himself ever since.” John popped a bite of roast into his mouth. “Owes me a favor he never paid. Figures if I drop dead before he repays it, he’s off the hook.”

Snape didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t look surprised, either.

John glanced across the table and caught Harry watching the exchange. Quiet, cautious, trying not to be obvious about it.

He gave the boy a wink and went back to his food.

Let them all stew a little. The game had only just begun.

Chapter 10

The feast ended in a whirl of curiosity and gossip. Students poured out of the Great Hall, already buzzing about Krum, the Veela girls, and the coming tournament. Professors followed more slowly, all polite nods and tired murmurs.

John had just lit a cigarette outside the hall when the shadows near the corridor shifted.

“Still poisoning yourself, I see.”

He didn’t turn. “Evening to you, Severus.”

Snape stepped forward, his robes billowing like smoke. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp—flint striking flint.

“I saw you speaking with Karkaroff.”

“I’d be shocked if you hadn’t. You lot really know how to loiter dramatically.”

Snape scowled. “What does he want?”

John exhaled smoke, lazily. “Nothing he has the guts to say out loud.”

“Don’t be flippant.” Snape’s voice dropped. “This tournament is dangerous. Karkaroff is dangerous. You shouldn’t be here.”

John turned now, stepping in close. “If I had a Galleon for every time someone told me that, I’d be on a beach in Bali, not freezing my bollocks off in a stone castle.”

“You’re playing games.”

“I’m teaching a class,” John shot back. “Your class, if memory serves. Or is this about something else entirely?”

The silence between them thrummed with heat.

Snape’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t provoke him.”

“And you shouldn’t care.”

Snape moved fast.

One moment, there was space between them. The next, John was pressed against the corridor wall, the stone cold behind his shoulders, Snape’s hand fisted in his shirt.

“This isn’t like before,” Snape hissed.

John’s lips curved. “You keep saying that, and yet here we are.”

A beat passed.

Then Snape kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Furious.

John didn’t resist.

He pulled him closer by the collar, biting at his bottom lip, turning the kiss into a battlefield. This wasn’t soft or romantic—it was years of resentment, of tension, of all the things left unsaid since they stopped their old… arrangement.

It was brutal.

And it didn’t stop at the corridor.

⸻

 

The next morning, the staff table was short two professors.

McGonagall checked her watch. Flitwick frowned. Dumbledore just sipped his tea, annoyingly serene.

Then the doors creaked open.

Snape entered first—cloak hastily fastened, hair more chaotic than usual, an expression like someone had dared to question his authority and paid with blood.

Behind him, a few paces back, came Constantine.

Coat slung over his shoulder, tie missing entirely, shirt untucked on one side. He wore his usual half-smirk, but there was a faint pink mark on his neck that even magic hadn’t erased yet.

They took their seats without a word.

Flitwick blinked. “You’re both late.”

Snape didn’t answer.

John picked up a slice of toast, bit into it, and said casually, “Tried a new cleansing spell. Blew out half the plumbing on the second floor. Took some effort to clean up.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “Really.”

John winked. “Would I lie to you?”

Snape focused entirely on his tea like it held the secrets to the universe.

Across the room, Harry squinted toward the table. He couldn’t hear a word, but something felt… off.

Something was happening.

And he wasn’t sure if it was good or very, very bad.

Chapter 11

The Great Hall had never felt quite so alive.

The candles burned higher, the sky above the enchanted ceiling roiled with storm-like anticipation, and the Goblet of Fire burned brilliant blue atop its pedestal in the front of the room—every flicker of its flame casting strange shadows against the walls.

John Constantine watched from the staff table, arms folded, legs kicked out lazily in front of him. He looked like he didn’t give a damn.

He did.

Because the air buzzed like a ritual mid-chant. Too many layers of magic, too many symbols carved into stone by hands long dead. The Goblet wasn’t just a magical object—it was a beacon. And someone had twisted its light.

He could feel it.

Karkaroff paced near the front like a man waiting to be struck.

Madame Maxime stood tall, perfectly poised, but her eyes never left the flame.

Dumbledore… looked almost too calm. Like he knew something was about to go wrong, but wanted everyone to think he didn’t.

“Ah, yes,” he said cheerfully, rising. “Time to select our champions.”

Cheers rose up as the flames flared.

The Goblet spat its first name in a burst of red-gold sparks. Dumbledore snatched the parchment from the air, reading aloud, “Viktor Krum!”

Applause erupted. The Durmstrang students roared their approval.

Next, the flames surged again. “Fleur Delacour!”

The Beauxbatons girls clapped, delighted, as Fleur ascended the front steps like royalty.

Then—

“Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table cheered loudest of all. Constantine caught the flicker of a smile on McGonagall’s face.

And then—

CRACK.

The flames turned violent. Not just red, but white-hot, flaring so high the torches flickered.

Everyone stilled.

Another piece of parchment shot into the air.

Dumbledore caught it. His brow furrowed. “Harry Potter?”

Dead silence.

Harry looked up, completely stunned. “What?”

John sat forward slightly.

Snape muttered, “Of course.”

The whispers exploded instantly.

“He’s too young—”

“He didn’t even enter—”

“How is that possible?”

Harry rose slowly, confused, all eyes on him as if he’d grown horns.

Constantine watched him go. Watched the way the magic curled around him, tugging at something just beneath the surface.

The way the flame flared when Harry passed it.

He didn’t enter that Goblet, John thought. But it wants him anyway.

He stood as Dumbledore led Harry out of the hall.

Snape muttered something vicious under his breath. Karkaroff looked ready to murder someone. Madame Maxime said something sharply in French.

John’s eyes never left the spot where Harry had stood.

The boy was trouble. A magnet for things that should stay buried.

But now—now John felt the pull of something ancient, something older than the tournament, older than the Goblet.

Something was unraveling.

And Harry Potter was the thread.

Chapter 12

They didn’t even let him sit down.

Harry stood in the center of the room—cold stone under his shoes, heat prickling his neck. The chamber they’d dragged him into after the Goblet flared wasn’t exactly welcoming. Bare walls, high ceiling, no windows. Just a long table and a circle of adults staring at him like he’d just pulled a dark artifact out of his pocket.

Snape was absent—called to the dungeons for something with a Slytherin third-year, McGonagall had said—but that didn’t make the room any less hostile.

Karkaroff paced again. “He’s fourteen. He cannot possibly be allowed—this is an outrage!”

Madame Maxime’s voice was smoother, but colder. “’E is too young, and too inexperienced. We must know ze truth. Veritaserum. I want proof he did not cheat.”

Dumbledore didn’t say anything at first. He was standing behind Harry, gaze unreadable. Watching. Measuring.

Harry’s fists were clenched at his sides.

“I didn’t put my name in,” he said again. “I swear—I didn’t even go near it.”

Karkaroff scoffed. “A child with a hero complex, trying to steal glory.”

McGonagall stepped forward. “Enough. I believe Mr. Potter.”

“Belief isn’t proof,” Maxime said coldly. “And truth can be summoned.”

“There’s no Veritaserum available tonight,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Severus had the last vial locked in stasis. He’ll need time to brew more.”

“Convenient,” Karkaroff muttered.

Then Dumbledore turned. Looked directly at Constantine.

“John.”

Harry flinched at the name. It still didn’t feel right, hearing someone like Dumbledore say it. There was something off about the way the headmaster spoke to him—not quite warmth. Not quite trust.

More like someone throwing a match toward a powder keg and waiting to see if it lights.

John, who’d been leaning against the wall with his arms folded, raised a brow. “Oh no. No way in hell.”

“Nothing invasive,” Dumbledore said. “Temporary. Just enough to confirm honesty.”

Karkaroff scowled. “You want him to cast a truth spell?”

“I assure you,” Dumbledore said coolly, “John is more than capable.”

John sighed. “Fine. But if he combusts or grows wings, it’s not on me.”

He stepped forward. Harry didn’t move, but his eyes locked onto Constantine’s with a tight, guarded confusion.

“This’ll tingle,” John said. “Don’t fight it. And don’t lie. Magic hates being lied to.”

He flicked a finger, muttering under his breath. A thin silver shimmer traced itself around Harry’s chest—like smoke coiling in a circle.

“Magic of truth,” John murmured, voice low and old. “No blood, no blade. Just the space between heartbeat and breath.”

Harry felt a pressure behind his eyes. A strange weightlessness in his chest.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet?” John asked.

“No.”

“Did you ask anyone else to?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

Harry swallowed. “No.”

The shimmer pulsed once, then vanished.

Silence fell.

Karkaroff looked furious. Maxime’s eyes narrowed. McGonagall exhaled, barely perceptible.

Constantine stepped back. “Satisfied?”

Dumbledore nodded once. “Thank you.”

Harry was still standing perfectly still. “What was that?”

“Old magic,” John said. “Trust me, it doesn’t lie. If you’d been bending the truth, your teeth would’ve started bleeding.”

“…Oh.”

The professors murmured amongst themselves. Dumbledore waved Harry toward the door.

“Go back to your dormitory, Harry. We’ll speak again soon.”

Harry left quickly, not looking back.

As the door closed, Constantine turned to Dumbledore.

“You knew he didn’t do it.”

“I suspected.”

“You don’t call me in for suspicions,” John said, voice low. “You call me in for danger.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was cool. “Yes.”

Constantine nodded once, slowly. “Then we’re past the guessing stage.”

And for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt the cold crawl of something bigger. Something older.

Whatever had slipped Harry’s name into that fire—it hadn’t done it for sport.

It had done it to summon him.

Chapter 13

John found Severus in the Potions storeroom. Dimly lit, organized to the point of obsession, and quiet save for the faint clink of glass and the soft whisper of labels being adjusted by wand.

“Didn’t think you’d be hiding,” John said from the doorway.

Snape didn’t look up. “I’m not hiding. I’m working. Some of us are employed here legitimately.”

John shut the door behind him and crossed the room slowly. “You missed the fireworks.”

“I heard. Karkaroff’s temper is as thin as ever.”

“And the truth spell?”

That made Severus pause.

He turned, face unreadable. “I felt it from here.”

John smirked faintly. “Nice to know I still have range.”

“That wasn’t clever, John. That spell—what you used—it’s not school-taught.”

“No, it isn’t,” John agreed. “Because school-taught truth spells can be fooled by memory modification, compulsions, or sheer stubbornness. Mine can’t.”

Snape stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “You dragged something into this castle that predates even Dumbledore’s comfort zone. You marked the boy.”

“Lightly.”

“At all.”

John’s smirk faltered. “It’s not permanent.”

“Don’t play the fool with me,” Severus said. “You left residue.”

John rolled his jaw, eyes narrowing. “What do you want from me, Severus? I didn’t volunteer for this. He dragged me back here. I didn’t ask for your bloody Goblet, or your cursed tournament, or to be reminded of what it feels like to have your magic recoil at the smell of burning skin.”

That silenced Severus for a beat.

Then—

“Is that what this is?” he asked, quiet now. “You’re spiraling already?”

John stepped in, close. “You think I want this? You think I don’t know what this castle does to people like me?”

“You should have said no.”

“I did.”

The air between them stilled. Thick with ghosts and guilt.

“I’m not that boy you used to tangle with behind the library shelves,” John murmured.

“No,” Severus said softly. “You’re worse now.”

There was no heat in it. Just truth.

John reached up, brushed Severus’s cheek with the back of two fingers. “You’re not the same either.”

Severus didn’t pull away.

Didn’t lean in.

Just… stood.

Then, quietly: “He’s not ready for what’s coming.”

John dropped his hand. “None of us are.”

He turned, walked halfway to the door.

Paused.

“You said the residue’s still on the boy?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” John muttered. “On him.”

“You’ll get attached.”

John glanced back with a crooked smile, tired and knowing. “Wouldn’t be the first mistake I made in this castle.”

Then he left.

And Severus, left alone again, stared at the space John had been standing in like it still hummed with memory.

Because it did.

Chapter 14

The library was quieter than usual.

It was late—late enough that most students had filtered out, leaving only the truly studious or the stubbornly stressed. Madam Pince loomed somewhere in the shadows, glaring at a Hufflepuff who was breathing too loudly near a rare volume.

John Constantine slipped in without a word. He never quite walked—he moved like smoke, like a spell cast under someone’s breath. The kind of presence that didn’t announce itself so much as appear.

He found them at a far table: Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Heads bent over books, parchment scribbled with frantic notes, and a stack of Triwizard history volumes tall enough to pass as a barricade.

Harry noticed him first. His eyes flicked up warily, like he expected to be scolded—or hexed.

John didn’t blame him.

“Evening, kids,” John said, dragging over a chair and straddling it backward. “Thought I’d check in. You looked like someone threw you off a cliff earlier.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Are you even allowed to talk to students like that?”

“I’m not allowed to do half the things I do, ginger. Doesn’t stop me.”

Hermione straightened, suspicious. “Did Professor Dumbledore send you?”

“No. I was curious.” He looked at Harry. “And worried.”

Harry blinked. “You’re… worried about me?”

John shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it on a Christmas card, but yeah. That Goblet’s no joke, and something slipped your name into it like threading a needle through granite. That’s not small magic, mate.”

Hermione, ever the student, pounced. “But how could it happen? Isn’t the Goblet supposed to repel underage entries? Magical age line, centuries of protection—”

“All true,” John said. “And yet here we are. Which means whoever did it didn’t break the rules. They rewrote them.”

That quieted all three.

Harry looked down at the book in front of him. “Everyone thinks I did it.”

John tilted his head. “Does that bother you?”

Harry hesitated. “Yeah. I mean—I didn’t. And no one believes me.”

John leaned in slightly, eyes sharp. “You didn’t. The magic said so. I said so. And I don’t hand out clean slates often.”

Ron watched him closely. “You know dark stuff, don’t you?”

“I am dark stuff, on certain days.”

“Shouldn’t you be, like… not here then?”

“Believe me,” John muttered, “I’ve asked myself that a lot lately.”

Hermione squinted at him. “You went to Hogwarts, didn’t you?”

“Once upon a time. Slytherin, in case the sarcasm didn’t give it away.”

Her gaze flicked to his coat, his boots, the runes tattooed faintly on his fingers. “You were expelled, weren’t you?”

John grinned. “Shockingly, no. Graduated with exactly the amount of chaos required.”

Harry looked up again, quieter this time. “Do you think I can survive this?”

John considered him.

Really looked.

Magic clung to the boy like fog over grave soil. There was power there—wild, barely shaped, but real.

“You might,” he said eventually. “But someone wants you broken. This tournament—this whole circus—it’s bait. And if you’re not careful, you’ll be the hook.”

The weight of that landed hard.

Ron leaned forward. “You think someone’s trying to kill Harry?”

John didn’t answer. Just stood, sliding the chair back into place.

“I think you should all sleep with one eye open. And stop reading theory books. They won’t help when the thing trying to eat you doesn’t have a page number.”

He started to walk away, then paused.

“And Granger,” he added without turning, “that third book from the left in your stack? Burn it. The margins are cursed. Probably by a Ravenclaw sixth-year trying to cheat on Arithmancy.”

Hermione sputtered. “What? That’s—how could you—”

John was already gone.

Chapter 15

Hermione Granger did not like not knowing things.

Especially not about people in positions of power. Especially not when those people had called themselves “dark stuff” and cast truth-magic that didn’t appear in any curriculum.

So, after Constantine walked out of the library like a storm wrapped in a trench coat, she started researching.

First through standard channels: Hogwarts: A History, faculty registries, Ministry personnel lists. Nothing. No official record of a John Constantine on staff. Just a temporary contract marked “Advisor, Special Circumstance.” No subject listed.

She dug deeper.

Back issues of the Daily Prophet archived in the restricted section (courtesy of a borrowed staff login spell she’d pieced together from watching Snape’s wand movements). She found scattered references to a John T. Constantine, usually in the accidents and incidents section. Mentions of “questionable practices,” “unsanctioned rites,” and once, disturbingly, “unauthorized summoning resulting in the death of three cultists and one goat.”

Then she found it.

Tucked between two pages of a faded wizarding tabloid, buried beneath a gossip piece on Gilderoy Lockhart’s alleged affair with a banshee:

Muggle-born Ministry Watchlist Expanded After Newcastle Incident
John Constantine, half-blood warlock and former Hogwarts student, is once again under scrutiny following events in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Reports of infernal summoning, a possessed child, and damage to the Muggle infrastructure have led to renewed calls for regulation of non-Ministry-trained practitioners…

Hermione sat back, heart thudding.

Newcastle. That was the name Dumbledore had used when he blackmailed John into teaching. She didn’t know the details—but it sounded bad. Worse than bad. Demonic.

She turned another page.

The next entry was… different. Not news. It was a letter to the editor—unsigned, though clearly penned by someone who’d been there:

He saved us. Don’t let them twist it. That girl would’ve died, and the rest of us with her, if he hadn’t stepped into the circle and told the demon his true name. He paid the price. He always does. He bleeds for people who’d burn him if they knew what he’d done.

Hermione swallowed hard.

She moved on.

Found old House rosters. He’d been in Slytherin. Same year as Bellatrix Lestrange’s younger sister and Lucius Malfoy. His family—well, that was a tangled mess.

His mother: a witch from an obscure line of Irish seers, deceased during childbirth.

His father: Muggle, alcoholic, vanished before John turned ten.

Hermione sat back again, the records spread out around her like a crime scene.

He was a half-blood. Raised in chaos. Touched by demons. Shunned by his own kind and yet dragged back into this world like a cursed boomerang.

She didn’t know what she was expecting. A monster, maybe.

But what she found felt like a tragedy written in blood and ash.

And somehow… she liked him more.

Which terrified her.

Chapter 16

The classroom emptied slowly, murmurs trailing behind students as they filed out in pairs, most too distracted by the thrill of having watched a real Boggart impersonate a dementor and a Death Eater at once to notice that their professor wasn’t watching them leave.

John leaned back against the desk at the front of the room, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking charm still buzzing weakly near the chalkboard. He looked half-exhausted, half-distracted—like his mind was already in a different room, a different disaster.

Hermione stayed behind.

She waited until Ron and Harry had left—Harry glancing back like he wanted to stay, but didn’t know why. When the door shut behind them, she crossed the room without a word and stood in front of John like she was taking the floor in a courtroom.

“I know who you are,” she said.

John looked up slowly, exhaling smoke. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

“You’re John Constantine. Former Hogwarts student. Slytherin. Half-blood. Your father was Muggle, your mother died giving birth to you. You were at the center of something called the Newcastle Incident—”

John’s expression shuttered.

“—where a child was possessed by a demon, and several people died. You’ve been blacklisted by three branches of the Ministry. You’ve done unsanctioned ritual work, and you use magic that isn’t taught at any of the academies. You’ve been investigated by both magical and Muggle authorities. You’ve been blamed for at least five magical disasters and praised for none.”

She stopped.

Waited.

John didn’t interrupt once. Just watched her with eyes that didn’t blink often enough.

“Anything else?” he said after a long silence. “Horoscope? Shoe size? Favorite funeral flower?”

Hermione stepped closer. “I don’t understand why Dumbledore hired you.”

John’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Neither do I.”

“You shouldn’t be allowed near students.”

He nodded slightly. “Probably not.”

“But you didn’t lie to Harry. That spell—it hurt him, but it didn’t lie.”

“No,” John said softly. “It never does.”

Hermione hesitated, her voice shifting, a little quieter. “Did you mean what you said? That someone’s using the Tournament to target him?”

John met her eyes.

“I’ve been around long enough to know when magic starts turning inward,” he said. “Something about this whole bloody spectacle stinks. It’s not just the Goblet. It’s the invitation. It’s a trap dressed up in ceremony and ribbons.”

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek. “And you’re staying to help?”

John shrugged. “Dumbledore made it clear I didn’t have much of a choice. Blackmail’s a hell of a motivator.”

“I read the letter,” Hermione said suddenly. “The one in the Prophet. The anonymous one.”

He stilled.

She went on. “They said you saved them. That you bled for it. That you always bleed for it.”

His shoulders dropped just slightly. The shield cracked.

“And yet you still think I shouldn’t be near students,” he murmured.

“I think,” Hermione said carefully, “that maybe you’re not the monster people think you are. But I also think you believe you are. And that’s more dangerous than anything I read.”

John blinked.

No sarcasm. No smirk.

Just something tight in his throat that he swallowed down.

“I don’t need you to believe in me, Granger.”

“I don’t,” she said simply. “But I think Harry does.”

That one hit harder than she meant it to.

She stepped back. “I’ll tell no one what I found. But I’ll be watching.”

John gave a short, dry laugh. “You and every curse I’ve ever dodged.”

Then she was gone, robes swishing behind her like the snap of a closing book.

And John was left standing in the quiet, a cigarette burned down to his fingers and a memory of a girl with too many questions and the courage to ask them anyway.

Chapter 17

The stands overlooking the arena were packed.

Students from all three schools filled the seats, buzzing with tension and excitement as the first task of the Triwizard Tournament loomed large and fire-breathing below. Hagrid had outdone himself—four dragons, each more volatile than the last, caged in runes and ready to tear the sky apart.

John Constantine slipped into his assigned seat a minute before the first blast of horns sounded. He wore his trench coat despite the unseasonable warmth, and smelled faintly of cigarette ash, old magic, and the kind of fear most people didn’t name.

He took his seat—right between Professor McGonagall and Severus Snape.

“Lovely,” Snape drawled, not looking at him.

“Missed you too, love,” John said, tipping an imaginary hat.

Professor McGonagall didn’t flinch. “I see Dumbledore arranged the seating. Again.”

“Probably hoped we’d cancel each other out,” John muttered. “Like a moral black hole.”

Minerva allowed a smile, brief and sharp. “He does have a sense of humor. In his own… labyrinthine way.”

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees as the first champion—Fleur Delacour—entered the arena to gasps and applause.

Beneath them, the dragon—a silvery-blue creature with too many teeth—growled like distant thunder.

“Ah. A Welsh Grey,” McGonagall murmured. “Moderate temperament, deceptively fast. Good luck, girl.”

John watched silently as Fleur bowed, cast a flurry of charms, and darted to the side.

“She’s got style,” he said. “And balls.”

Snape sniffed. “She has more vanity than tactical sense.”

“She’s seventeen, Sev. You had eyeliner and a grudge at that age.”

“I still have a grudge.”

Fleur managed to secure the egg with a dazzling bit of misdirection. The crowd roared. Her robes were scorched but her pride was intact.

Next came Krum.

McGonagall straightened like a proud aunt. “That boy is half troll, but very gifted.”

John narrowed his eyes. “He’s cursed.”

Snape glanced sideways. “What?”

“Krum. He’s carrying a curse mark. Left thigh, buried in the muscle. Binding magic—pain-activated.”

Snape’s voice dropped. “From who?”

John’s jaw flexed. “Don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”

Krum braved a Chinese Fireball and left with a limp and a scorched sleeve, but the egg in hand.

Then came Cedric Diggory.

McGonagall’s hand tensed slightly on her lap. “A good boy,” she murmured. “Too good for this madness.”

Snape didn’t comment. John did.

“He’s got heart. Not sure if that’s an asset or a liability in a pit full of dragons.”

The last horn sounded.

Harry walked out.

The moment he entered the arena, John stopped speaking. Stopped breathing, almost.

The Horntail shifted like it felt something change.

Harry stood small and steady against the storm.

“Fool of a boy,” Snape muttered, but his voice cracked.

“He’s going to die,” McGonagall whispered, not for the first time that year.

John leaned forward, eyes sharp.

But then Harry moved.

Fast. Wild. Reckless. He ran, baited, cast, summoned—called for his broom with magic that cracked like thunder. He flew like he was born to do it, like gravity was just another curse he’d learned to ignore.

And the dragon followed.

The crowd screamed.

John didn’t move until Harry dove, veered, caught the egg midair, and barely escaped with a slashed shoulder and a thousand cheers.

Only then did John exhale.

Snape’s hands were clenched white around the armrest.

McGonagall wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief charmed to match her tartan.

John lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking charms entirely.

“Well,” he muttered. “He’s not dead.”

Snape gritted out, “Yet.”

Chapter 18

It was the evening after the First Task.

Most of the school was still buzzing with energy. Students filled the halls with breathless recaps, exaggerated tales, and half-eaten celebration pastries. The professors had retreated to the staff room—except for three.

John Constantine was leaning against a bookshelf, sleeves rolled up, an untouched cup of tea cooling on the table beside him.

Snape sat stiffly in the armchair closest to the fireplace, arms crossed like a man being interrogated.

And Minerva McGonagall, standing between them like a lioness in tweed robes, narrowed her eyes.

“I want the truth,” she said crisply, folding her hands. “Whatever this is between you two, it’s bleeding into the rest of the castle. I’m not blind, gentlemen. You’ve been at each other’s throats and then suddenly… not. The tension at the staff table is unbearable.”

John opened his mouth, smirk at the ready.

“Don’t even think about lying,” she added sharply. “Or deflecting. I am not a student, nor a Ministry toad. And you both know I have the clearance to force the issue magically, if I must.”

John sighed and sat down. “You always were terrifying.”

Severus looked like he might disintegrate on the spot.

Minerva waited.

John rubbed his jaw. “We were… close. At school.”

Snape hissed, “Don’t—”

“It’s fine, Sev,” John said, quieter. “She already knows half of it. Might as well get the rest out.”

Minerva tilted her head. “Close. As in…”

“Friends. Enemies. Lovers,” John said, watching her reaction. “At varying intervals. Depending on the year. And the moon phase. And how many cigarettes I’d nicked from Filch that day.”

She blinked once. Then nodded. “And now?”

Snape stared into the fire. “We tried not to be.”

“But it never quite works that way,” John muttered. “Not with us.”

Minerva let out a long, slow breath. “Well. That explains a great deal.”

“I’m sure it does.”

She looked at Snape. “Does Albus know?”

“He suspects,” Snape said tightly. “He always suspects.”

“I won’t ask how long this… resurgence has been going on.”

“Thank you,” John said dryly. “We weren’t about to paint you a picture.”

Minerva raised a hand. “What I will say is this: I don’t care if you’re shagging or stabbing each other, but keep it out of the Great Hall and away from the students.”

John gave a half-laugh. “Yes, Professor.”

Snape muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “we were discreet until you showed up again.”

Minerva turned to the door. Then paused.

“You’re both brilliant. And catastrophically broken,” she said, not unkindly. “Try not to destroy each other. Or the castle. Or yourselves.”

She left, tartan robes sweeping behind her like a war flag.

Silence settled.

John reached for the tea. It was cold.

Severus finally turned to him. “You didn’t have to tell her.”

“I know.”

“…Thank you.”

John grinned. “If I’m going to self-destruct, might as well do it honestly.”

Severus rolled his eyes. But he didn’t leave.

Chapter 19

The castle was empty except for them, the only sounds the quiet creaks of ancient stone and the occasional flicker of torchlight in the hallways. Severus had, after a brief hesitation, led John through the familiar twisting corridors to the dungeons—his chambers—where the world outside could be shut out. The door clicked behind them.

The tension between them was palpable, but not in the same way it used to be.

They weren’t talking. Not yet. But their eyes, always honest in the worst of ways, were doing the work for them.

John tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and removed his coat. “So,” he said quietly, his voice low and gravelly from the night’s earlier work with the dragons and the students’ incessant chatter. “This is where the magic happens?”

Severus didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of something—something in his eyes that John caught before it was gone again.

“Not unless you’ve brought something useful,” Severus muttered, walking toward his desk.

“Always,” John replied with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

They fell into an old rhythm. Severus sitting, cutting open a bottle of firewhisky, while John paced, as if he still had too much of the night left to burn off. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—not exactly. It was a comfortable weight that wrapped around them, thick and warm.

Eventually, their lips met.

It wasn’t the desperate, fiery kiss that had defined their youth. This time, it was different—older, quieter. There was nothing left to prove.

In the flickering shadows of Severus’s chambers, they shed the past and the distance. And when the night wore on, their bodies tangled as effortlessly as their minds always had. Neither of them cared that it was reckless. It had always been reckless.

Time didn’t matter anymore. There was only the shared space between them and the unspoken understanding of the world outside.

Hours passed, marked only by the dimming fire and the sound of their breathing, quiet and ragged.

⸻

When the morning came, it wasn’t kind.

John had always been good at pushing his limits, but now, with the daylight cutting through the cracks in the stone, he felt every bruise, every sore muscle, and the dull headache that followed their sleepless night.

He found himself standing in Severus’s chambers, staring into the cracked mirror above the sink, trying to make himself presentable for the chaos that awaited them. His hair was a mess—more so than usual—and the dark circles under his eyes made him look like he’d just crawled out of the pits of hell. His clothes were wrinkled, his collar crooked, and there were still remnants of a smudged lipstick mark on his neck that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe off.

Severus, unsurprisingly, fared no better. His hair was wild, his usually pristine robes now rumpled, and his face—a face that was usually a mask of cold precision—was drawn, the faintest signs of exhaustion peeking through.

John shot him a glance as Severus stepped out from behind the curtains, his eyes barely making contact before he muttered something unintelligible. A sharp line of tension lingered between them—one that neither was ready to break yet.

“Breakfast, then?” John asked, taking a breath to try and clear the fog from his brain. His voice sounded raspy.

Severus only grunted in reply.

They both knew there was no avoiding the staff room. It was unavoidable, the morning ritual of watching students chug down their porridge, while professors managed their own version of the same—the illusion of composure.

They made their way to the Great Hall, the heavy silence following them like an old friend.

And when they entered the staff room, the murmurs began immediately.

McGonagall, who always seemed to notice every detail, looked them both over with an air of calculated concern. But she said nothing.

Hagrid raised an eyebrow as they sat down, but didn’t comment.

As for the rest of the professors, they simply let the moment pass, pretending that nothing was out of place.

Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were deep in conversation at the Gryffindor table, but even they couldn’t ignore the way the two professors looked. There was a new tension between them, something neither of them had quite worked through, and it hung in the air like a storm cloud.

McGonagall leaned toward Severus just enough that only he could hear. “You both look dreadful,” she said with a raised brow.

Severus only gave a small, terse nod.

John smirked. “You should see the state of our minds, Minerva. That’s the real mess.”

Chapter 20

The classroom hummed with fading magic, desks still slightly out of place, the air tinged with the scorched smell of the last spell John had flung at the blackboard. The Gryffindors and Slytherins were packing up slowly, glancing over their shoulders at their unpredictable professor.

John leaned against his desk, cigarette unlit between his fingers, watching the last of the students file out—except for Harry and Hermione, who made a beeline straight for him.

Ron lingered at the doorway, clearly torn between loyalty and lunch.

“Let me guess,” John said, not even bothering to fake surprise. “You stayed behind to ask me something wildly inappropriate.”

“It’s about you and Snape,” Hermione said bluntly.

John blinked once. “Well, you’re direct. I’ll give you that.”

Harry crossed his arms. “We’re not stupid. We’ve noticed. You don’t look at him the way you look at everyone else.”

“You don’t talk to him the way you talk to everyone else,” Hermione added. “You talk like you’ve buried things together.”

John was quiet for a beat. Then he gave a dry chuckle, low and humorless. “You two really are something.”

They stood there, waiting, and John finally caved with a sigh, pushing off the desk and pacing slowly in front of them.

“You remind me of some old mates,” he said quietly. “From before all this went to hell.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who?”

John’s gaze grew distant. “One was Chas Chandler. Loyal to a fault. Still is, somehow. Always had my back, even when I didn’t deserve it. The other was Natalie Bevan.”

He paused.

“She was clever. Brave. Asked too many questions for her own good. Thought she could outwit hell itself.”

Harry frowned. “What happened to her?”

“She didn’t make it,” John said softly, eyes fixed on the floor. “Newcastle.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She’d read about that. Or at least the parts she could read. The rest was half-redacted or whispered in the margins of forbidden books.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yeah,” John said. “Me too.”

A beat of silence passed before Harry asked, “So… you and Snape?”

John’s mouth quirked upward, but it wasn’t a smile. “We were idiots. Two broken boys playing grown-up games in a world that didn’t want us.”

Hermione tilted her head. “But now?”

“Now we’re older. Still broken. Still idiots.” He looked at her pointedly. “But maybe we know a little more about what we want. Or what we’re not allowed to have.”

Ron finally edged into the room. “Okay, I have no idea what’s happening, but it sounds extremely depressing.”

John huffed a short laugh. “Good instincts, Weasley.”

He turned back to Harry and Hermione. “You want to know if there’s something between me and Severus. The answer’s yes. But it’s messy. Dangerous. And not your concern.”

“You’re part of this world now,” Harry said. “That makes it our concern.”

That stopped John cold.

He studied Harry for a long moment, and something in his expression softened. “You sound more like her every day,” he said, voice barely audible.

“Who?” Hermione asked.

John looked at her.

“Natalie.”

Then, like a switch flipped, he pushed off the desk and clapped his hands. “Class is over. Questions are done. Go harass a Divination orb or sneak into the library’s restricted section. Whatever students do these days.”

Hermione lingered just a moment longer before nodding and turning to go.

Ron muttered, “You lot are mad,” as he followed them.

When they were gone, John stood in the now-silent classroom and lit his cigarette with a snap of his fingers. He leaned against the chalkboard, smoke curling up toward the rafters, and closed his eyes.

One ghost still living. One gone for good.

And Severus, somehow still the most dangerous of them all.

Chapter 21

Severus was waiting.

John didn’t even have to step fully into the staff room to feel it: the tightly coiled silence, the familiar chill of Severus Snape’s presence like a ward stretched too thin.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, ignoring the ache in his shoulders, the leftover smoke still clinging to his coat from the classroom.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Severus said, voice low and lethal.

John turned toward him slowly, deliberately. “Ah. You’ve heard.”

“They cornered you,” Severus snapped, stepping away from the fireplace, black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. “And you let them. You let Potter and Granger dig into what was never theirs to touch.”

“They would’ve found out eventually,” John said. “Hermione’s like Natalie with more access to books, and Harry—well, he has that habit of surviving what he shouldn’t and getting far too close to the truth.”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” Severus hissed.

John flinched. Not visibly—but enough that Severus saw it. Of course he did. The bastard always did.

“They deserved honesty,” John said, stepping closer, voice tight. “More than you ever gave anyone.”

“Honesty gets people killed.”

John’s laugh was bitter. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t remember exactly how it felt to watch someone you care about die screaming because you thought truth could save them?”

Severus’s jaw twitched. “Then why—”

“Because I’m tired, Sev.” John’s voice cracked like dry earth. “Of hiding. Of pretending there’s nothing left between us when I can barely stand being in the same room without—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Severus crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbing John’s coat and slamming him against the wall. The impact knocked the air from John’s lungs, but he was already moving, fists tangled in Severus’s robes, mouths clashing hard.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Teeth. Breath. Fingernails dragging over skin and cloth and memory. Years of resentment, guilt, and want pouring out through bruising touches and bitten lips.

John tore Severus’s robes open at the collar. “Always hiding behind layers,” he growled.

Severus shoved him back onto the desk. “Always running until it’s too late.”

Neither of them had the control for clever words after that.

The rest was heat and urgency, muffled curses against necks, hands fisting in fabric, breathless gasps swallowed by mouths that remembered too much. They didn’t undress so much as rip each other apart, old muscle memory taking over.

The desk creaked beneath them.

John’s hands shook as they gripped Severus’s hips, and Severus’s head fell against John’s shoulder, breath hot against his neck. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

It was them.

When it was over, they lay tangled, breathing hard in the ruined mess of parchment, broken quills, and half-buttoned clothing.

John broke the silence first. “Well. That went better than the last staff meeting.”

Severus snorted, then sighed against his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“Still here though.”

“Unfortunately.”

John didn’t answer. He just reached for Severus’s hand, lacing their fingers together, the gesture surprisingly careful after everything they’d just done.

For once, Severus didn’t pull away.

The staff room door opened with a brisk click.

“Severus, I was wondering if you’d had a chance to—”

Minerva McGonagall froze mid-step.

And promptly went still as a statue.

Because there, tangled in a heap of parchment and half-unbuttoned clothes on the staff room’s desk, were John Constantine and Severus Snape.

Severus, usually so composed, looked like every inch of his dignity had been blown out the window. His shirt was halfway open, robes skewed and wrinkled beneath him, black hair falling loose into his face as he blinked up at her in dismay.

John, for his part, was shirtless, chest rising and falling, his coat draped over one booted foot and a smug—if tired—grin spreading across his face.

“Minerva,” he said cheerfully, as though this were the most normal situation in the world. “You’re early.”

Minerva stared at them.

Then at the desk.

Then very, very pointedly at the ceiling.

“I do hope,” she said, in the tone reserved for detentions and transfiguration disasters, “that this is not some new form of staff bonding exercise.”

Severus groaned and covered his face with one hand.

John bit back a laugh and sat up slightly, brushing parchment off his chest. “We were just… reconnecting.”

Minerva raised a brow. “In the staff room?”

“You know what they say,” John said, utterly unrepentant, “nostalgia’s a hell of a drug.”

Severus muttered something too low to hear, but judging by the tone, it involved wishing he were dead.

Minerva held up a hand. “I am going to leave. And I am going to pretend I did not see this. You have ten minutes to make yourselves look somewhat respectable and remove any… evidence from school property.”

She turned on her heel, but paused at the door.

“And Severus?”

“…Yes, Minerva?”

“You owe me a new desk.”

The door shut with a firm click.

There was a long silence.

Then John let out a bark of laughter and flopped back against Severus’s chest. “God, I missed this place.”

Severus shoved him weakly. “Shut up.”

Chapter 22

Breakfast at Hogwarts was already halfway through by the time the doors to the Great Hall creaked open.

Most students didn’t even glance up.

At first.

But then they saw who it was.

John Constantine, rumpled and bleary-eyed, his hair finger-combed at best and his shirt collar definitely buttoned wrong. Behind him, Severus Snape, looking pale, stiff, and furious, as if he’d swallowed an entire cauldron of regret and was now being forced to digest it in public.

The staff table went still.

McGonagall looked up from her tea, narrowed her eyes, and then took an exceedingly long sip.

John gave her a lazy two-fingered salute as he slid into his seat between Flitwick and an unusually chipper Hagrid.

“Morning, Minerva,” he said, reaching for a slice of toast. “Lovely day, innit?”

Severus sat down on the other end of the table with the grace of someone plotting a murder.

Flitwick, bless him, glanced between the two and smiled gently. “Rough morning, gentlemen?”

John snorted. “You could say that.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows over the rim of her teacup. “You’re late.”

Severus picked up his fork without looking at her. “We’re aware.”

“Mm,” she hummed, expression dry. “Some of us had a desk to replace this morning.”

John winced. “About that—”

“Don’t,” she cut in smoothly, “unless you intend to build me a new one yourself, shirtless and repentant.”

There was a muffled choke from Hooch, who was trying very hard not to laugh into her porridge.

At the students’ table, Harry squinted up at the staff dais. “Why does Constantine look like he just lost a fight with a closet?”

Ron, stuffing eggs into his mouth, muttered, “Maybe he did. Snape’s closet. And then got thrown into it.”

Hermione just stared, frowning slightly, as if her brain was working three steps ahead.

John caught Harry’s eye and winked, then bit into his toast.

Harry looked horrified.

Back at the staff table, Dumbledore arrived fashionably late with Fawkes on his shoulder, paused halfway through pouring himself pumpkin juice, and took one look at John and Severus.

He smiled knowingly. “Ah. Unity among the staff at last.”

Severus looked like he might combust.

John just raised his mug and toasted no one in particular.

And Minerva?

She reached for her third cup of tea with a long-suffering sigh and muttered, “Merlin preserve us.”

Chapter 23

The morning of the Second Task dawned cold and gray, the lake like a sheet of dull glass beneath the thick clouds. A thin mist hung just above the water, curling around the rocks and lapping at the frozen shore. The crowd gathered in tense anticipation—students bundled in cloaks, staff lined along the platform Dumbledore had conjured with a sweep of his wand.

John Constantine lit a cigarette.

McGonagall gave him a withering look, but didn’t stop him. Not today.

Snape stood beside him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

John blew out a long trail of smoke and muttered, “I hate water.”

“I thought you hated everything,” Snape murmured without looking at him.

“I’m multi-talented,” John said. “But drowning’s a particular favorite.”

He could feel the tug of the lake’s magic even from here—old, deep, and restless. Magic from before wands and words. The kind of power that spoke in whispers beneath the surface. The kind that remembered every bone it had ever swallowed.

“Welcome!” Bagman’s voice boomed across the water. “To the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

The crowd cheered, muffled slightly by the fog.

John’s eyes didn’t leave the black water.

One by one, the champions stepped forward—Cedric, Fleur, Krum, and finally Harry, nervous but determined, shoulders squared.

John felt a twist in his gut. Kid’s got guts, he thought grimly. Too much of them, maybe. Too much heart. That’s how they break you.

The whistle blew.

The champions dove in.

And the waiting began.

Fleur’s sister. Ron. Hermione. Cho. Floating somewhere beneath the waves like living treasures.

John clenched his jaw.

It felt too much like Newcastle. Trapped under something dark and ancient, screaming, and no one there to pull them out.

He felt Severus’s hand brush his—barely a touch, a phantom.

John didn’t look at him. Just stood still and watched the lake.

Minutes crawled by.

One by one, the champions returned—dripping, gasping, but alive.

Except Fleur.

It was Harry who dragged both Ron and Gabrielle back, arms shaking with effort, lips blue from the cold. The crowd erupted in cheers. John’s stomach unclenched slightly.

The healers descended.

John stubbed out his cigarette on a conjured stone and exhaled. “Well. He didn’t die.”

“Your standards are improving,” Severus said dryly.

“Don’t get used to it,” John muttered, already turning away.

Behind him, the lake rippled once—and then went still again, hiding its secrets beneath layers of dark water and ancient silence.

Chapter 24

Dumbledore’s office was too bright.

Always too full of silver things and warm firelight and that damned phoenix looking at you like it knew your worst secret and was still disappointed.

John stood in front of the Headmaster’s desk, cigarette unlit in his hand, tension brimming just beneath the surface.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

Dumbledore looked up from his tea as though John had told him the weather might change.

“Are you?” he asked mildly.

“I’ve done enough,” John snapped. “The Tournament’s half over, your golden boy survived two suicide missions, and I’ve fulfilled whatever bloody twisted favor you called in.”

Dumbledore folded his hands. “But the year isn’t finished.”

John’s voice turned razor-sharp. “Neither is my soul.”

That silenced even the trinkets on the walls for a moment.

Dumbledore regarded him, those calm blue eyes full of false softness. “You always were dramatic, John. Even at school.”

“I watched that kid dive into the lake and drag out someone else’s sister because he thought it was right,” John hissed. “And I stood there—again—while someone almost drowned for something they didn’t ask for.”

“And yet,” Dumbledore said quietly, “he came back. Because you were there. And because he has something you didn’t, once—people watching his back.”

John flinched.

Dumbledore leaned back. “Tell me, have you forgotten Newcastle so easily?”

John’s jaw clenched. “Don’t you dare—”

“Because I haven’t,” Dumbledore said smoothly. “I remember quite vividly the girl you didn’t save. The way you froze. Natalie Bevan’s daughter—what was her name? Astra?”

John closed his eyes like it might shut the memory out.

“You stood in the doorway,” Dumbledore went on, voice soft as a scalpel, “and let that thing take her. Screaming. Because you hesitated. Because your magic faltered for a second. And she died.”

“I know,” John choked out.

Silence.

Then Dumbledore’s tone turned cold. “If you leave now, I’ll make sure the Wizengamot hears the full version. Every parent. Every Ministry fool who ever wondered why the Constantine name vanished into smoke.”

“You blackmailing son of a—”

“I’m protecting this school,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And its students. You want to atone? Then stay. See this through.”

John stared at him, breath heaving, hand trembling.

“You’re a monster,” he whispered.

Dumbledore tilted his head. “So are you.”

And that, more than anything, made John go quiet.

The silence stretched long.

When John finally turned to leave, he didn’t say another word. Just shoved the cigarette into his pocket and stalked toward the door.

He didn’t slam it.

He didn’t have the strength.

Chapter 25

The classroom was dark.

The torches had long since burned down to flickering embers, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls like ghosts.

John sat on the edge of his desk, elbows on knees, head in his hands. His coat lay discarded on the floor, and the unlit cigarette clutched between his fingers had long since been snapped in two.

His shoulders shook—barely, but enough.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. The kind of silence that only followed after too many years of pretending things didn’t hurt.

Her name was Astra.

She screamed for me. And I didn’t move.

His breath hitched, and for the first time in years, John Constantine let the grief take him.

Not with a wail. Not with drama.

Just quiet, broken gasps in the dark. The kind you don’t survive. The kind that sits in your bones forever.

The classroom door creaked.

John froze.

He didn’t even have time to lift his head before he heard the whisper:

“Professor Constantine?”

Hermione.

And then—bloody hell—Harry and Ron were with her, all three frozen in the doorway, faces flickering in the dying torchlight.

“Shite,” John muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

None of them moved.

Hermione was the first to speak. “Are you alright?”

John laughed—hollow, rough. “Not even a little, sweetheart.”

Harry stepped forward before anyone could stop him. “Is it… about the lake?”

John’s head snapped up.

The look in his eyes shut all three of them up fast.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and raw. “Don’t ask me to explain something that’ll live with you forever.”

Hermione swallowed. “We already live with things like that.”

John looked at her. Then at Harry. Then Ron—who, for once, looked too stunned to make a joke.

He stood slowly. Walked over. Stopped just short of them.

“You think I’m the good guy,” he said. “Because I teach you spells. Because I’ve got scars and bad jokes and make Snape look like he has a social life.”

They said nothing.

“But I’ve watched people die. Screaming. Because of me.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make you evil. That makes you human.”

John blinked.

Harry met his gaze. “So have I.”

And for one brief moment, it didn’t matter who had what scar, or which truth they carried.

They just… understood.

John scrubbed at his face again and laughed bitterly. “God, you lot are gonna end up broken just like the rest of us, aren’t you?”

Ron finally spoke. “We’re already halfway there.”

And that, strangely, helped.

John nodded slowly. “Alright. You lot ever need help walking through hell, you come find me. I’ve got a few maps.”

Hermione smiled, soft. “Deal.”

Harry gave him a nod. Ron clapped him on the shoulder, awkward but solid.

As they left, John looked back toward the dark corner of the room where the ghosts still whispered.

And, for the first time in a long time, they were just a little quieter.

Chapter 26

Harry, Hermione, and Ron huddled in the shadows, barely daring to breathe. The faint glow of Hermione’s wand barely illuminated the stone walls of the corridor as they listened intently.

The voices ahead grew louder.

“You really think you can just walk away from this, Constantine?” Dumbledore’s voice was calm, but the weight of it was suffocating.

“I told you I’m done,” John’s voice snapped back, low and filled with a bitter edge. “The Tournament’s nearly over. I’m not your bloody puppet.”

“You were never just a puppet,” Dumbledore said, his voice taking on a gentler, almost pitying tone. “I know what you’re capable of, John. You’re one of the few who has seen the true cost of this world, and yet you stand here pretending you’re above it all. You can’t just leave. Not when I know what happened. Not when they—”

John’s breath hitched, and there was a sharp pause. “Don’t bring them into this. You know how that went.”

“I know,” Dumbledore agreed, his voice suddenly colder. “But the world doesn’t. They think you’re just another washed-up drunk with a knack for magic. They don’t know what you did. They don’t know how you failed them. How you froze when Astra screamed.”

There was a sound. A heavy inhale from John—shaking. Then came the next words, raw, barely above a whisper.

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t—”

“And you think I don’t know that pain?” Dumbledore interrupted, his voice soft but laced with something darker. “I lost many, John. Many who trusted me. Who thought I would protect them. But we don’t always get to choose, do we? What we sacrifice. What we let slip through our fingers.”

John’s voice was tight with restrained fury. “You really think this is about you? That you’re the only one who’s suffered?”

“No,” Dumbledore said gently. “But I know what happens when you stop fighting. When you bury the truth so deep that you forget why you started trying in the first place. You remember what happened when you froze in Newcastle? Everyone remembers.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re playing with my life,” John muttered. “You’re twisting it like you’ve done to everyone else. Don’t you get it? I’m not your damn hero. I’m a wreck. A failure.”

“You were never a failure, John,” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle now, almost tender, as if trying to reel him back in. “But you can’t walk away from the consequences of your past. Not now, not after everything that’s been set into motion. The Ministry, the Tournament, the children here—they need you.”

“I need to go.” John’s voice broke slightly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Oh, but you are, John,” Dumbledore said, so quietly it could have been a confession. “The difference is, you’ve stopped believing it yourself. And that is why I need you to stay. I need you to keep teaching. To protect these children. To finish what you started.”

“Stop.” John’s voice was barely audible now, more of a pained rasp. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

“But I won’t,” Dumbledore said softly, with an almost pitying finality. “Not when you still owe me—when you still owe them.”

John’s breath hitched again, and the trio could hear him shift on his feet, as if gathering himself. A moment passed before he spoke again, quieter, resigned.

“…You’re right. I stay. But don’t you ever—”

“I know,” Dumbledore interrupted. “I won’t let them find out what you’ve done. I’ll protect you. You’ll stay, and I will keep the world from knowing how deep your failure goes. How close you were to saving her. To saving them all.”

The door clicked open.

John’s voice, low and filled with regret, almost broken, was the last thing they heard before the shadows swallowed the conversation completely.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

The trio exchanged wide-eyed glances, their hearts pounding. Hermione’s mouth was dry, her brain whirling with a thousand questions. Ron looked sick, his expression unreadable. And Harry—Harry just stood there, pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Did you—did you hear that?” Hermione finally whispered.

“I—I don’t even know what to think,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. “Dumbledore… He blackmailed him. He’s been using John.”

Ron swallowed. “And what was that about Newcastle? Who the hell is Astra?”

They stood there, frozen, their minds reeling. They’d known Dumbledore had his secrets—but this?

It wasn’t just secrets. It was manipulation. Guilt. It was everything John Constantine had been running from.

But Dumbledore? He had all the cards.

And now, so did they.

Chapter 27

The Quidditch pitch was unrecognizable.

The hedges had grown overnight into towering green walls, thick with thorns and a strange shimmer that made them pulse slightly, like they were breathing. The stands were packed with students, professors, Ministry officials. The sky was a dull, oppressive grey, and the atmosphere had shifted—no longer festive, no longer exciting. Just… tense.

Harry stood at the edge of the maze, his wand tight in his grip, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Across from him, Cedric gave him a nod—steady, kind. Fleur shifted on her feet, her brow furrowed. Krum didn’t even look at anyone else.

The champions waited for the signal.

John Constantine sat in the front row of the staff stand, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He didn’t blink. Not once. Minerva McGonagall sat on his left, posture rigid. Severus Snape on his right, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

John hadn’t spoken since the start of the ceremony.

He’d simply watched Harry.

Watched like he was trying to memorize him—just in case.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his voice magically amplified as he addressed the crowd.

“The Third Task is a test not only of magical skill, but of courage, resourcefulness, and the strength of one’s character. Each champion will enter the maze in order based on their scores from the previous tasks. The first to reach the Triwizard Cup at the center will be declared the winner.”

A pause.

“And remember—should any of you wish to be removed from the maze, send up red sparks.”

He turned to the four champions.

“Good luck.”

With a flick of his wand, the hedges groaned, creaking open to reveal narrow paths swallowed quickly by darkness.

Cedric entered first.

Then Viktor.

Fleur.

And finally—

Harry.

He stepped into the maze, and the hedge slammed closed behind him.

⸻

At first, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the sounds from the stands had vanished. The maze had cut off the outside world completely.

Harry moved carefully, every instinct on high alert. The path twisted unnaturally, every step he took echoing like it didn’t belong.

Whispers slithered from the walls.

False whispers.

John had warned him. Don’t listen. Don’t believe anything you hear in the dark.

He pushed forward, turning left—dead end.

Right.

Something scuttled just behind him—Harry spun, wand raised—

Nothing.

No, not nothing.

A fog, dense and crawling low to the ground, began to seep across the path. Cold. Too cold.

Suddenly—

A screech.

Harry dove aside as a Blast-Ended Skrewt lunged from the hedge, its tail flaming. He shouted “Stupefy!” but it barely staggered. He sprinted down the path, ducking under low-hanging vines, twisting through the branches until—

Another dead end.

The fog grew thicker. The whispers louder.

“You don’t belong here, boy. You’re a mistake. They all know it.”

He gritted his teeth. “Shut up.”

From somewhere deeper in the maze, a scream echoed—high and desperate. Fleur?

He moved again. Turned left. Then right.

Another path.

Another silence.

Then—

A Boggart, but it didn’t even bother with theatrics. It shifted into Voldemort before his eyes—cold red eyes, wand raised—

“Riddikulus!” Harry shouted, and the thing exploded into smoke.

But the strain was beginning to show. His magic trembled in his fingers. His chest heaved with effort. And the maze was laughing.

⸻

From the stands, Constantine clenched his jaw.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “The maze is behaving as designed.”

“No,” John said, voice low. “That scream wasn’t staged. That fog’s moving too fast. Something’s not following the rules.”

McGonagall looked over sharply. “Should we intervene?”

Dumbledore was quiet.

Too quiet.

⸻

Inside the maze, Harry stumbled into a clearing.

And there it was.

The Cup.

Glowing. Radiant.

But something was wrong with the light—it flickered, like a candle about to gutter out.

He took a cautious step forward—

Then Cedric burst through the hedge from the opposite side.

They stared at one another.

“Take it together?” Harry asked, just like they had agreed.

Cedric nodded.

They moved forward—

And the world ripped apart.

A flash of blue light.

A hook behind Harry’s navel.

And then—

Darkness.

Graveyard soil beneath his feet.

A scream in the distance.

⸻

Back in the stands, the maze shook.

Then the Cup was gone.

And Harry Potter was no longer in the maze.

Chapter 28

The ground was cold. Damp. Like it hadn’t felt sunlight in decades.

Harry hit the earth hard, Cedric landing just beside him with a shout of confusion. The Cup clattered away, its light dimming instantly, like it had been drained of all magic.

Harry scrambled to his feet, wand in hand, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Where are we?” Cedric breathed, spinning around, wand out.

A graveyard.

Twisted iron gates. Crumbling tombstones.

Everything was quiet—too quiet.

Then—

A figure stepped out from behind one of the larger headstones.

Peter Pettigrew.

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“Kill the spare,” hissed a voice from the bundle in Pettigrew’s arms.

Cedric barely had time to turn.

Green light flashed.

“NO—!”

Cedric Diggory fell before Harry could reach him.

Dead.

Gone.

Just like that.

Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. His knees hit the ground next to Cedric’s body as rage and disbelief warred in his chest.

Then, ropes of thick, magical binding shot out and wrapped around him, pinning him to the base of a nearby tombstone.

He screamed, struggled, but it was useless. The ropes pulsed with old, dark enchantments.

“Welcome, Harry,” Pettigrew wheezed, moving with a limp. His hands trembled as he lowered the small, grotesque bundle to the cauldron in the center of a runed circle carved into the soil.

Voldemort.

Hairless. Gray. Skeletal. Less than human.

Still alive.

Harry stared, horrified, as the ritual began.

Bones from the grave of Tom Riddle Sr.

Flesh—cut from Peter’s own hand.

Blood. Harry’s blood, drawn by force from his arm as he screamed through gritted teeth.

The cauldron hissed.

Smoked.

And then—

He rose.

No longer a twisted shell.

No longer the fragment Harry had seen in dreams.

Voldemort—tall, pale, inhuman—stepped out of the cauldron like death itself reborn.

Slitted red eyes opened, and the smile that curved his lips was pure poison.

“Harry Potter,” he said softly. “We meet again. And this time—there is no one here to save you.”

Chapter 29

The moment the Triwizard Cup vanished from the maze, John was already on his feet.

Something had gone wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Beside him, McGonagall’s hand flew to her mouth. The crowd buzzed with confusion. Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

And Dumbledore…

Dumbledore didn’t move.

Not until John grabbed his arm and snarled, “Where the hell did it take him?”

“Calm yourself, Constantine—”

“Don’t you bloody dare. Where?”

Dumbledore’s face was grave. “A graveyard. Riddle Manor. I suspected it was a Portkey… but I didn’t expect them to act this fast.”

John’s breath hitched.

“Then what are we still doing here?”

“I cannot go.”

“What?”

Dumbledore turned to him, his voice low but firm. “They know me. If I appear, they’ll scatter. We’ll never find them again. But you—”

“No.” John took a step back. “No, don’t pull me into this, Albus. This isn’t my fight.”

“You made it your fight the moment you agreed to protect these children.”

John’s jaw clenched. His hands shook. “You know what’s waiting in that graveyard. If he comes back—”

“He is already back,” Dumbledore said quietly.

And that was it.

That was the moment John Constantine broke.

He didn’t speak again. He just turned on the spot and vanished.

⸻

The Graveyard

Voldemort’s voice echoed across the tombstones, triumphant and cold.

“Kill him now?” a Death Eater asked, mask glinting in the moonlight.

“No,” Voldemort said. “He must die properly. We duel. On even ground. Let it be known—I killed Harry Potter with my own hand.”

Harry, still pinned to the tombstone, could barely breathe through the pain.

But then—

A crack of thunder, though there were no clouds.

Smoke curled unnaturally through the gravestones.

And there he was.

John Constantine.

Trench coat whipping in wind that didn’t exist. Cigarette clenched between his teeth. Eyes burning with something between fury and madness.

“You really shouldn’t have killed the kid’s friend,” he said calmly, stepping between Harry and the gathered Death Eaters. “That was a bad idea.”

Voldemort blinked. “And who are you?”

John smiled without warmth. “The last poor bastard you ever want to owe a favor to.”

He raised both hands—and the runes etched along his arms lit up.

The circle snapped. The ground split open beneath two of the Death Eaters, dragging them screaming into smoke. Another’s mask melted into their face.

Pandemonium erupted.

Voldemort shouted a curse—green light flying—

But it struck a shimmering shield, crackling with blood-magic John had etched with his own skin.

“Harry!” John yelled, rushing forward. “Get to the Cup—now!”

Harry stumbled to his feet, grabbed Cedric’s wand, and ran.

A second crack split the air.

Dumbledore appeared.

The temperature dropped ten degrees.

Voldemort’s face twisted. “Ah. There you are.”

“Tom,” Dumbledore said softly.

They locked eyes.

John didn’t wait.

He reached Harry, grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and shoved the Cup into his hands. “Take Cedric and go.”

“I can’t leave you—”

“You can. And you will.”

Harry looked back—at the fight, at the blood—and gripped Cedric’s arm.

The Cup flared.

They vanished.

⸻

John turned slowly to Voldemort, blood trickling down his hand.

“Well,” he said. “That was dramatic.”

Voldemort raised his wand.

John lit another cigarette.

A crack of apparation heard.

And the graveyard exploded into fire.

Chapter 30

The Cup dropped onto the grass with a lifeless thud.

Harry landed beside it—gasping, shaking, his clothes torn and covered in dirt and blood not entirely his own.

And sprawled beside him…

Cedric Diggory.

Still.

Motionless.

Dead.

The stadium went silent in an instant.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a breaking wave as students stood, as Fleur screamed, as Madam Pomfrey dropped her tea.

McGonagall was the first to reach them.

“Harry—oh Merlin—Cedric—”

She dropped to her knees.

Then, before Harry could form a word, two more cracks split the air—

Dumbledore appeared.

And John Constantine—his coat scorched, a deep cut across his cheek, blood on his knuckles—appeared just behind him.

The silence shattered.

Students shouted. Some screamed. Others stood frozen, not knowing what they were witnessing.

“Get everyone out of here!” Dumbledore barked, his voice carrying over the pitch. “Now!”

McGonagall nodded immediately, summoning staff and guiding students back with a wave of her wand.

Madame Maxime covered her mouth. Karkaroff went pale and disappeared into the crowd like a shadow.

The Cup still glowed faintly on the grass.

John stood over it, breathing hard, his cigarette gone, fingers twitching. He looked to Harry—then to Cedric—and something broke in his face. Not surprise. Not horror.

Recognition.

Grief he’d seen before.

Dumbledore moved swiftly, conjuring a stretcher for Cedric’s body, covering it with his cloak.

Harry still hadn’t said a word.

John knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder. “It’s over,” he said quietly.

Harry’s voice shook. “It’s not.”

Constantine didn’t argue.

⸻

Back in the castle, the aftermath had already begun.

Fudge arrived too quickly, sputtering and denying. Dumbledore was locked in a private room with him. John didn’t even bother going in.

Instead, he leaned against a stone wall outside the Hospital Wing, arms folded, eyes distant.

He was already lighting another cigarette when Snape appeared down the hall.

“You’re bleeding,” Snape said flatly.

John didn’t look up. “Yeah. That happens.”

Snape stepped closer, then paused. “He saw him, didn’t he?”

John nodded. “Fully reborn. Used Harry’s blood. The ritual was clean. Controlled. He’s back.”

Snape’s face didn’t change—but his fingers curled tightly at his sides.

“And Potter?”

“Alive. Not okay. But alive.”

Silence.

Then, softly—

“You came back.”

John’s voice was hoarse. “Couldn’t leave the kid.”

Snape looked away.

Then back.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Chapter 31

The office smelled of lemon drops and secrets.

John Constantine stood with one hand braced against the window frame, his shoulders stiff beneath his soot-stained coat. Hogwarts sprawled beneath him, eerily quiet in the wake of Cedric’s death. The silence didn’t suit it.

Behind him, Dumbledore poured tea.

The sound made John’s eye twitch.

“I’ve already done what you asked,” John said, not turning. “I got the kid out alive. You don’t get to ask for more.”

“I’m not asking,” Dumbledore said, setting the cup down with a clink.

John turned slowly. “You manipulative son of a—”

“Richie Simpson,” Dumbledore interrupted, eyes sparkling with that infuriating blend of charm and veiled threat. “Still in New York, last I heard. Still rather haunted by what happened with that exorcism gone wrong. The demon’s name was Mnemoth, wasn’t it?”

John froze.

Dumbledore stepped around his desk, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Or a bomb.

“I’ve never told anyone about Richie. Never even asked him for anything. But if you walk away now, after everything you’ve seen—after everything Harry’s seen—I’ll be forced to reconsider my silence.”

“You wouldn’t,” John growled, eyes narrowing. “You couldn’t.”

“I will,” Dumbledore said, soft but ironclad. “Because if you leave, this war is already lost. I need you, John.”

John stared at him.

“You don’t need me, Albus,” he said bitterly. “You just need someone expendable enough to burn when your plans fall apart.”

“I need someone who knows how to fight fire with fire.”

“Then you need a match, not a man.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond. Just watched him.

The silence stretched until John’s rage crumbled into something hollow.

Finally, he looked down, voice quiet.

“What do you want?”

“To stay,” Dumbledore said simply. “Officially. I’ve spoken with Bathsheba Babbling—she’s retiring after this term. I’d like you to replace her as Professor of Ancient Runes. You’re more than qualified.”

John blinked. “You want me teaching kids about ancient magic circles? Half the material I know is banned in twelve countries.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

“And the Order?”

“I’m re-forming it tonight.”

John was quiet.

Then: “You’re a bastard.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “You’ve mentioned.”

⸻

Later, John found himself in the Hospital Wing doorway, watching Harry sleep, Hermione curled up in a chair nearby, Ron snoring softly against the foot of the bed.

John looked older in the moonlight.

Tired. Smeared in blood and ash and the weight of another war.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn, folded piece of paper.

An Order of the Phoenix insignia.

Freshly inked with his name.

He shoved it back in his pocket and muttered, “Bloody hell,” before slipping out into the corridor again.

Chapter 32

The dungeons were colder than John remembered.

He hadn’t actually intended to end up here—but after nearly twenty minutes of dodging sympathetic glances from Pomona Sprout and confused stares from sixth-years, he’d ducked down a side hall and walked without thinking.

Now, he was leaning against the cool stone wall just outside Snape’s office door, arms crossed, cigarette unlit between his fingers.

The door opened without warning.

Snape stood there, robes immaculate as ever, though the circles under his eyes were darker than usual.

“You’re terrible at skulking,” Snape said. “Even now.”

“I wasn’t skulking,” John muttered.

Snape’s brow arched. “Loitering with intent, then?”

John shoved the cigarette behind his ear and rolled his eyes. “I’m staying.”

A beat.

“I know,” Snape said quietly, stepping back to let him in.

The office hadn’t changed—still full of strange jars and the faint scent of crushed herbs. John stepped inside and sat on the edge of the desk like it was a pub bench, arms folded.

“So,” he said. “You gonna throw a fit or kiss me again?”

Snape didn’t react.

Then, “You should have left.”

John looked up.

“You had your chance,” Snape continued, voice low and not-quite cold. “You had an exit. Dumbledore’s claws may be sharp, but they’re slow. You could have slipped them.”

“I could have,” John agreed. “But I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

John shrugged. “Because the kid reminds me of someone I didn’t save. Because I know what’s coming, and I’m not a coward. Because I was tired of running.” He looked at Snape. “Pick one.”

Snape was quiet.

Then: “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

John smirked faintly. “Probably. But at least I’ll take some bastards with me.”

Snape stepped closer. “You’ve always been reckless.”

“You’ve always been judgmental.”

They were nose to nose now. Neither moving. Tension crackled between them like a live wire.

John’s voice dropped. “You gonna kiss me or hex me?”

Snape’s answer was a sharp inhale—and then his mouth, furious and bruising, on John’s.

The desk groaned under John’s weight as he was shoved back against it. He yanked Snape closer by the front of his robes.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was years of unresolved tension, of betrayal and secrets and the ache of two men who never really learned how to stop each other.

When they finally broke apart, breathing hard, Snape’s voice was ragged.

“You’re sleeping in your own chambers tonight.”

John smirked, dragging his thumb along the side of Snape’s jaw. “You can kick me out after I shower.”

Chapter 33

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual chaos of the Start-of-Term Feast. Returning students filled the benches in a swarm of noise and fresh gossip, all eager to speculate on everything from the new Quidditch captains to who would be caught snogging in the Astronomy Tower first.

But above all, there was one clear rumor pulsing through the crowd:

John Constantine was gone.

They knew it. He hadn’t been seen all summer. Not during exams. Not in Hogsmeade. Whispers had it he’d burned out, cursed the Headmaster, and vanished back into the underworld where he belonged. He’d fought something dark in the graveyard—saved Potter, even—and disappeared like a ghost.

And in his place…

Sitting stiff-backed at the far end of the staff table, wearing pink so violently bright it hurt to look at her, was Dolores Umbridge.

Ministry-appointed. Utterly loathed before she’d even opened her mouth.

“Look at her,” Seamus muttered to Harry. “She looks like a bottle of cough syrup and a cat had a baby.”

Harry snorted.

Hermione frowned. “She’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I heard her talking to Fudge at the station. She’s here to keep an eye on things. On Dumbledore. On us.”

Ron leaned in. “Bet she can’t even cast a Shield Charm.”

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to argue, the doors to the Great Hall slammed open.

The room quieted instantly.

A figure strolled in, trench coat swirling behind him, cigarette tucked behind one ear, and a perpetual look of don’t talk to me unless you’re on fire carved into his face.

John Constantine.

Alive.

Still here.

And very much not smiling.

The students gaped as he made his way to the staff table, ignoring every stare. He reached the center, glanced to the side—

—and saw Umbridge.

She offered him a prim smile, her teeth blinding.

He looked at her like she was a particularly revolting fungus.

And then, to the shock of everyone, he slid into the empty chair directly beside her.

Harry turned to Ron. “Didn’t Dumbledore say she was teaching Defense?”

“He did.”

John casually kicked his boots up onto the edge of the table and reached for a bread roll.

Dumbledore rose to speak.

“Welcome back, students. I trust your summer holidays were restful. As you can see, we have two new additions to our staff this year. Professor Umbridge, from the Ministry of Magic, will be assisting us in understanding the official educational standards deemed appropriate by our… government.”

He said it like it physically pained him.

Umbridge gave a little hem-hem and a pleased nod.

“And,” Dumbledore continued, eyes twinkling now, “Professor Constantine will no longer be instructing Defense Against the Dark Arts, but rather Ancient Runes. He has graciously agreed to stay on for the foreseeable future.”

Whispers exploded like fireworks.

Ron nearly dropped his fork. “He’s teaching now?”

“He’s still alive?” Dean muttered.

Hermione was blinking rapidly. “This is good. This is so good. If she’s teaching Defense, and he’s still here, it means—”

“It means she’s going to hate him more than she hates teenagers,” Harry finished.

At the staff table, Umbridge turned to John.

He had just taken a bite of bread. She smiled, sweet as poison.

“I do hope we’ll work well together,” she chirped.

John gave her a flat look. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Chapter 34

“Wait—we’re in his class?” Ron hissed as they approached the Ancient Runes corridor.

Hermione, looking particularly pleased with herself, nodded. “I adjusted our electives. Thought it might be… enlightening.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You adjusted our electives?”

“You both barely remember to sign your name on the sign-up forms,” she shot back. “Now hush.”

They stepped into the classroom—bare stone walls, half the windows cracked, and the faint scent of smoke and sandalwood lingering like a warning.

At the front, John Constantine leaned against the chalkboard, arms crossed, trench coat hanging from the chair beside him. He glanced up as they entered, one brow twitching upward.

“Well, look what the universe dragged in,” he muttered. “Golden trio, huh? Didn’t peg you three as the rune type.”

“We can be interested in academics,” Hermione said sharply.

Ron coughed.

John didn’t smile. But he gestured toward the middle row. “Sit down. Try not to hex anything.”

The room filled quickly. Seamus and Dean nodded toward Harry, while a few Ravenclaws whispered behind their textbooks, occasionally sneaking glances at Constantine like he might explode if stared at too long.

Once the class settled, John slapped a heavy book onto the desk.

“Today’s lesson,” he said, scrawling on the blackboard, “is on containment runes. Specifically, how to draw them so you don’t summon a demon through your gran’s laundry basket.”

Hermione’s quill paused mid-sentence. “Is that… a real incident?”

“Oh yeah,” John said without missing a beat. “Happened in Cardiff. Laundry never smelled right again.”

He began pacing. “Runes are intention made shape. They don’t care if you’re brave, clever, loyal, or loud—they care if you know what the hell you’re doing. One wrong curve and your ‘light ward’ becomes an ‘incineration sigil.’ Fun at parties. Less fun in practice.”

He flicked his wand. The blackboard flashed red with an animated rune circle that pulsed with soft light.

“Now. Pair off and start sketching this. No magic yet—just quill and ink. If anyone tries to be clever, I’ve got an anti-possession rune with your name on it.”

Hermione was already scribbling.

Ron leaned toward Harry. “He’s… intense.”

Harry nodded. “But not boring.”

John passed behind them, pausing at their table.

“You two,” he said to Ron and Harry. “You’ve got the same aura that precedes minor explosions. Keep the lines clean and the jokes quieter.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron muttered, cheeks slightly pink.

“Don’t call me sir,” John said. “Makes me feel like I’m back in hell. Or worse, the Ministry.”

⸻

Class ended with only one ink-splattered desk and no demonic summonings, which, John considered, was a win.

As the students filed out, Hermione lingered.

“That rune you showed—it’s Norse, but the layering looked… modified. Is that from your own system?”

John looked at her, surprised.

“Sort of,” he said. “Borrowed it from a Babylonian ward structure. You’ve got a sharp eye.”

Hermione beamed.

Behind her, Harry hesitated. “Sir—I mean, John… thanks.”

John tilted his head. “For what?”

“For staying.”

Something flickered behind Constantine’s eyes. A crack in the usual wall of sarcasm and cigarettes.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “Year’s just started.”

Chapter 35

The atmosphere in Defense Against the Dark Arts was… wrong.

Hermione noticed it first—too quiet, too neat. Desks lined up perfectly. No practice dummies. No spell marks on the walls. Not a single trace of the grit and chaos that had defined Constantine’s classroom last year.

Harry looked at the board. “No runes. No dueling circles. Just rules.”

At the front, Umbridge stood behind a stack of pristine textbooks, hands clasped like a smug little toad.

“Wands away, children,” she said, smiling wide. “We won’t be needing them.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances.

Then she began.

And it was awful.

Lecture only. No spells. No practical work. No real defense—just Ministry-approved theory about “subject-appropriate responses” and “non-provocative defensive behavior.”

By the end of the hour, Ron’s eyes had glazed over, Hermione looked one twitch away from exploding, and Harry’s fists were clenched beneath the desk.

Umbridge closed her book with a snap. “I expect your essays by Friday on the approved magical limitations for student dueling. No exceptions.”

As they filed out, Hermione whispered, “That wasn’t a Defense class. That was propaganda.”

“I can’t believe we had Constantine last year and now we’ve got this,” Ron grumbled.

“I don’t care what he says,” Harry muttered. “I’m going to tell him.”

⸻

John was in his office—feet up on the desk, trench coat tossed on the back of a chair, a mug of something suspiciously brown in his hand—when the knock came.

He didn’t look up. “Door’s open.”

Harry strode in, flanked by Hermione and Ron.

“She’s not teaching Defense,” Harry said. “She’s poisoning it.”

John looked up slowly.

“Ah,” he said, rubbing his face. “You went to her class.”

“It was a joke,” Ron added. “Except not funny.”

John sighed and stood, walking past them to shut the door.

“Let me guess. No spells. No practice. No actual defense?”

They nodded.

“And let me also guess—she made it sound like anyone who teaches anything practical is dangerous, unstable, or possibly in league with the Dark Arts?”

Hermione hesitated. “She did mention ‘unsanctioned rogue instruction’…”

John snorted and poured another splash of firewhisky into his mug.

“She’s here to control the narrative. That’s it. Fudge is terrified Dumbledore’s building an army and she’s the Ministry’s little puppet to stop it. They think if they control the curriculum, they control the future.”

Harry frowned. “So you’re just going to let her?”

John looked at him, tired and sharp. “No. I’m going to outlast her.”

Hermione perked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” John said, “that I’ve survived demons, devils, death, and Dumbledore’s moral manipulation. You think one frilly Ministry gremlin in a pink sweater can scare me?”

Ron grinned. “She does look like a stuffed toad.”

“I’ve exorcised toads with better tempers,” John muttered.

Then, more seriously: “You three—keep your heads down. Learn what you can. And if you want to learn real defense, you know where to find me.”

Chapter 36

John Constantine was halfway through pretending to mark essays—an untouched bottle of Ogden’s on the corner of his desk, a smoldering cigarette dangling from the edge of his ashtray—when a knock tapped lightly at his office door.

He didn’t look up. “Unless you’re here to bleed or bribe me, I’m not interested.”

The door creaked open anyway.

“Professor Constantine,” came the syrupy, high-pitched tone he’d come to loathe.

He still didn’t look up. “Ah. Ministry’s favorite ornament.”

Dolores Umbridge stepped into the room, her saccharine smile so forced it was practically carved into her cheeks. “I thought we might… talk. Privately. About unity between departments.”

“That why you brought your clipboard? Or your claws?” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

She giggled.

He winced.

She walked around the desk slowly, hand trailing the edge. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask how you manage to connect with the students so… viscerally. You’ve got such an intriguing… edge.”

He finally looked up, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t flirt with me. You’ll summon something neither of us can banish.”

“Oh, Mr. Constantine,” she said, and before he could stop her, she laid a hand on his shoulder—soft, sticky, and entirely unwelcome.

He went still.

Dead still.

“I think we could work very well together,” she purred. “There’s no need for all that gruffness. We’re colleagues. Perhaps even… friends.”

“Touch me again,” John said in a voice low and flat as ice, “and I’ll draw a containment circle so fast you’ll be trapped in it until the next blood moon.”

And then the door slammed open.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, robes billowing, eyes narrowing at the sight before him: Dolores Umbridge’s hand still on John’s shoulder—and John looking one second from setting something on fire.

The silence hung sharp.

John didn’t look away from Umbridge.

Snape’s lip curled. “Am I… interrupting something?”

Umbridge withdrew her hand quickly, turning with a forced laugh. “Severus, how lovely! We were just discussing interdepartmental cooperation.”

Snape stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with an ominous click.

“I’d advise against attempting further… cooperation with Constantine,” he said, his voice like smoke and threat. “He’s allergic to sycophants. And perfume.”

John cracked a grin, though his jaw was still tight. “Appreciate the save, mate.”

Snape gave him a look. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Umbridge cleared her throat, adjusting her cardigan. “Well, I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your business.”

She left in a flurry of pink lace and irritation.

The door barely closed behind her before John reached for his cigarette and lit it with a snap of his fingers.

Snape arched a brow. “You let her touch you?”

“She ambushed me,” John said through gritted teeth. “Do I look like the kind of man who enjoys being caressed by hell’s frilliest emissary?”

Snape stared at him for a moment longer.

Then smirked.

And for the first time all day, John laughed.

Chapter 37

Dolores Umbridge stormed into Dumbledore’s office, all pink lace, indignation, and clutched scrolls of parchment.

“He threatened me, Albus,” she hissed, slamming the scrolls onto his desk. “With binding magic and fire and—and some blood moon circle nonsense! He’s completely unstable!”

Dumbledore, sipping calmly from a cup of lemon tea, didn’t flinch. “Did he now?”

“He’s dangerous,” she pressed. “I demand he be removed. Immediately.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Dolores,” Dumbledore said lightly. “Professor Constantine has been given full authority over his department.”

“Then I’ll take it up with the Ministry,” she snapped, spinning on her heel.

Dumbledore didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t need to.

⸻

Two days later, she sat in a Ministry interrogation chamber across from Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose usual calm had shifted into barely concealed exasperation.

“You’re telling me,” Kingsley said slowly, “that John Constantine—former freelance exorcist and registered consultant for three magical governments—threatened you with summoning magic… because you touched his shoulder?”

“He was hostile and volatile!” she barked.

“And what precisely did he do?”

“He said he’d trap me in a containment circle and implied demonic consequences!”

Kingsley blinked once. “You mean… the man who’s literally spent years containing demons threatened to do his job when you got in his personal space?”

Umbridge flushed pink. “He was inappropriate.”

“You mean you were inappropriate,” Kingsley corrected, not bothering to hide the steel in his voice anymore. “I’ve read the Hogwarts logs. You entered his office without invitation, during non-teaching hours, and attempted to initiate contact without cause. I’m beginning to wonder whether this is personal.”

“He’s undermining the Ministry!”

Kingsley folded his hands. “Or maybe you’re just upset you can’t control him.”

Silence.

“Dolores,” he continued, voice low and firm, “you’ve filed four complaints in two weeks. Against Flitwick for ‘questioning your authority,’ against Hagrid for ‘smelling like wilderness,’ and now against Constantine—who, by all accounts, has done nothing but teach his subject and avoid you.”

Her lips thinned.

“I’m closing this case,” Kingsley said flatly. “You’re lucky he hasn’t filed one against you.”

He stood. “And between us? You’re not the first to poke a lion and be surprised when it growled.”

⸻

Back at Hogwarts, John opened the letter with a half-smirk as he sat on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, smoking in the dark.

Constantine —
No charges filed.
Ministry annoyed.
She’s on watch.
You’re welcome.
—K.S.

He laughed once, low and sharp, and pocketed the letter.

Then he took a long drag from his cigarette and whispered into the night, “Nice try, Toad.”

Chapter 38

The pink was fading.

Not from the drapes—those were still hideous—or the tea cozies, or the lace-lined chair covers she’d inflicted on the staff room. But from her face. Dolores Jane Umbridge had not smiled in over a week.

Because nothing was working.

Not the Ministry reports, not the veiled threats, not even the half-dozen memos she’d sent to Dumbledore accusing Constantine of “morally dangerous associations with infernal forces and potions master fraternization.”

Worse still—Constantine wasn’t even rattled. He ignored her in staff meetings. Smirked at her during meals. Once, she could swear, he left a sigil etched into the bottom of her teacup that whispered unflattering things in Mermish.

And now the students had turned on her. Not openly—they were smarter than that—but the whispers, the way they praised “Professor Constantine” loudly in her presence, the enchanted frogs someone had released into her office singing “Demons Prefer Constantine” in four-part harmony…

It was too much.

So she packed her things.

Carefully. Meticulously. Each pink quill and ministry file. Each framed photograph of Minister Fudge. Her kitten plates purred anxiously as she stacked them away.

When she arrived in Dumbledore’s office for the last time, she did not sit.

“I’m resigning,” she announced.

Dumbledore, behind his desk, nodded once. “I see.”

“You’re not going to stop me?” she snapped.

“I think it’s for the best,” he said pleasantly. “This school has never responded well to… Ministry oversight.”

Her jaw clenched. “You will regret letting him stay. He’s dangerous. Corrupt. Profane.”

“I’ve known John Constantine a long time,” Dumbledore said. “And while he is, indeed, all of those things… he is also honest when it counts. Loyal in his own way. And very, very difficult to get rid of.”

Dolores huffed, turned on her heel—and stopped short at the door.

Because John was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, trench coat rumpled and cigarette already lit.

“Going somewhere, Dolores?” he drawled.

She didn’t answer. Just shoved past him.

But he leaned in close enough for her to hear, voice like brimstone and humor. “Hell’s full, love. But I’m sure they’ll make room.”

She fled without another word.

⸻

That night, the staff room was strangely lighter. The lace was gone. The smell of sugar and rot lifted.

Minerva smirked over her tea. “Do we know what finally drove her out?”

John took a swig from his flask and muttered, “She finally figured out she couldn’t exorcise me.”

Snape actually snorted.

Chapter 39

When the students walked into Defense that morning expecting an empty chair or a dry sub from the Ministry, they were not expecting to see John Constantine leaning lazily against the desk, wand tucked behind one ear, cigarette smoldering in his free hand.

Hermione stopped cold. “He’s back?”

“He never left,” Ron muttered.

John didn’t even look up. “Seats. Now. If anyone asks where Toadface went, assume she finally croaked.”

A ripple of laughter spread across the room. Even Malfoy cracked a grin before catching himself.

Harry slipped into his seat, eyes flicking to the blackboard. On it, scrawled in chalk like a challenge:

DEFENSE THROUGH REALITY: LESSON ONE — CURSES THAT BITE BACK.

John finally looked up.

“Right. So,” he began, pushing off from the desk, “your Ministry thinks you’re too fragile for real magic. That if you just memorize enough sanitized textbook answers, Voldemort’ll just… die of boredom.”

He let the name linger in the air. A few students flinched. He rolled his eyes.

“Let me be clear. I’m not here to make you feel safe. I’m here to make you dangerous. Because the world doesn’t care if you’re prepared. It just happens to you.”

He paced slowly, eyes skimming the rows.

“Today, we’re going to learn about reflective curses. The kind that bounce back. The kind that punish intent. The kind that care less about wand movement and more about what’s in your heart.”

Hermione looked riveted.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to argue.

Neville looked ill.

John stopped in front of Harry’s desk.

“You ever wish you could throw someone’s curse right back at them? Not just block it—hurt them with it?”

Harry hesitated.

John’s grin was razor-sharp. “Good. You’re honest. That’s step one.”

⸻

The class was chaos, and the kind of chaos that made students actually learn. John demonstrated a dark-but-legal rebounding spell on a hovering curse trap, showed them how intent shaped backlash, and even made Malfoy duel Ron.

(“It’s not personal,” John told Malfoy. “I just think you could stand to be knocked on your arse by a Weasley once in your life.”)

By the end of the lesson, students were buzzing.

And just before the bell, John called out, “Dumbledore’s still trying to find your new ‘proper’ professor. Until then, I’m the devil you know.”

He winked. “Try not to die before the next lesson.”

⸻

Later, in Dumbledore’s office…

“He what?” the Headmaster asked, rubbing his temples.

“Gave them practical dueling exercises,” Minerva said dryly. “And a few nightmares.”

Snape just smirked. “He’s effective.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I must find Alastor.”

“Until then,” Minerva said, “you might want to consider that Constantine’s class had the highest Defense scores in twenty years.”

“Noted,” Dumbledore said grimly.

Chapter 40

Dumbledore sat alone in his office, a quiet flicker of candlelight reflecting off his half-moon spectacles. The room felt heavier today—more burdened. The recent departure of Dolores Umbridge had left a significant mark on Hogwarts, but it also left a hole in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, one Dumbledore had yet to fill.

He was, however, determined to do so.

When the door creaked open, Dumbledore did not look up immediately. Instead, he steepled his fingers and waited. The sound of uneven footsteps grew louder, and finally, Mad-Eye Moody entered the room, his wooden leg clunking against the floor with every step.

“Sit,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm but insistent.

Moody didn’t hesitate. He dropped into the chair across from the Headmaster with a thud, and his magical eye whirred around the room like a hawk, constantly moving, always scanning.

“Let me guess,” Moody said, gruff as ever, “you need me to step into the bloody mess Umbridge left behind?”

Dumbledore set his glasses aside, finally meeting Moody’s gaze. “I do.”

Moody’s lip curled in something that might have been a smile if he hadn’t been so full of suspicion. “And why would I agree to that? After everything the Ministry’s done to me?”

“I understand your reluctance,” Dumbledore said gently. “But you are the right man for the job.”

Moody snorted, tapping his wand absently against the armrest of the chair. “Flattering, Albus. But I’m not a Ministry lapdog anymore. I don’t take kindly to being used as a pawn.”

“I’m not asking you to be anyone’s pawn,” Dumbledore said, his voice soft but pointed. “I’m asking you to teach these students what they truly need to know. Not what the Ministry thinks they should.”

Moody’s magical eye shifted, narrowing. “And what exactly is it you want me to teach them? The same bloody ‘safe’ nonsense they’ve been getting? I don’t waste my time with that.”

“No,” Dumbledore agreed. “You’ll teach them how to survive. How to fight. How to think for themselves in moments of danger.”

Moody grunted. “And you expect me to do that in this circus of a school?”

“This school has survived far worse,” Dumbledore said with a small smile. “And we need someone who can teach them to be strong in the face of real danger. The world has changed, Alastor. The threat is no longer distant—it is here. And we cannot afford to coddle them any longer.”

For a long moment, Moody was silent, his eye swiveling toward the window, then back at Dumbledore.

“You’re right about one thing,” he muttered finally. “This school’s full of bloody kids who don’t know how to fight. And it’s high time someone gave them the truth.” He paused. “But I don’t do things by the book, Albus. I’ll teach them what they need to know, not what you want them to learn.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dumbledore replied with a smile.

Moody scowled, but Dumbledore could see the faint glimmer of agreement in his eyes.

“Fine. But let’s get one thing straight,” Moody said, leaning forward, his voice lowering. “I’m not doing this out of charity. You’ll owe me for this, Dumbledore. And I don’t forget debts.”

Dumbledore’s smile never faltered. “Agreed.”

Moody’s eye narrowed. “And if I find out you’ve been hiding anything—”

“I trust you’ll do what you need to, Alastor,” Dumbledore interrupted smoothly. “But know this—if you’re going to teach here, it’s because you want to. Not because you’re being blackmailed.”

The threat was there, hanging in the air between them, though neither of them said it outright. Dumbledore had a way of turning even the darkest circumstances to his advantage.

Moody finally nodded, his expression as grim as ever. “I’ll take the position. But don’t think for a second this is me playing nice with the Ministry. I’m here for the kids, not their bloody politics.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “I never expected anything less.”

⸻

Later that afternoon, Moody walked into the staff room, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. As he approached the staff table, the other professors looked up in surprise. Minerva’s eyebrows shot up.

“Alastor,” she said, her voice laced with disbelief. “You’re actually—?”

“I’m filling in for Umbridge,” Moody growled, as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue. “Dumbledore’s got plans, and I’ve got a debt to settle.”

John Constantine, who had been lazily flipping through a textbook, shot a glance at Moody. “So, we’re really doing this now, are we?”

Moody shot him a sharp look. “I’ll be teaching, but don’t get any ideas, Constantine. You stay out of my way, and we won’t have a problem.”

John raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

The next morning, the students were greeted by a very different atmosphere in their Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Gone were the overzealous pink decorations, gone was the oppressive air of Umbridge’s presence. In their place, a hard-edged, battle-hardened figure stood before them—Mad-Eye Moody.

“Today,” Moody barked, “we’re going to start with something you’ll need to know. How to survive when your life’s on the line.”

The class was silent for a split second before the murmurs began—questions, disbelief, fear. But none of them dared to speak out of turn.

“Listen up,” Moody snapped. “If you’re serious about surviving, then you’ll pay attention. If not…” He gave a grim smile. “Well, that’s your choice.”

Chapter 41

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was a far cry from the sterile, monotonous atmosphere that Umbridge had cultivated. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of enchanted torches and the low, steady flicker of a small cauldron bubbling away in the corner.

Mad-Eye Moody stood at the front of the room, his magical eye spinning rapidly as he surveyed the students. His voice was harsh, commanding, as if he were barking orders at a group of soldiers rather than teenagers.

“Listen up,” Moody growled, his voice booming across the room. “Today, you’ll be learning the only spell that matters when it comes to surviving a Dark wizard’s attack: The Cruciatus Curse.”

John Constantine stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. He had agreed to give Moody some space to run his class, but already, he could tell things were about to go sideways.

“Moody,” John called, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. “We’re not in the bloody trenches anymore. They’re students. You don’t need to throw them into the deep end like this.”

Moody didn’t take his eyes off the students, but he growled under his breath, “They need to learn. Now more than ever, they need to know how to protect themselves, how to fight back.” He turned his head slightly, his good eye narrowing. “Not everyone gets to survive the way you did, Constantine.”

John clenched his jaw, pushing himself off the doorframe. “That’s not the point. You can teach them the basics first. You don’t need to give them nightmares before they even know how to cast a bloody Shield Charm.”

“Sometimes nightmares are the only way to wake up,” Moody said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve seen enough nightmares to know they’re not always the best teachers,” John shot back, his eyes narrowing. “You’re talking about a bunch of kids, Alastor. They’re not soldiers. They don’t need to be hardened just yet.”

Moody turned to face him fully, his magical eye locking onto John with an intensity that could burn through stone. “And what would you suggest, Constantine? Hand-holding? Playing nice and pretending that everything’s fine? The world’s changed. You don’t get to be a spectator anymore. And neither do they.”

John took a slow, deliberate step forward, crossing his arms. “I’m not saying you don’t teach them. I’m saying you don’t teach them to hate their enemies before they even understand who they are. You’re turning this into some bloody crusade.”

“Sometimes you need to fight fire with fire,” Moody replied, his voice like gravel. “And they’re not going to get that from you. You’ve spent your life looking out for number one, Constantine. You think these kids are just going to be able to keep their heads down and survive the storm? Not a chance.”

“They don’t need to become cold-hearted bastards like us to survive,” John said, his voice hardening. “They need to learn how to protect themselves, how to fight smart—not just how to survive at all costs.”

“I’m not cold-hearted,” Moody growled, though there was a bitterness in his tone that suggested otherwise.

“No? Then why are you trying to scare them into submission?” John’s voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “You think they’ll learn anything by being afraid? You think they’ll be able to fight when it matters if they’re already terrified of the world they’re about to face?”

Moody stood still for a long moment, his magical eye swiveling between John and the students, who were awkwardly shifting in their seats, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

Finally, he spoke, his voice lower. “Maybe I’m just trying to make sure they don’t end up like me.”

John tilted his head slightly, his expression softening ever so slightly. “You’re not the benchmark, Alastor. Not for them. They’re not you, and they shouldn’t be.”

For a moment, the two men stood in silence. The tension in the room was palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Then, finally, Moody’s lips twisted into something between a frown and a wry smile. “Fine,” he said, the words thick with reluctant acceptance. “You teach them your way. But if you think they’re going to be ready for what’s coming without a little fear in their bones, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

John took a deep breath, his voice calm but firm. “And if they end up losing themselves in that fear? What then, Alastor?”

Moody grunted, turning back to the class. “We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

John watched as the students looked between the two of them, the tension still thick in the air. He turned toward the door, but just before he left, he spoke one last time.

“Just don’t forget,” he said quietly, “you’re not training soldiers. They’re kids.”

As John exited the room, leaving Moody to continue his lesson, he couldn’t help but feel that the battle between old methods and new ones wasn’t going to end anytime soon. He only hoped that the students wouldn’t be the ones caught in the crossfire.

Chapter 42

John was already annoyed when he got the note. The handwriting was familiar—loopy, careful, ancient—and unmistakably Dumbledore’s. “I believe our students would benefit from a dual perspective on defense. Please assist Professor Moody in this morning’s double lesson.” No signature. No request. Just expectation.

He muttered a string of profanity under his breath as he pulled on his coat.

By the time he entered the Defense classroom, Moody was already there, barking instructions at a group of sixth-years with a tone that made John wince. Moody spotted him immediately and narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, look,” Moody grunted. “The conjurer of cheap tricks graces us with his presence.”

“Morning, sunshine,” John muttered, brushing past him and leaning against the front desk. “Looks like we’re co-parenting today.”

The students—mostly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws—exchanged glances, their excitement barely contained. John’s lessons were always unpredictable, and Moody’s were flat-out terrifying. The combination was bound to be interesting.

“All right,” John said, straightening up and clapping his hands once. “Today, we’re doing something a little different. You’ll get both of us. Two styles. Two approaches. One goal: not dying.”

“Encouraging,” a Ravenclaw muttered.

Moody growled, stomping to the center of the classroom. “We’re focusing on counter-curses. Some of you lot still can’t manage a decent shield spell, and if that’s the case, you’ll be dead before the Dark wizard even finishes the incantation.”

John stepped forward. “And while Alastor here terrifies you into improving your wandwork, I’ll show you how to use your brain when magic’s not an option. Wards, talismans, and good old-fashioned deception.”

Moody raised an eyebrow. “You expecting them to talk their way out of a killing curse?”

“I’m expecting them not to stand still and scream when it comes their way,” John shot back, then turned to the class. “Right. Pair off. One of you cast a basic hex. The other blocks it or counters it—without using the standard Shield Charm.”

As the students paired off, Moody watched John weave through the room, correcting posture and grip with surprising patience. He was more hands-on than Moody expected—less chaotic than he remembered. Still gruff, still laced with sarcasm, but… more careful than before.

John, meanwhile, watched Moody do the exact opposite. He barked corrections, snatched wands mid-spell to redirect, and shoved students out of the line of fire if their stance was wrong. One poor Hufflepuff nearly hit the ceiling.

“You know,” John murmured, stepping beside Moody as a Ravenclaw couple tried to counter a Tripping Jinx with a hastily scrawled sigil on a charm card, “if we weren’t terrifying them, this might almost be fun.”

Moody grunted, but John caught the faintest twitch of a grin.

“Nice job, Chambers,” John called to a Slytherin girl who had managed to redirect a hex into a summoning ward. “That’s thinking on your feet.”

“I taught her that one,” Moody growled, arms crossed.

“I’m sure you did,” John said, tone amused but not mocking. “It’s almost like we’re a functioning team.”

“That implies trust.”

John gave a dry laugh. “No chance of that, mate. Just mutual disinterest in seeing kids end up like we did.”

They fell into a rhythm after that—not exactly harmonious, but steady. Moody handled the brute-force approach: casting heavier spells, increasing pressure. John floated between pairs, correcting their logic, giving tips about focus, pulling out talismans and amulets from his coat like a magician with a bottomless hat.

By the end of the lesson, half the class was breathless and sweating, the other half scribbling notes about blood-salt runes and curse-delay sigils. They were exhausted, but alive—and more alert than any student had been in weeks.

“Right,” Moody barked. “Class dismissed. Try not to get cursed on the way out.”

As the students filed out, John turned to Moody. “So, that was… not completely horrible.”

Moody’s magical eye whirred as he looked John up and down. “Don’t get used to it.”

John smirked. “You’re downright cuddly compared to what I remember.”

Moody didn’t dignify that with a reply. But he didn’t growl, either.

And for once, Dumbledore’s meddling might have actually worked.

Chapter 43

The drawing room at 12 Grimmauld Place was filled with the low murmur of voices, the air thick with old dust, secrets, and mistrust. The long table was already half-full with members of the Order—Minerva McGonagall at the far end, Kingsley Shacklebolt in quiet conversation with Emmeline Vance, and Molly Weasley wringing her hands as she set down mugs of tea no one would drink.

The door creaked open, and John Constantine stepped in, his coat damp from the storm outside, smoke curling from the cigarette tucked behind his ear. His eyes swept the room, landing immediately on the two people who were scowling the hardest: Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

“Oh, for f—” Sirius started, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. “What the hell is he doing here, Dumbledore?”

Remus rose a bit more cautiously, his eyes narrowed but not as fiery. “He doesn’t belong here.”

Snape, who’d been lurking silently in the corner, tensed—though whether it was in defense of John or simply enjoying the show wasn’t immediately clear.

Dumbledore, ever the conductor of awkward silences, smiled faintly. “John is a valuable resource. We are all here to fight the same enemy.”

“Yeah?” Sirius said, folding his arms. “Because last I checked, Constantine doesn’t fight for anyone but himself.”

John didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, letting the coat drop off his shoulders and onto the back of a chair. “Look,” he said flatly, “I didn’t want to be here either. I’ve got demons of my own—literally—and a whole bloody school year’s worth of children trying not to die on my watch.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Then leave. No one’s asking you to play hero.”

“Actually,” John drawled, “your dear Headmaster is twisting my arm with a bit of blackmail that’s older than your mother’s tea set, so no, I don’t get the luxury of walking away.”

Sirius glared. “You think you can just waltz in here and—”

“Oh, sod off, Black,” John snapped, temper flaring now. “I’m not here to hold hands or swap sob stories. But your godson likes me. His best friend likes me. The kids trust me. You don’t have to like me—but you do have to get used to me.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened. Remus looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.

John continued, voice low and pointed. “I’m not one of you. I’m not a Gryffindor, I’m not a noble soul, and I sure as hell don’t give a damn about your little schoolyard pissing contests. But I am good at what I do. And if it helps keep those kids alive through what’s coming, I’ll sit through these meetings with a flask in one hand and a middle finger in the other.”

There was a silence.

Then, from the back of the room, Snape let out a sharp, amused breath through his nose—half a laugh, half a scoff.

“You always did have a way with charm, Constantine,” he said dryly.

John gave a sideways glance. “Worked on you once, didn’t it?”

Snape’s face didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Now that the introductions are over…”

“Introduction?” John muttered, taking a seat between Moody and Tonks. “More like a bloody hazing.”

“Welcome to the Order,” Tonks whispered, grinning. “We’re all one big, happy, dysfunctional family.”

John raised a brow. “Figures.”

Chapter 44

The meeting had dragged on long after John stopped pretending to care. He’d left the table first—citing a headache, smoke withdrawal, and the unbearable weight of Gryffindor righteousness clogging the air. He lit a cigarette in the hallway of Grimmauld Place, uncaring of the house’s protests or the muttered disapproval from one of the talking portraits.

He heard Sirius behind him before he spoke—boots too heavy for stealth, steps too fast for calm.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

John didn’t turn around. He took a drag, exhaled slowly. “Gonna need you to be more specific, mate. That list is long.”

“You think just because Harry likes you, you get a pass?” Sirius stepped up beside him, jaw clenched. “You strut around like you know better than the rest of us—like you’re some misunderstood anti-hero instead of a manipulative bastard who doesn’t give a damn who gets hurt.”

John’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and cold. “You want to talk about people getting hurt?”

Sirius stepped closer, heat rising in his voice. “I know your type. You hide behind sarcasm and whiskey, but it doesn’t make you noble. You don’t care about Harry. You’re using him. Just like you use everyone else.”

John let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Funny, coming from the man who used to bully half the school and called it loyalty.”

Sirius froze.

John turned now, face stone. “You want to know why I don’t like you, Black? Why I never did? It’s not the ego, or the brooding, or the high-and-mighty attitude. It’s because you never paid for what you did to people like him.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Him?”

John didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“You’re defending Snape?”

John’s voice dropped, low and dark. “I’m not defending him. I’m remembering. All of it. The way he came back to the Slytherin common room shaking. The hexes. The near-drowning. The time you nearly got him killed.”

Sirius looked away, guilt flashing across his face like a slap.

John kept going. “You and your little gang of Gryffindor saints made sure no one ever forgot who was top dog. You think Snape turned bitter on his own? You lot helped carve that edge into him.”

“I was a kid,” Sirius said tightly. “We were all stupid. I made mistakes.”

“We all make mistakes,” John said, voice quieter now but still sharp. “But the difference is, some of us don’t get to hide ours behind a noble cause and a family name.”

They stood in silence, both bristling.

Finally, Sirius spoke, voice low and bitter. “You think you’re better than me.”

“No,” John said. “I think I’m worse. But at least I’m honest about it.”

He flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.

“I’m not here to play nice. I’m here because Dumbledore’s got me on a leash. And as long as he’s pulling it, I’ll be around. You don’t like it, take it up with him.”

Sirius didn’t reply. He just turned and stalked down the corridor, cloak whipping behind him.

John leaned back against the wall, lit another cigarette, and muttered, “Bloody Gryffindors.”

Chapter 45

Snape was waiting in the hallway when John returned to Grimmauld Place, eyes glittering dark beneath heavy brows. He said nothing at first—just watched as John shrugged off his coat, slower than usual, like the weight on his shoulders was heavier than fabric.

“You’ve been out,” Snape said quietly.

John glanced at him. “Nice to see your skills of observation haven’t dulled.”

Snape’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t insult me, Constantine. You’re rattled.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m always rattled. I make it look good.”

“You’re off your game,” Snape continued, stepping closer. “Quieter. More self-destructive than usual. Which is saying something.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “What did Black say?”

John huffed a bitter laugh and looked away. “What doesn’t he say? Called me Dumbledore’s rabid mutt. Accused me of shagging you for leverage. Said I’d have bolted already if not for the leash.”

Snape’s expression barely changed, but his hands clenched behind his back.

John added, more quietly, “He mentioned Richie. Didn’t know who he was, but the name got under my skin. More than I meant it to.”

“You snapped.”

“Yeah. I did.” John sank down onto the edge of a table, hands braced. “I told him about Natalie’s daughter. About Richie. About not saving them.”

Snape was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. “You don’t do that. Talk like that. Not to anyone.”

“Potter and Granger overheard.”

That got a visible reaction—Snape’s posture went rigid. “What?”

“They were nearby. Probably followed me. Like bloody stray cats with trauma issues.” John gave a dark chuckle. “They heard enough.”

“And what did you do?” Snape asked, though his tone already suggested he knew.

“Told them the truth.” John looked up at him. “Because lying to them feels worse than admitting I’ve failed everyone who’s ever trusted me.”

The silence hung heavy between them.

Snape stepped closer, gaze piercing. “You’re unraveling.”

“Yeah,” John said softly. “I think I am.”

Then, unexpectedly, Snape reached out. Not to touch—just to hover a hand near John’s arm, a flicker of contact without crossing the threshold.

“I don’t care what Sirius says,” Snape muttered. “He never had to live with ghosts. He doesn’t understand what it means to carry the consequences.”

John looked at him, tired but grateful in a way he couldn’t say.

Then Snape added, flatly, “Also, if he mentions our sex life again, I’ll hex his tongue to the back of his throat.”

John barked a laugh despite himself. “God, I missed your charming bedside manner.”

Snape leaned in slightly, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Come to bed, Constantine. Before you spiral yourself into another existential crisis and break a mirror for fun.”

“Tempting,” John murmured. “But only if I get to throw something at Black tomorrow.”

“I’ll allow it.”

They disappeared upstairs together—still sharp-edged, still complicated, but not quite alone.

Chapter 46

The morning at Grimmauld Place was nothing if not predictable.

Sirius Black, still grumbling over something, sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a pile of old newspapers as though they’d offer him some shred of hope or a good excuse to complain about Dumbledore. Remus Lupin sipped his tea in a far corner, keeping his peace for the most part, though he was clearly waiting for the storm to pass.

John Constantine entered the room with the kind of sullen energy that made people think twice about crossing him—though this morning, his face was slightly softer, more worn than the night before. Snape was a few steps behind, his usual scowl present, but something in the air between them had shifted overnight. Unspoken, but undeniable.

“Morning, gentlemen,” John muttered as he slid into a chair.

Sirius didn’t look up immediately, focused on the article he was reading, but his tone was caustic. “Don’t start with that sarcastic ‘gentlemen’ business, Constantine. It’s too early for your brand of bitterness.”

John ignored him, moving to grab a piece of toast, but his attention flicked to Sirius with every passing second, irritation building up in him again—no thanks to the argument from last night.

It wasn’t long before the tension snapped. Without even looking at Sirius, John waved a hand, muttering a word under his breath, and the nearest pillow on the couch flew across the room, landing squarely on Sirius’s face.

Sirius jumped, completely caught off guard, and let out a yell of surprise. The pillow fell to the floor as he tugged it off his head, looking over at John in stunned silence.

“Pillows are for sleeping, Black,” John said with a smirk, his voice completely unrepentant. “Don’t make me throw another one.”

There was a long, stunned silence before Sirius, still holding the pillow in his hands, broke into a laugh.

“You bastard,” he grinned, tossing the pillow back onto the couch. “I thought we were supposed to be at war, not playing schoolyard pranks.”

“War?” John raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his toast. “I’ve fought demons, wizards, and some very unpleasant Muggles. You’re just a jumpy dog in the corner.”

Sirius’s grin faltered, but he didn’t have time to argue before Snape’s voice broke in.

“Enough, Black,” Snape drawled, voice dry. “The last thing we need is more of your theatrics at breakfast.”

Sirius shot him a look. “Oh, what, Snape? You two are in on the joke now?”

John couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. “Sirius, if you can’t handle being the butt of a joke, I might need to teach you how to take a hit.”

“You’re lucky you’re funny, Constantine,” Sirius muttered, but his tone was a touch softer than it had been the day before.

Snape took a seat, ignoring the exchange completely as he poured himself a cup of coffee, clearly enjoying the show without needing to join in.

John leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly. “Well, someone’s got to keep things interesting around here. God knows it’s not going to be you.”

Sirius’s grin was replaced by a groan, but he did chuckle. “Alright, alright. But if you think I’m letting you get away with that… pillow assault, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll try,” John said dryly, then looked to Remus, who was pretending not to notice the exchange.

“You know,” John added, a touch of sarcasm creeping in again, “if we actually had an order of business instead of a bloody breakfast club, I might actually feel like this was a productive morning.”

Remus just gave him a patient smile, but the look in his eyes was kind. “You know, John, you can always just… leave if you want to avoid the fun.”

“Don’t tempt me,” John said with a grin, leaning back in his chair and giving Sirius another lazy glance.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “You’d leave? Not going to stick around for the family reunion?”

John gave him an exaggeratedly thoughtful look before replying, “Only if it involves more pillow fights.”

Snape rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t hide the faintest tug of a smile.

Chapter 47

The air in Dumbledore’s office was thick with tension as Lucius Malfoy stood across from John Constantine, his usual haughty demeanor hanging in the space like a cloud of arrogance. Dumbledore, as usual, stood off to the side with that maddeningly calm expression, watching the unfolding events with what seemed like detached interest.

John, ever the reluctant participant in this tangled web of politics and manipulation, glanced sideways at Dumbledore before he spoke. “You’ve got me here, Albus. What’s this all about?”

Lucius’s lip curled in disgust, and he eyed John, though not with any particular hostility. It was more of the cold indifference that seemed to be his default whenever faced with someone like John. A half-blood wizard with an unsavory reputation didn’t merit more than a passing glance from someone of Lucius’s stature.

“I see you’ve brought in this one,” Lucius sneered lightly. “You’ve always had a knack for surrounding yourself with… misfits, Dumbledore.”

John smirked. “Nice to see you too, Malfoy. Still a prick, I see.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Dumbledore said, raising a hand in quiet admonishment. “Lucius, there’s a matter we need to discuss—one that requires your complete honesty. We’ve had some troubling reports recently, and it’s important to be certain where you stand.”

Lucius’s expression barely shifted. “You doubt me, Albus? I thought we were past all of this,” he said with a trace of amusement in his voice.

“I don’t doubt you,” Dumbledore responded softly, though the underlying tension was clear. “But I need to know the truth. I’m asking you, Lucius, as someone who has always held sway in this world: What exactly are your affiliations now?”

John, silently watching, caught the flicker of a change in Dumbledore’s eyes. He could see the unspoken command to step in.

“Let me help you with that, Lucius,” John said, his voice low and almost too calm. “There’s a spell we can use. Nothing invasive. You’ll simply tell the truth, but it’ll only be for me to hear. A sort of… private conversation. Just between old acquaintances.”

Lucius blinked, seemingly confused, but he didn’t seem entirely opposed. He took in John’s words with a skeptical eye. “A spell, you say? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

John’s smirk widened. “It’s a bit of a new trick I picked up over the years. No harm in it. Unless, of course, you’ve got something to hide.”

Lucius looked at Dumbledore, who nodded subtly, offering a reassuring smile that would have put even the most skeptical person at ease. Lucius, for all his pride, wasn’t stupid. He understood the weight behind Dumbledore’s gaze.

“Fine,” Lucius said with a tight smile. “If it’ll put your mind at ease. But I warn you, Constantine, I’m not easily fooled.”

With a flick of his wrist, John murmured the incantation under his breath. A faint silver glow flickered between them, almost imperceptible—just a hint of magic, a whisper in the air that would leave no mark except the one on Lucius’s conscience.

“You can ask your questions now, Malfoy,” John said, leaning back in his chair with an almost bored expression. “Just tell the truth, and I’ll hear it.”

Lucius, still unaware of the truth-telling spell, gave a small huff of indignation, but leaned forward nonetheless. “I see no reason to hide anything. I remain loyal to the interests of my family, as always.”

John didn’t flinch at the words, keeping his focus steady. He could hear the truth bubbling up just beneath the surface of Lucius’s speech, something Lucius himself wasn’t aware of, though John was beginning to piece together the subtle cracks in his pride.

“Loyal to your family, huh? Let’s make sure that means what you think it does,” John said, almost conversationally. “Are you still in contact with the Dark Lord? Has the alliance ever truly ended?”

Lucius’s lips twitched at the question. “Of course I am,” he replied smoothly. “My position in the Dark Lord’s circle remains firm. He knows who I am, and I know where my loyalties lie.”

John felt a sharp intake of air from the magic as Lucius’s words shifted in tone, slipping through the spell with an undertone of truth that only John could hear. The words that rang out were very different in nature.

You are still terrified, Lucius. You fear what will happen if you don’t keep up appearances, if you don’t play the part. You can’t leave. You’ve already made too many promises.

John’s expression didn’t falter, though his eyes sharpened with the knowledge he now held. He leaned forward slightly. “What about your son? Is he involved with the Dark Lord too?”

Lucius’s face remained as impassive as ever. “Draco is merely a child. He has no place in this. I’ll protect him from the darkness I’ve known.”

You know it’s a lie. You’re protecting him by keeping him in the shadows, but you’ve already made him a part of the game. He’ll have to choose, one day.

The words came through, clear in their resonance, though Lucius heard nothing but his own calm denial. “You’ll never get me to admit any of this nonsense, Constantine.”

John stood, giving him a look that bordered on pity. “No, I’m not trying to get you to admit anything, Lucius. You’ve already told me what I needed to know.”

Lucius blinked in confusion, clearly unaware of the trap he’d just walked into. “What are you talking about?”

John flashed him a grin, cold and knowing. “Don’t worry about it. You won’t even remember what you said.”

Lucius stared at him, narrowing his eyes, but before he could voice another protest, Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle, his voice calm and assuring.

“Thank you, John. I think that will be all for now, Lucius. I appreciate your cooperation.”

John didn’t wait for Lucius to respond. He turned, heading for the door without so much as a glance back. Lucius sat there, still looking like he hadn’t fully grasped what had just happened, though a faint unease lingered in the air around him.

Chapter 48

The flickering light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across the ancient stone walls of Dumbledore’s office. John Constantine leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that he flicked absently as he glanced at the headmaster. Dumbledore’s calm, piercing gaze met his, as if weighing some unseen decision.

“Ah, Constantine,” Dumbledore said, his voice warm, though there was an undercurrent of urgency that made John’s interest piqued. “I trust your summer has been… tolerable thus far?”

John smirked, puffing on his cigarette. “Couldn’t be worse than usual, Albus. What’s this about?”

Dumbledore didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I need you to fetch Harry Potter from the Dursleys. It’s time he returns to Grimmauld Place. The wards are weakening, and it’s becoming too dangerous for him to remain there any longer.”

John straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. “The Dursleys? You’re sending me there? You know I’m not exactly fond of babysitting. Why not send one of your Order members?”

Dumbledore smiled gently, that twinkle in his eyes never fading. “It’s not just about fetching Harry, John. It’s about making sure he’s brought back safely, and perhaps more importantly, with minimal disruption.”

John snorted. “So you want me to be a distraction, then. Get him out without causing a scene. That’s your big plan?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at John with that knowing gaze. “Harry has been through much. His relatives have made life difficult for him. I trust you’ll know how to handle the situation.”

John rolled his eyes, though there was no mistaking the underlying tension in his posture. He had his reasons for not wanting to get involved with Harry’s little family drama. The kid had enough trouble without adding John Constantine’s particular brand of chaos to the mix.

“And what makes you think I’m the right choice for this?” John asked, giving Dumbledore a pointed look. “I’m not exactly the ideal family man.”

“True,” Dumbledore acknowledged, his smile softening. “But you’re also someone who can move in and out of situations without leaving a trace. Your… unconventional methods may just be what’s needed here.”

John took another drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the fire. “You’ve got a strange way of asking for favors, Albus. But, fine, I’ll do it. Just don’t expect me to kiss the Dursleys’ arses on my way out.”

“Of course not,” Dumbledore replied, nodding as though that was the most natural thing in the world. “I trust you’ll handle it as only you can, John.”

“Yeah, yeah. But I’ll need some info. Where exactly am I going in their blasted house? And don’t tell me to just wing it, I’d like a map or something useful.”

Dumbledore’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I will give you everything you need. The Dursleys live at 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging. I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring that the wards on their house won’t cause you any problems. You will be able to get in without issue.”

“Great. A house full of Muggles with an ungodly amount of wards,” John muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. “What a delight.”

Dumbledore simply smiled and handed him a folded piece of parchment. “This contains all the necessary details, as well as the necessary precautions. I trust you’ll make it there and back without any complications.”

John folded the parchment and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “If you say so, old man. But I’m not holding my breath.”

“One more thing, John,” Dumbledore said, his voice growing more serious. “Once Harry is with you, you are to bring him straight back to Grimmauld Place. Do not dawdle, and do not let him out of your sight.”

John paused, a slight grimace pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, I get it. I’m not your babysitter, but I’ll make sure the kid gets to where he needs to be. Anything else?”

Dumbledore’s smile was faint but understanding. “Just one thing, John. Be gentle with Harry. He may not show it, but the time with his relatives has taken a toll on him. His scars run deeper than you might realize.”

John’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, the sharp edge of his usual sarcasm seemed to dull. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot, Albus. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said softly. “And thank you. I know this isn’t an easy task, but it’s important.”

John gave a nonchalant shrug, his usual bravado creeping back. “No need to thank me. I’m just in it for the paycheck—if you’ve got one.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied, his tone filled with a quiet amusement. “The payment will be waiting for you once you return.”

John’s eyes gleamed with something between amusement and begrudging respect. “You really do have all the angles covered, don’t you?”

Dumbledore’s smile deepened, his eyes twinkling ever so slightly. “I try.”

With that, John gave a short nod and turned to leave the office. He felt the weight of the task ahead, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why it seemed different from the usual jobs he took. Fetching Harry Potter was a minor inconvenience compared to some of the things he’d been through, but there was something about the kid that felt like it might turn into more trouble than expected.

As he walked out into the hall, John glanced down at the folded parchment in his hand. One way or another, he’d be heading to 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Chapter 49

The moment John Constantine stepped onto the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive, he knew this was going to be… unpleasant. The air was thick with the quiet tension of a house that had lived its entire existence on routine, rigidity, and the unfortunate presence of a boy who never fit in.

Vernon Dursley’s voice was the first thing he heard. It was a guttural, angry bark. “What’s this now? Who are you?”

John didn’t flinch. He’d dealt with worse. He straightened himself and gave a nonchalant smile. “I’m John Constantine,” he replied. “And I’m here to take Harry.”

“Take him?” Vernon repeated, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Petunia appeared at the doorway behind Vernon, her face a mask of cold indifference, and John instantly caught the glint of something almost… relieved, in her eyes. They were ready for Harry to leave. Maybe even eager.

“Yes,” John said calmly. “Dumbledore sent me. Harry’s coming with me, and we’re leaving today.”

Vernon scoffed, but there was no anger in his voice—just the satisfaction of something they had been waiting for. “Oh, good,” he said with a smirk, stepping aside to allow John into the house. “About time. That boy’s been nothing but trouble since the moment we took him in.” He seemed to almost enjoy saying that last part.

John’s eyes flicked to Petunia, who stood silently in the background, though there was a barely concealed relief in her expression. “You don’t want him here anymore?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Petunia blinked as though John had just confirmed something she’d been waiting for. “No,” she said, her voice tight but without the venom John had expected. “We’ve kept him here for as long as we had to. But now? Now he’s not our responsibility anymore. You can take him. It’s about time.”

John let out a small laugh, not out of humor, but the sheer absurdity of it. He’d been prepared for the usual rancor—the arguing, the guilt, the desperate attempts to hold on to the boy who didn’t belong—but no, these two were more than happy to be rid of him.

“Right,” John said, clearly unfazed by the apparent joy in the Dursleys’ eyes. “No complaints from you then? No more shouting, no more treating Harry like a house-elf?”

Vernon looked at him, clearly thinking John was speaking in jest, but there was no humor in the younger man’s tone. “We’re glad to see the back of him,” he muttered, looking away. “He’s been nothing but a burden to this family.”

Petunia added, her tone a little sharper, “He’ll probably be better off with people like you anyway. You people are all the same.”

John ignored the implication and waved a hand dismissively. He wasn’t interested in arguing with them. They were what they were.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Let’s not waste any more time. Harry!” he called toward the stairs. “You ready?”

There was a pause before Harry appeared, looking a little reluctant but with a faint trace of hope in his expression. He looked at John for a long moment, as though confirming that this was really happening.

“Professor Constantine?” Harry asked, eyes wide but hopeful. “Are you really taking me out of here?”

John smiled a little, though it was tinged with the usual cynicism. “You bet. Dumbledore’s orders. And frankly, Harry, I think you’ve earned a bit of a break.”

Harry’s relief was evident as he descended the stairs, still cautious but clearly glad to leave. John glanced back at the Dursleys, who were already preparing to go about their business, their indifference to Harry’s departure startling.

“You’ve got no objections, then?” John asked, looking at Petunia and Vernon one last time. “No last-minute complaints about Harry leaving?”

Petunia gave a dismissive wave. “No,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “We’re just fine with it. Good luck to you, then. It’s not our problem anymore.”

Vernon gave a gruff nod in agreement, though his words were almost muttered. “Better off with people who can handle him. Good riddance.”

John paused for a moment, slightly surprised by the complete lack of resistance, but then nodded in a knowing way. “Right. Well, I’m sure Harry will be thrilled to leave your hospitality behind.” His voice carried just a touch of sarcasm, but both Dursleys were too busy turning away to notice.

“Come on, Harry,” John said, gesturing for the boy to follow him. “Let’s get you out of here before they change their minds.”

Harry nodded eagerly, his steps quickening as he caught up with John. As they reached the door, Harry paused, glancing over his shoulder at the house that had been the site of so many years of neglect.

With one last look, he stepped outside, into the cool evening air. John followed, giving the Dursleys one final glance. As Harry stepped onto the porch, the door clicked shut behind him.

“Good riddance, indeed,” John muttered under his breath, before he glanced at Harry. “You alright, kid?”

Harry gave a small, tired smile. “I will be. Thanks, Professor.”

John offered him a crooked grin. “Don’t mention it. Let’s get you back where you belong.”

With a crack of Apparition, they vanished into the night.

Chapter 50

Grimmauld Place had never been louder.

The moment Harry and John stepped through the front door, the heavy air of the Black household seemed to shift. The quiet, bitter dust of old family legacies was swept aside by the sound of rushing footsteps and someone crying out, “Harry!”

Hermione barrelled into him, nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs, and then came Ron, followed closely by Ginny, Fred, and George. They all crowded around him, voices overlapping in joy, relief, and disbelief that he was finally here — and safe.

“About time!” Ron grinned.

“We were starting to think Dumbledore was keeping you in a locked tower,” George added.

“You look taller,” Hermione said, though she was already scanning his face for signs of mistreatment.

Harry barely had time to catch his breath before Remus Lupin appeared from the hallway, calm but smiling.

“Welcome back, Harry,” he said warmly, placing a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder.

And then, Sirius.

He stood at the end of the hallway, half in shadow, half in disbelief. His eyes were fixed on Harry like a man who thought he’d never see something precious again. Then his face broke into a grin.

“Harry,” he breathed.

Harry didn’t need words. He stepped forward and threw his arms around Sirius, who hugged him back like he might disappear. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“You alright, kid?” Sirius asked softly.

Harry nodded. “Better now.”

Across the room, John Constantine watched the reunion with a neutral expression. He said nothing — this was their moment. He stood back, hands in the pockets of his coat, until a soft voice beside him drew his attention.

“Mr. Constantine, is it?” came Molly Weasley’s voice. She looked up at him with a polite but cautious smile. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

He turned to her, offering a hand. “John. Just John’s fine.”

She shook it — firmly, motherly. “Thank you for bringing Harry back to us. I imagine you had to deal with those dreadful relatives of his.”

“‘Deal with’ is putting it mildly,” John said dryly. “They couldn’t shove him out the door fast enough.”

Arthur stepped up next to her, his kind face lighting up. “Ah, yes — Constantine. I remember you. Slytherin, weren’t you? We were in school at the same time for a bit.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You were the prefect, weren’t you? Gryffindor. Always quoting the rules.”

Arthur chuckled sheepishly. “Guilty.”

“Still quoting rules?” John asked with a smirk.

“Only when Molly makes me,” Arthur replied with a warm glance at his wife.

They both chuckled, but Molly’s tone shifted a bit as she gave him a once-over. “Dumbledore says you’re teaching this year again. Runes, was it?”

John nodded. “Ancient Runes. Got promoted out of Defense when Umbridge couldn’t get me fired.”

Molly frowned at that name. “Horrid woman.”

“She tried to grab me,” John said. “Didn’t work. Snape walked in before she could make it awkward for everyone.”

Molly blinked. “She what?”

“It’s fine,” John said casually. “She’s gone now. Retired early. Or was encouraged to.”

From across the room, Snape appeared in the doorway with his usual grim expression. He folded his arms.

“Constantine,” he said in that silkily venomous way, “are you here to socialize or start a fire?”

John didn’t even glance at him. “You say that like those are two different things.”

Arthur cleared his throat quickly, and Molly murmured something about checking the stew in the kitchen, clearly sensing rising tension. As she and Arthur excused themselves, Sirius narrowed his eyes at John and muttered something to Remus, who subtly raised a brow.

John sighed and stepped toward the hallway. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“You can’t smoke in Grimmauld Place,” Remus called after him.

John waved a hand lazily. “Wasn’t asking.”

Snape rolled his eyes and followed, though no one could quite tell if he was annoyed or… drawn.

Harry watched them both go with a puzzled expression. “Those two… don’t get along, do they?”

Sirius snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

Chapter 51

The drawing room of Grimmauld Place was quieter than it had any right to be.

John Constantine leaned against the cold stone fireplace, arms crossed over his chest. His sharp eyes flicked toward the door as Sirius Black entered, followed by Remus Lupin — looking unusually grim.

Snape stood off to the side, robes as stiff as his posture, arms folded tightly across his chest. John felt the tension ripple through the air between them like static — a familiar undercurrent. They hadn’t spoken much since the last time they’d found themselves in a bed that wasn’t meant to be shared, each pretending that it hadn’t meant anything.

But Constantine knew better. He always knew better.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Severus,” he said, tone guarded but sincere. “I wanted to say something. We—Remus and I—we owe you an apology.”

Snape didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I know we were… awful. At school,” Sirius continued, struggling through the words. “And I don’t expect you to forgive that. Merlin knows we made it easy to hate us.”

Remus stepped up beside him. “We were young, but that doesn’t excuse it. I didn’t stop them. I should’ve.”

There was a long silence. Snape stared at them, his face unreadable. Then, softly, bitterly: “You’re a few decades too late.”

“Maybe,” Sirius said. “But I’d rather be late than never say it at all.”

Across the room, John pushed off the fireplace and stepped in front of Snape before anyone could speak again.

“You two must be real bloody proud of yourselves,” he drawled. “Was that rehearsed? ‘Let’s apologize to Snape like we’re still teenagers trying to pass our N.E.W.T.s in remorse.’”

“John—” Snape began, warning clear in his tone.

But Constantine wasn’t done.

“You lot tormented him for years,” John snapped. “And you think a few nice words make up for that?”

“We’re trying,” Remus said, not rising to it.

John’s jaw tensed. “You don’t get to just try when someone’s spent a lifetime trying to recover from the wreckage you left. You don’t see it—but I do.”

There was something raw in his voice then, something he wasn’t meaning to let slip. Sirius narrowed his eyes, catching the edge of it.

“You two… are you—?”

“Don’t,” Snape interrupted sharply.

But John just snorted, stepping back and jamming a cigarette between his lips.

“Oh, they’ve figured it out, Sev,” he muttered, lighting it. “And you know what? Let ‘em. At least now they’ll get why I haven’t let them off the bloody hook.”

Sirius blinked. “You’re sleeping with him.”

“Occasionally,” John said coolly. “And if you’ve got a problem with it, you can choke on it.”

Remus looked between them, then turned to Snape. “Is that why you’ve been tolerating him this whole time?”

Snape’s eyes burned like obsidian. “I don’t tolerate John Constantine. I survive him.”

That shut everyone up for a beat.

John looked at Sirius and Remus again, his voice softer this time. “Look. You apologized. He heard you. Maybe it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. But if you mean it — really mean it — show it. Don’t just say it and expect everything to reset.”

Sirius gave a slow nod, surprisingly quiet. “Right.”

“Right,” John echoed. He looked at Snape, who still hadn’t moved. “You okay?”

Snape tilted his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They both left the room, not touching, not speaking, but still somehow together. As the door shut behind them, Remus turned to Sirius.

“Well,” he muttered, “that was… enlightening.”

Sirius rubbed a hand down his face. “That man’s a menace.”

“Which one?” Remus asked dryly.

Sirius sighed. “Both.”

Chapter 52

Grimmauld Place was quiet in the early morning light, the soft clatter of pans echoing from the kitchen as Molly Weasley prepared breakfast. With most of the house still asleep — or pretending to be — she’d taken it upon herself to rouse a few of the stragglers and see what they’d want to eat.

She climbed the stairs, humming to herself, and stopped at the door she thought was John Constantine’s guest room. She knocked lightly, then pushed the door open without waiting.

“Good morning, dears, just wondering if—”

The words died on her tongue.

Because on the bed, tangled in sheets, blankets, and each other, were Severus Snape and John bloody Constantine, very much not decent, in a very compromising position, and clearly not asleep anymore.

John’s head whipped up from where his mouth had been somewhere far too south for polite company, and Snape — usually composed, elegant, snide — looked like he was about to implode from sheer mortification.

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered, yanking the covers up around them while trying and failing to smother a laugh.

“Oh my goodness!” Molly gasped, stumbling back with a hand clamped over her eyes. “I— I’m so sorry— I didn’t—! Merlin’s beard—!”

Snape groaned and buried his face in the nearest pillow.

John, undeterred, sat up against the headboard, the sheet barely clinging to his waist, looking entirely too amused for a man who’d just been caught mid-morning shag. “Next time, Molly, knock with intent. Or give us a bloody warning bell.”

“I was just coming to ask about breakfast!” she said, voice a squeak of horror.

“Not hungry anymore,” John quipped.

Snape reached for his wand and hissed, “Get. Out.”

“I’m going! I’m going!”

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving the two men in a silence broken only by John’s snorting laughter and Snape’s muffled groan of embarrassment.

“Well,” John said, grinning. “That was one way to wake up.”

Snape glared at him with pure, seething venom. “I hate you.”

John leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

“Do.”

“Sure you do,” he murmured, nuzzling into his neck. “Now… where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

Snape shoved him back into the pillows. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re hard again,” John said smugly.

John went back under the covers.

The groan from Severus that followed wasn’t entirely frustration.

Chapter 53

Down in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the kettle was whistling softly and the scent of frying sausages filled the air. Arthur Weasley was calmly setting the table, humming under his breath, when his wife burst into the room looking as though she’d witnessed the Second Coming.

“Molly?” he asked, brow creasing. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen—”

“I walked in on them!” she blurted, clutching a dish towel to her chest like it was a holy relic.

Arthur blinked. “Who?”

“Snape and Constantine! Together! In bed! Doing—doing things, Arthur!”

There was a long, stunned silence.

Then, from the pantry, a loud crash and the sound of someone choking.

Tonks emerged, holding her stomach, her hair flashing violently between pink and lime green as she howled with laughter.

“You—you walked in on them?!” she gasped, nearly doubling over. “Oh, Merlin, I owe Moody five Galleons!”

Arthur blinked slowly. “Wait, people were betting on that?”

Tonks waved a hand dismissively, wiping tears from her eyes. “Please, the tension between them was thick enough to Accio.”

Molly was pacing now, red in the face. “I only wanted to ask about breakfast! How was I supposed to know they were—doing that before tea?!”

Arthur, to his credit, was clearly trying to remain diplomatic. He coughed, adjusted his glasses, and said delicately, “Well… it is their private business, dear.”

“Not anymore, it isn’t!” Molly snapped. “He looked me in the eye, Arthur! While—while things were happening!”

Tonks was now full-on wheezing into her sleeve.

“I’m going to need a Pensieve just to forget it,” Molly muttered, sitting heavily at the table. “I’ve seen Severus Snape’s shoulders.”

Arthur sat beside her, gently patting her hand. “There, there. At least they weren’t in the kitchen.”

Tonks raised a finger. “Yet.”

Molly groaned and dropped her head to the table.

Tonks grinned wickedly and conjured a cup of tea. “To be fair, that is so on brand for Constantine. Bet he offered her breakfast afterwards too.”

Arthur gave a soft chuckle despite himself. “Somehow, I don’t think this will be the last shocking thing John brings into this house.”

Molly groaned again.

Tonks raised her cup like it was a toast. “To Grimmauld Place: headquarters of the Order… and the most cursed bed and breakfast in wizarding history.”

Chapter 54

John Constantine strolled into the kitchen with all the swagger of a man who absolutely knew everyone had heard about what happened—and didn’t give a damn.

Snape followed a few steps behind, robes hastily thrown over rumpled clothes, hair still damp from a rushed cleansing charm. He looked like he wanted to hex the entire house into a crater.

They both froze at the threshold.

Because seated around the table were every single adult currently stationed at Grimmauld Place.

Arthur sipped his tea like it was the only thing grounding him in reality.

Remus looked up from his toast with a raised brow.

Sirius had a slow, shit-eating grin stretching across his face that was nothing short of infuriating.

Tonks didn’t even try to hold back her giggle fit—her hair morphed bright red as she wheezed into her mug.

And Molly Weasley was at the stove, humming cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

Snape shot John a look that could’ve curdled milk. John just shrugged and said under his breath, “Told you they’d know. Molly has the discretion of a howler in heat.”

“Manners, Mr. Constantine,” Molly said sweetly without turning. “Would you like tea? Or do you need another hour?”

Sirius choked on his coffee.

John smirked, entirely too amused. “Tea would be lovely, ta. We’re both a bit sore.”

Snape physically recoiled. “You are the worst human being I’ve ever met.”

Tonks grinned. “You say that, but you still went back for seconds.”

Arthur coughed into his napkin to hide a laugh.

Snape turned on his heel to leave, but John caught his wrist. “C’mon, Sev. You’ve survived worse. Like teaching.”

Snape gave him a death glare but sat down at the table like he was preparing for battle. John dropped into the seat beside him, throwing an arm over the back of his chair like this was just a regular morning.

Sirius leaned in, smirking. “So… how was it?”

John grinned. “Explosive.”

Snape reached for his wand.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could not hex the toast.”

Molly plunked a teapot down in front of them with enough force to make it rattle. “Sugar?”

John glanced at Snape, who was pointedly staring at the wall.

“Two,” John said, grinning. “He’s sweet enough for both of us.”

Molly made a strangled noise and walked off muttering something about needing stronger tea and possibly divine intervention.

Snape groaned into his hands.

“Brilliant morning,” John said cheerfully, pouring himself a cup. “Wonder what the kids’ll say.”

“They aren’t being told,” Snape snapped.

Tonks raised her eyebrows. “Define ‘told,’ because this house echoes like a banshee.”

Snape turned to John, deadly serious. “If they find out—”

John winked. “I’ll tell them you seduced me.”

Snape didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

Just a little.

Chapter 55

The kitchen had just started to settle again. Molly had recovered enough to fry eggs without slamming the pan. Arthur was halfway through his second cup of tea. Sirius was still trying to catch Snape’s eye just to smirk at him.

And then—

“WE HEARD EVERYTHING!”

Fred and George barreled into the kitchen, nearly knocking over Ron and Ginny, who stumbled in after them. Hermione and Harry trailed behind, less dramatic but clearly flushed with embarrassment and barely concealed curiosity.

Snape froze.

John set his tea down with a sigh. “Bloody hell.”

Fred pointed dramatically at them both. “You two!”

George continued, “Absolutely filthy!”

Ginny looked like she wanted to crawl into a cupboard and die. “Please stop talking. Please, please, stop.”

Ron was gaping at Snape like he’d grown another head. “Wait—Snape?!”

Hermione, wide-eyed, looked at John. “And you?”

Harry blinked. “Well… that explains a lot.”

Fred leaned on the table, waggling his eyebrows. “So who made the first move, then? Was it brooding eye contact in a dungeon or—”

“OUT!” Molly screeched, brandishing a spatula like a sword.

“But—”

“OUT, NOW!”

All six teens were herded back toward the hallway under her furious glare, but not before George turned and said, “Honestly, we thought it was Sirius and Remus.”

“What?” Sirius squawked, nearly knocking over his chair.

“Regret everything,” John muttered as he rubbed a hand down his face.

Snape looked like he was about to faint.

The kitchen door slammed shut behind the fleeing teens, and for one glorious moment, there was silence again.

Then Tonks burst out laughing so hard she snorted. “Honestly? I give them points for timing.”

“Severus,” Molly said, voice tight and polite in that too calm way that promised doom, “John. Kindly never let them hear anything ever again.”

“I could cast a Muffliato,” Snape muttered darkly.

“You could’ve cast one last night,” Sirius said smugly.

Snape’s wand twitched.

John raised his tea. “To good acoustics.”

Arthur just sighed and topped off his cup.

Chapter 56

Dinner at Grimmauld Place was usually loud, warm, chaotic.

Tonight?

Painfully silent.

Knives scraped across plates. Forks clinked on porcelain. No one made eye contact.

Fred and George were not cracking jokes. Tonks kept coughing to hide laughter. Ginny was concentrating very hard on her peas. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Hermione was red-faced and twitchy. Harry was chewing like it was a test he was trying to pass.

Snape sat stiffly at the end of the table, radiating the kind of icy disdain that could freeze fire.

John? John was relaxed. Whistling.

He even winked at Hermione.

She nearly choked on her carrots.

Across the table, Remus had his head in his hands.

Sirius was staring directly ahead, jaw clenched.

Molly cleared her throat. “So, the weather tomorrow should be—”

“Don’t,” Arthur whispered. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

The moment dessert was done—treacle tart, not that anyone enjoyed it—Snape stood and muttered, “I’m done with this circus.”

John followed lazily, grabbing a biscuit for the road. “Don’t wait up.”

And with that, the two of them disappeared down the hall, their footsteps echoing on the stairs.

The table was silent for another beat.

Then Sirius slammed his palms on the table.

“For the love of MERLIN, someone cast a silencing charm this time!”

Tonks howled with laughter.

Molly threw her napkin down. “If I hear so much as a creak tonight, I’m casting a permanent sticking charm on that bedroom door.”

Ginny groaned. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Fred stood. “Time to sleep.”

George added, “Or to cast some anti-trauma charms.”

Harry, eyes wide, whispered, “How did my life become this weird?”

Remus, still covering his face, muttered, “We don’t talk about it. Ever again.”

Chapter 57

Upstairs, the teens had gathered in Ginny’s room under the guise of playing a game of Exploding Snap, but really—

They were gossiping.

Loudly.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just, like, a weird dream?” Ron asked, eyes darting toward Harry.

Harry snorted. “The walk of shame? The awkward breakfast? The part where Snape nearly cursed Sirius over toast? Not a dream, mate.”

Hermione, arms folded tightly, looked torn between dying of embarrassment and fascination. “I still can’t believe Professor Snape and Professor Constantine. I mean… really?”

“He’s got the whole tragic-dark-wizard-hot mess thing going,” Ginny said, casually flipping a card.

“Snape or Constantine?” Fred asked, from where he and George were half-lounging on the floor.

“Both.”

George grinned. “Honestly, makes sense. All that repressed rage’s gotta go somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Fred said, mock-shuddering, “we just didn’t want it going there.”

Then—

A soft thump.

From down the hall.

A door closing.

A low murmur.

And then—

“Silencio Fidelis.”

Every single one of them froze.

There was a beat of silence.

And then Hermione whispered, “That was Professor Snape’s voice.”

“And now that room is silent,” Ron whispered back, staring at the door in horror.

“Which means—”

“Oh my GOD,” Ginny said, face buried in a pillow.

Fred looked scandalized. “We’ve reached the point where they’re planning ahead. Tactically.”

George nodded, solemn. “Honestly? I respect it.”

Harry covered his face. “I’m going to repress this for the rest of my life.”

Hermione sat back, stunned. “I mean, it’s kind of romantic. In a grim, morally gray, deeply disturbing way.”

Fred leaned toward her. “Please never say that again.”

“You think they cuddle?” George added, just to cause chaos.

“George!” Ginny shrieked.

“Right, I’m hexing my ears shut,” Ron muttered.

As another faint thud echoed somewhere down the corridor, Fred stood.

“I vote we all go to bed and never speak of this again.”

Chapter 58

The night had taken a sharp turn from awkward to dangerous the moment the door to the room had closed behind Snape and John.

And as the minutes passed, they settled into their usual rhythm: sniping, bickering, and… much more than that. Neither of them was entirely certain how it all spiraled out of control. But it had.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting soft shadows, while Snape was, for once, uncharacteristically not brooding. John was far too John to let anything stay serious for long, teasing and challenging, until—

A muffled thud.

“Ow, damn it—”

“*Constantine, stop that—”

But then—

The wand.

It was on the bedside table, next to Snape’s worn books and a few leftover potion vials.

John’s hand brushed it, reaching for the nearby pillow, and—

Crack.

A high-pitched sound, followed by an eerie silence.

The spell—the carefully cast “Silencio Fidelis”—snapped.

The muffled words that had been lost in soundproofed bliss suddenly blasted through the thin walls of Grimmauld Place.

“For Merlin’s sake, Severus—”

“You—bastard—let go of that!”

There was a moment of silence, and then—

“I’m going to kill you for this, Constantine! I swear to—”

“Not if I—”

A loud thud echoed from behind the closed door, followed by a series of gasping breaths.

The entire house—every single person in it—paused.

Down the hall, the sound of Fred and George stumbling out of their beds echoed. They froze at the bottom of the stairs. “Did you hear—?”

Ron, looking scandalized, glanced from Hermione to Ginny, his face bright red. “Is that—are they—”

Hermione held up her hands. “Please—please tell me I’m dreaming—”

Upstairs, the sound of Sirius choking on his coffee was loud enough for the kids to hear.

Remus rubbed his temples, sighing. “Well, at least they’re both… in good form.”

And then—

The noises.

A very loud growl followed by a sound that was undeniably, undeniably, Snape’s voice.

“Constantine, you insufferable—”

The unmistakable sound of bed springs creaking cut off the rest of Snape’s words.

“Is that—?”

“Are they—?”

Hermione, Ron, Fred, and George froze. Ginny held her hands to her face in horror.

“They can’t… they can’t seriously…” Fred murmured, slowly sitting down on the stairs.

Sirius’ voice broke through the walls: “Merlin’s beard!”

“No, no, no—” Molly’s shrill cry echoed from down the hall. “NOT AGAIN! I’m not listening to this. Not—”

The creaks, the low moans, the sounds of movement—too loud, too real, too… vivid.

And then—finally—

The door opened with a bang.

Snape and John both stumbled out of the room, their hair a mess, robes askew. Snape looked like he was about to hex John into the next dimension. John, however, seemed entirely unbothered.

“You—bastard—” Snape started, raising his wand.

But then they froze.

Because standing in front of them, looking as horrified as a gaggle of teenagers possibly could, was—well, everyone.

Fred and George were struggling to hold back their laughter.

Sirius was wide-eyed, mouth agape, looking like he had seen the very worst and the very best of life at once.

Remus just rubbed his eyes and sighed.

And Molly… Molly was glaring at the two of them like she’d seen far too much.

John smirked. “Well, there’s your proof, kids.”

“YOU—” Snape’s voice was so low, it could’ve cracked stone.

John grinned. “I didn’t do it. It was your wand.” He picked up the wand from where it had fallen on the floor, handing it back to Snape.

Snape’s glare could have melted steel. But he said nothing.

“You two are absolutely insufferable,” Molly muttered, clearly not knowing whether to faint or throw something at them.

“I blame the acoustics,” John said casually, flicking his wrist as if nothing had happened. “Couldn’t resist.”

And then he looked around, turning the awkwardness into pure, unadulterated chaos. “You all heard that, right?”

The Weasley twins burst into laughter.

“I’ll be in my room,” Snape muttered, voice tight as he stormed off, his robes trailing after him.

John, however, simply smirked and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?”

Molly shot him a look of pure horror, though the Weasleys were openly snickering now, looking as if they would never let this moment go. Remus, too, was shaking his head, trying to hold back laughter.

“Merlin help us all,” Sirius muttered, looking like he was about to explode with laughter.

John looked to the kids, who were staring at him like they had just seen a ghost.

“Don’t ask,” John said with a grin.

Chapter 59

The following morning was… nothing short of a disaster.

The kids didn’t stop whispering as they gathered around the breakfast table. Fred and George were snickering behind their hands, Ginny was doing her best to pretend she hadn’t heard anything at all (but the blush on her face said otherwise), and even Hermione seemed a little too aware of the atmosphere.

Ron couldn’t look John in the eye, and Harry kept glaring at his plate like it was the source of all his troubles.

Molly, bless her heart, was trying to act like nothing had happened. She moved about the kitchen, clattering dishes and trying to ignore the fact that her son and all his friends had been scarred for life.

And then there was Snape.

He was stiff, even by his usual standards. His back was ramrod straight, his expression as cold and distant as a glacier, and he barely spoke a word as he pushed his breakfast around his plate.

John, however, was not so easily deterred. He watched Snape with a knowing smirk, clearly aware of the man’s discomfort. And while Snape’s eyes flickered toward him with narrowed suspicion, John couldn’t help but enjoy the chaos from last night. It was the first real break in Snape’s usual icy demeanor in a long time.

“Rough night?” John asked innocently, his voice a little too casual as he took a sip of tea, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Snape didn’t look up from his plate, but his voice was clipped. “Constantine,” he muttered, as if saying the name itself was the most inconvenient thing he could possibly do.

“Last night was… memorable,” John continued, utterly unbothered. “We should probably get some earplugs for the kids next time.”

Snape’s eyes finally flickered up to meet John’s, and the brief flash of something in them—anger, embarrassment, maybe even something deeper—was enough to make John pause, just for a moment.

But it didn’t last long.

“I suggest you keep your voice down, unless you want the whole house to be discussing our business again.” Snape’s voice was low and cold, though there was an edge to it. “And I believe we have nothing to discuss.”

“I’m sure,” John replied, completely unphased, his smirk widening. “But I wouldn’t be so sure, Severus. Everyone’s been whispering about it all morning.”

“You’re insufferable,” Snape hissed under his breath, his grip tightening around his cup of tea as if he were about to break it in half. But he didn’t, of course. He just glared at John as though willing him to disappear.

John leaned back in his chair, watching him carefully, clearly enjoying the tension.

“Go ahead,” Snape said after a long silence, his voice barely a whisper. “Enjoy your little games. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.”

John’s expression softened, just a little. He could feel the undercurrent of frustration, the way Snape was holding himself back.

There was a moment of stillness, and then, with surprising force, Snape stood up, knocking his chair back and startling everyone at the table.

“I need air,” Snape muttered, his voice strained, before he spun around and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

John waited for a moment, and then—just as he had suspected—he followed.

⸻

Later that Evening – “The Unraveling”

John found him in the library, pacing back and forth between the shelves of books, his black robes swirling around him like a dark cloud. The usual cold, impenetrable barrier Snape kept between himself and everyone else was gone, shattered by whatever was bubbling beneath the surface.

“Snape,” John said quietly, his voice gentle, almost knowing.

Snape froze in place, his back stiffening as if he’d been caught in a trap. He didn’t turn around at first. Then, slowly, he did.

“What do you want now, Constantine?” Snape’s voice was hoarse, but there was a tremor in it that John had never heard before.

John took a step closer, his tone softer. “You’re upset.”

Snape’s eyes flickered away, as if he were trying to hide something. “I don’t get upset.”

John’s lips twitched. “You’re a terrible liar, Severus. And I can see it.”

A long, heavy silence passed between them. Snape’s gaze was trained on the floor, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He wanted to say something—John could see it in the way his jaw clenched—but he didn’t.

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” John said, his voice low, but insistent.

The words were hanging in the air, suspended, thick with tension. And for a long moment, Snape said nothing. He simply stared at the floor, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Then, finally, his voice broke. “I never wanted this,” he said, barely audible, the words coming out as a quiet admission. “I never wanted you.”

John stepped closer, his eyes softening. “But you do,” he murmured, his gaze intense.

Snape’s eyes snapped to his. “I don’t,” he spat, his voice shaking with anger and something else—something raw. He reached out, as if to push John away, but he faltered. “You have no idea what it’s like… to be—to feel this way—for you.”

John’s breath caught in his throat, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Severus…”

“I can’t,” Snape growled, looking like he was ready to retreat again. But he couldn’t, not anymore. “I—I don’t know what this is, or what it means, but I don’t know how to stop it, either.” His voice cracked, something breaking in him.

John stood there for a long moment, staring at Snape, feeling the weight of the confession hanging between them. The rawness in Snape’s voice, the pain, the frustration—it was all too real. And it was enough to break down the walls Snape had so carefully built around himself.

Finally, John reached out, placing a hand on Snape’s shoulder, grounding him. “You don’t have to stop it, Severus. Not if you don’t want to.”

Snape looked up at him, his expression torn. And for a brief, fleeting moment, John saw the man who had always been hiding behind that cold, harsh mask—a man who was afraid to feel anything, and yet desperate to feel it all.

And then, with a quiet sigh, Snape gave in.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly, his voice vulnerable. “I’ve never known how.”

John just smiled softly, a quiet understanding passing between them. “I don’t either. We’ll figure it out.”

Chapter 60

The house was eerily quiet except for the muffled sounds coming from the sitting room. Molly Weasley, her face a mix of curiosity and concern, was the first to notice the faint rise in voices. She paused, the rest of the Weasley family following her lead, eyes wide as they heard snippets of the argument. Without a word, they all silently crept closer, drawn in by the drama unfolding behind the door.

“Are they… arguing?” whispered Ron, eyes wide, his voice barely audible.

“Seems like it,” Hermione muttered, leaning in a little further, her curiosity piqued. “But it sounds different. It’s not like their usual bickering.”

“I think they’re fighting about something else,” Harry said quietly, glancing at the door. “Should we—?”

“Shh!” Fred hissed, holding up a hand and gesturing for silence. He and George exchanged a look, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They had both heard it—the unmistakable anger in Snape’s voice. And there was something about the situation that felt important.

Molly leaned in as well, trying to hear better, her brow furrowed. “I swear, I haven’t seen them this heated since… well, since—” she stopped herself, eyes widening in realization. “It’s more than just a spat, isn’t it?”

At that, Snape’s sharp voice cut through the door, making everyone freeze.

“You’re avoiding me,” Snape’s voice was cutting, but his tone held a tinge of something softer—frustration, perhaps.

John’s voice followed, rougher. “I’m not avoiding you, Severus. You’re just… difficult to talk to.”

“That’s it?” Fred whispered, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the issue? Are they arguing over a bad joke or something?”

“Listen closely,” George said, his grin spreading as he recognized the rising tension. “I think we might be about to get something juicy.”

Hermione was practically leaning against the door now, her eyes wide, barely containing her curiosity. Ron, however, was looking uncomfortable. “This is… this is really awkward.”

And then, just as they all leaned in, John’s voice broke through, loud and clear: “I’m in love with you, Severus.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the hallway was dead silent.

“Did he just—?” Ron started, his eyes widening.

“That did not just happen,” Fred whispered, grinning from ear to ear. “I mean, he’s in love with Snape? Merlin’s beard.”

George leaned forward slightly, his face lit up with shock and amusement. “This is better than any prank we’ve ever pulled.”

But before anyone else could respond, John’s voice cracked again, full of raw emotion. “And I’m terrified because everyone I care about… everyone I love… dies. And I can’t lose you, too.”

There was a stunned silence from the group in the hallway, everyone too shocked to speak.

“Oh my God,” Hermione whispered, eyes wide as she looked between the twins and Ron. “He’s really saying it. He’s in love with Severus. And he’s—he’s terrified of losing him.”

“We all are,” Fred muttered, sounding much more serious than usual. “Can you imagine what it must be like to actually feel something that strong, knowing what could happen?”

“No way,” Ron whispered under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s… this is unreal.”

“Do you think Snape knows?” Hermione asked, glancing at the door again, her heart racing.

“I don’t know,” George murmured, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “But I definitely think we’re about to find out.”

At that moment, Snape’s voice rang out from inside the room again, his tone low but intense: “You think I don’t know that feeling?”

“He just—” Harry started, his voice barely a whisper.

“Wait, this is gonna get good,” Fred interjected, leaning in even closer. “Snape’s about to admit something!”

And then Snape’s next words made the entire group stiffen, their faces filled with shock.

“I didn’t want this, John. I didn’t want to feel this—” Snape’s voice faltered, and for the briefest moment, there was something completely foreign in it. Vulnerability. Dare they hope for something more?

“Oh my Merlin,” Ron breathed, wide-eyed. “Did Snape just—?”

“Did Snape just admit he feels the same?” Hermione whispered, her heart pounding in her chest.

Fred snorted quietly. “Who knew the greasy git had feelings?”

Then, just as the group was starting to absorb the impact of those words, a voice suddenly cut through the air—Molly, of course, unable to contain herself any longer.

“What’s going on in there?” she called, louder than she’d intended, making everyone freeze.

“Oh no,” George groaned, wide-eyed. “We’ve been caught!”

The sound of hurried footsteps could be heard approaching, and the door opened to reveal Molly standing there, her face flushed with a mix of curiosity and concern. Behind her, the entire Weasley family stood, including Tonks, Remus, and Sirius—each of them looking distinctly uncomfortable.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, Fred whispered loudly, eyes wide in disbelief, “Well, we definitely heard that.”

“Blimey, that was unexpected,” George added, grinning at the awkwardness in the room.

“For the love of Merlin,” Sirius muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Snape and John? Really?”

Molly shot them both an exasperated look. “What did I tell you? All of you should be more careful where you stand when there are… sensitive conversations happening.”

“You heard that?” John’s voice was strained, filled with a mix of embarrassment and disbelief.

“Well, it’s a bit hard to miss, John,” Remus said, his voice as kind as ever, though his eyes were filled with amusement.

Snape, for his part, stood there, his face a mixture of fury and mortification, though it seemed to soften ever so slightly when he looked at John.

“I think we’ve heard enough for tonight,” Molly said quickly, gesturing for the others to head off. “Let’s just… let them figure this out, shall we?”

As everyone filed out, the twins were the last to leave, both with wide, mischievous grins on their faces.

“This is gonna be the best story to tell the others,” Fred said, looking over his shoulder as he walked away.

“Definitely,” George added, his grin not wavering.

The door closed behind them, leaving John and Severus in the silence of the room, both standing still, still processing everything that had just been laid bare. The tension was thick in the air, but now, at least, they no longer had to hide.

Chapter 61

The door clicked shut behind the last eavesdropper, and for a few heartbeats, silence settled between John and Severus like heavy fog.

John let out a long breath. “Well. That could’ve been more private.”

Severus turned to face him fully, arms crossed, brow still furrowed, though his eyes betrayed the conflict burning beneath. “You shouted that you love me. Loudly.”

“You think I meant to shout it?” John shot back, though his voice had lost its earlier heat. “Didn’t expect to mean it either, if I’m honest.”

Silence again.

Then Severus stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until there was barely an inch between them. “Say it again.”

John’s mouth twitched. “You want me to scream it again so the twins can record it for posterity?”

“I want to hear it when I’m close enough to touch you,” Severus murmured, and that did it.

John surged forward, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation and unspoken things that didn’t need to be said anymore.

They barely made it to the library.

Severus shoved the door open and John kicked it shut behind them, both of them moving through instinct—wands out in unison as they cast Colloportus and Muffliato, then Silencio, and John threw in an extra Repello Muggletum just for fun.

“Overkill,” Severus said against his mouth.

“Don’t want an encore audience.”

Severus made a sound that might’ve been laughter if it weren’t choked off by John biting his lower lip. Their robes were discarded across the backs of chairs, half the bookshelves bearing witness as they staggered deeper into the restricted section, colliding with one of the long reading tables and sweeping scrolls and a forgotten inkpot to the floor.

“You always were the worst influence,” Severus muttered, tugging John’s shirt up and pressing kisses down his chest like it was familiar territory.

“And you loved every bloody second of it,” John rasped, tipping his head back and groaning when Severus bit just hard enough to leave a mark.

“I still do,” Severus muttered.

It was breathless and fast, intense and almost brutal—years of tension, of secrecy, of almosts and nearlys breaking loose now that the truth had been said. They tangled together like they didn’t know how to be apart anymore, hands grasping, mouths colliding, hips grinding with urgent rhythm against that old oak table.

The silence spells held. Mercifully.

But the intensity didn’t break, not even when they collapsed together on the floor between rows of dusty volumes and forgotten tomes, hearts thudding wildly, sweat cooling against skin, and John’s fingers brushing against Severus’s like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Still afraid?” Severus asked after a moment, voice low.

John hesitated. Then, “Yes. But for the first time, I think I’m more afraid not to try.”

Severus leaned in, resting his forehead against John’s. “Then try.”

And in that quiet, book-scented space, surrounded by forbidden knowledge and firelit shadows, John Constantine let himself hope.

Chapter 62

The next morning, Grimmauld Place was its usual chaos—cutlery clinking, toast flying from plates, and everyone pretending not to be tired from ahem, overheard late-night dramatics.

John slipped into the kitchen just behind Severus, both men dressed and composed… far too composed.

Which only made it worse.

Molly turned from the stove with a bright, innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one. “Morning, dears! I do hope you slept well.”

Severus’s eye twitched.

John grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee with a grunt. “Like the dead,” he muttered, which earned a loud snort from Tonks down the table.

Arthur coughed behind his copy of the Daily Prophet, though the way his shoulders shook gave him away. Even Remus looked suspiciously entertained, and Sirius—Sirius was openly smirking over his toast.

Ginny leaned into Hermione, whispering too loudly, “They weren’t in their rooms this morning, Mum went to check.”

Molly turned around, utterly unfazed. “Well, I did knock on both doors, and when I didn’t get an answer, I peeked in. Neither of them had been slept in. Not even rumpled. Honestly, Severus, I expected neater bed-making at least.”

Severus slowly turned to John with a glare that promised pain.

John, however, just grinned over his coffee. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who disarmed the silencing charm and threw your wand into a bloody bookcase.”

“You grabbed my wand mid—”

“AHEM,” Molly cut in sweetly, though her face had turned a deep, triumphant shade of pink. “Not at the breakfast table, boys.”

“Can we just all agree to pretend we didn’t hear anything?” Hermione asked desperately.

“Nope!” said Fred and George in unison as they walked in.

“Morning!” George chirped.

“We heard everything,” Fred added with an exaggerated wink.

“Even the part where Professor Constantine said—”

“I will hex you both into next Tuesday,” Severus growled.

“Language,” Molly said cheerfully as she slid eggs onto plates.

John leaned over toward Severus, voice low and teasing. “If we’re already publicly humiliated, might as well get our toast out of it.”

“Eat. Quietly,” Severus muttered, but he didn’t pull away when their knees brushed under the table.

And if John sent him a sideways smile over his mug while Sirius muttered, “For the love of Merlin, someone please make sure you cast a silencing charm before tonight,” no one said anything.

Yet.

Chapter 63

The kitchen had cleared after breakfast, laughter and whispers trailing upstairs as the rest of Grimmauld Place returned to its usual half-chaos. Only John remained at the table, nursing a fresh mug of coffee and scowling into it like it had personally insulted him.

Of course, that was the exact moment Albus Dumbledore chose to appear in the doorway.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly. “I was hoping we could have a word.”

John didn’t look up. “If it’s about the silencing charms, take it up with Severus. I’m not the one who launched my wand into the bloody fiction section.”

Dumbledore chuckled like John had said something whimsical instead of bitter. “No, no. This is about something a touch more serious.”

John lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “It always is with you, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. “I’ve received word that certain… pieces are moving faster than expected. We’ll need your assistance with containment in the next few weeks. Possibly sooner.”

John stood abruptly, chair scraping against the stone floor. “No.”

“No?”

“You heard me. I’m not your soldier, Albus. I’ve played your game long enough.” He jabbed a finger toward the hallway. “You’re blackmailing me, dragging me back into this mess, risking Harry’s life, risking Severus—and for what? To keep your hands clean while I do the dirty work?”

Dumbledore’s expression barely shifted, but the cold steel behind his eyes flickered to the surface. “Careful, John.”

John laughed bitterly. “Why? What else are you going to dig up on me this time? Haven’t squeezed every drop of guilt out of Newcastle yet?”

There was a pause. Then Dumbledore tilted his head slightly.

“I wonder,” he said quietly, “how Giovanni would feel, knowing you failed to tell him the truth about that little summoning ritual in Madrid? Or Zatanna… Does she know what you offered in exchange to save her father’s soul?”

John went still.

Utterly still.

Dumbledore smiled, almost kindly. “We both have regrets, my dear boy. But only one of us has made pacts with Hell itself.”

“You don’t want to see what happens when I stop giving a damn,” John whispered, his voice like a razor’s edge. “Because if I walk—if I really walk—your whole house of cards collapses before the year’s out. You know it. And I know it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dumbledore admitted. “But you won’t walk. You care too much, despite what you pretend. About Harry. About Severus. About all of it. That’s why I keep asking.”

John stared him down for a moment longer, then turned away, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink.

“I hate you,” he said simply. “I hate that I let you do this to me.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said gently. “But we all play our roles. And yours, I’m afraid, is still very much needed.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door swinging softly shut behind him.

John didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there as the light filtered through the grime-smeared window, jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth ache.

The worst part?

Dumbledore was right.

Chapter 64

John was still leaning against the sink when the door creaked open again—soft, uncertain.

He didn’t look.

Didn’t have to.

He could feel them.

The too-light footsteps of Hermione, the shuffling hesitation of Ron, and Harry’s quiet intake of breath when he saw John’s face.

“What the hell are you three doing?” John asked without turning around.

“Er—we didn’t mean to,” Hermione began. “The door wasn’t shut all the way and—”

“Yeah, we heard everything,” Harry said, blunt as ever. “About Newcastle. And Madrid. And Zatanna.”

John finally turned, eyes bloodshot but dry. “Congratulations. You now know what it’s like to see a man blackmailed by the same person twice for different sins.”

Ron shifted awkwardly. “Who’s Zatanna?”

Hermione elbowed him.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s… someone who should’ve hated me a long time ago. Her dad—Zatara—was a friend. A real one. And I ruined him. Got him stuck in something dark and old, and when it came time to pay the price, I tried to trade myself for him.”

“You did that for her,” Hermione whispered.

“No,” John said flatly. “I did it because I owed him. I did it because I always try to fix things when it’s already too late. That’s what I do. I come in when everything’s bleeding and broken and I slap a charm over it and hope it holds just long enough.”

Harry stepped forward, his voice low. “Dumbledore—he’s using this against you.”

John looked at him, something fragile passing across his features.

“No, Harry,” he said quietly. “He’s using it for him. There’s a difference. Because if it were just me on the line, I’d have walked. I’d have let the world burn years ago. But he knows the names to drop. The wounds to pick. He’s always known.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Hermione said.

John smiled, crooked and weary. “Funny thing, Granger. I always end up alone anyway. It’s safer that way. People don’t die if they don’t get close.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said, jaw set. “People die anyway. That doesn’t mean you stop trying to protect them.”

John looked at him for a long moment—really looked at him—and then reached out and ruffled his hair gently, like it hurt to do it.

“You’re a better man than I’ll ever be, Harry. And that terrifies me.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Because you’re not walking away. We won’t let you.”

John huffed a laugh. “You lot are bloody relentless.”

“We’re Gryffindors,” Ron muttered. “Comes with the territory.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, it does.”

Chapter 65

The door creaked again—not tentative like the trio’s intrusion had been, but sharp, purposeful. John didn’t need to look.

“Come to finish the lecture, Severus?” he muttered, still leaning against the sink, back to the door.

“No,” Snape said, voice low and tight. “They were asking questions. Harry looked like he was ready to hex Dumbledore, and Hermione had that terrifying investigative gleam in her eye. I assumed you’d told them something.”

“They eavesdropped,” John replied. “Right place, wrong damn time.”

He finally turned. Severus stood near the threshold, arms crossed but not tightly—no judgment in his posture, just guarded concern. That alone made John’s chest ache.

“You look like hell,” Severus said.

John gave a weak smirk. “You always had a way with compliments.”

Snape stepped further into the room, eyes sweeping the mess of coffee mugs, half-burnt letters, and a near-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the counter.

“You’re unraveling.”

“I’ve been unraveled, love,” John said bitterly. “I’m just now realizing how much thread I’ve been dragging behind me.”

Severus didn’t speak right away. He walked to the table, sat, and waited—giving John space without stepping away.

“Dumbledore’s done worse to both of us,” John muttered eventually. “But every time I think I’ve cut the leash, he finds another one. Zatanna. Giovanni. And the kids—he knows how I look at Harry like he’s a second chance I don’t deserve.”

Silence.

Then Snape, voice rough: “I never thanked you. For the night in the library. For saying what you did.”

John looked up, stunned by the softness in his tone. “You heard?”

“I heard enough.” A flicker of a smirk ghosted over Severus’ lips. “As did the entire bloody house.”

John laughed once, dry and broken. “Brilliant.”

Severus rose and crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of him.

“You don’t have to keep doing this alone,” he said softly.

“I don’t know how not to,” John confessed.

Snape reached up and cupped the back of his neck, pulling their foreheads together, breath mingling between them.

“Then learn,” he whispered. “With me.”

John swallowed hard, the weight in his chest loosening by degrees. “If you die on me, I swear to God, Severus—”

“I’ve survived this long in spite of myself,” Snape murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you push me.”

They stood like that for a long moment—two disasters in the shape of men, holding each other like they might stay whole that way.

Finally, John whispered, “I think I’m falling in love with you. I already love you, you know that but the in love part, that’s new.”

Severus answered by kissing him.

Not like fire, not like anger.

But like promise.

Chapter 66

The sunlight in Grimmauld Place never really shone—it filtered through in sleepy half-light, fighting its way through dusty curtains and generations of gloom. But that morning, it was almost warm.

John stirred first, the scent of tea and parchment hanging in the air. Severus was still next to him, unusually relaxed in sleep, hair mussed and mouth slightly parted.

It was the kind of sight that could stop time.

John let out a breath, careful not to disturb him. He lay there for a few minutes longer, just watching.

Then Severus shifted and cracked open one eye.

“You’re staring,” he rasped.

“Can you blame me?”

Snape huffed and pressed a hand to his face. “Merlin. I knew sleeping here was a mistake.”

John smirked. “Because you stayed the night or because now you’re stuck being soft with me?”

“Both.”

They got dressed slowly. There was no rush, no urgency. John even found himself brewing tea in silence while Severus buttoned his coat with steady hands.

It was mundane. Simple.

Which terrified him more than any demon ever had.

⸻

The silence shattered the moment they stepped into the drawing room, and Dumbledore looked up from the fire.

He smiled.

Too knowingly.

“Severus. John,” he greeted. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a word,” Dumbledore replied, gesturing for tea to pour itself into a set of mismatched cups. “But the energy in the room is… different.”

Snape sat, stiff-backed and unreadable. John remained standing.

“If this is where you attempt to leverage our personal entanglements into more blackmail, Albus, I’ll happily punch your teeth in,” John said cheerfully.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Heavens, no. Though I do find it quite endearing. You’ve both been at war with yourselves for so long. A little… connection can be healing.”

Snape looked like he was about to hex someone. Probably John for not silencing the room better last night.

Dumbledore simply sipped his tea and added, “Though I do hope you’ve remembered to silence your quarters. Molly’s a curious woman, and Tonks has very good hearing.”

John groaned and dropped into a chair, head in his hands.

“Just kill me now.”

“I’m afraid I need you alive a little longer,” Dumbledore said lightly. “Though you might want to avoid the breakfast table. The twins were making inappropriate hand gestures.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Still,” Dumbledore went on, voice softer now, “I am glad you’re staying, John. You’ve more of a place here than you realize.”

John met his gaze. “Only because you’ve kept me leashed.”

“For now,” Albus admitted. “But perhaps… someday… you’ll stay because you want to.”

John didn’t answer. But Severus, silent beside him, shifted just a little closer.

And that said enough.

Chapter 67

Chaos.

That was the only word for it.

The Ministry corridors rang with spells, screams, and shouts as Order members fought back Death Eaters in the darkened halls of the Department of Mysteries. Glass shattered. Shadows darted.

John was already bleeding from a slash to his side, shirt dark and sticky, but he didn’t slow.

He wasn’t here for vengeance.

He was here for them.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice echoed somewhere down the corridor. “Sirius—!”

John rounded the corner just in time to see it:

The dais.

The veil.

And Sirius Black mid-duel with Bellatrix Lestrange—wild-eyed and reckless, laughing even as he parried curse after curse.

Bellatrix’s next spell hit him square in the chest.

He staggered back.

One step.

Two.

Toward the veil.

Time slowed. He saw the veil flutter. He saw Sirius’ foot slip, the edge of the stone platform right there.

John threw himself forward.

His shoulder slammed into Sirius with full force, knocking him sideways just as his back heel crossed into the veil’s threshold.

Sirius hit the stone floor hard, groaning.

John wasn’t so lucky.

The veil brushed his side, the cold of it like fingers trying to pull.

But he resisted. He’d fought worse. He knew worse.

He dragged himself back, away from it, gasping.

Sirius stared at him, stunned.

“You—” he breathed. “You bloody lunatic.”

John shoved him. “Get up, you idiot. You’re not dying in this shithole.”

Bellatrix shrieked with rage, wand raised again—but Snape was already behind her, spell primed. She went down like a ragdoll.

The rest of the Order burst into the chamber—Remus, Tonks, Kingsley, and Dumbledore last of all.

Sirius was coughing now, clutching his ribs, staring at the veil like it had whispered to him.

John didn’t let him look too long. He grabbed his coat, hauled him up, and muttered, “You owe me. Again.”

Sirius gave a breathless, shaken laugh. “I hate you a little less.”

“Better than nothing,” John muttered. But his hands were shaking.

He hadn’t realized how close it had been.

Snape crossed the room in seconds, eyes locking with John’s. He said nothing—but his gaze said everything.

They were still alive.

For now.

Chapter 68

Grimmauld Place was dim and quiet in the aftermath. Most of the Order had either gone home or collapsed into sleep. The kids were upstairs. Molly was fussing in the kitchen.

Sirius found John on the back step, a cigarette between his lips, blood drying on his shirt, and a bottle of firewhisky on the ground beside him.

“You’re a bastard,” Sirius said by way of greeting.

John took a drag and didn’t look at him. “Not the first time I’ve heard that today.”

Sirius crossed his arms, watching him. “You saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, I mean it. You should’ve let me fall, considering how much you loathe me.”

“I don’t loathe you,” John said flatly. “You’re just an arrogant prick who never owned up to what he did to Severus, and I’ve spent the last year cleaning up the emotional fallout of that.”

Sirius flinched.

John looked up at him then, eyes tired and dark. “But I wasn’t going to let you die. You matter to them. Harry. Remus. And that counts more than my personal feelings.”

Sirius sat beside him, silence stretching.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry. For what we did to Snape. I’ve apologized to him. Doesn’t mean he’ll ever forgive me. Don’t blame him.”

John didn’t speak. He passed Sirius the bottle instead.

After a moment, Sirius accepted.

They sat in silence, drinking, two war-torn men nursing their wounds and resentment, neither willing to say thank you or you’re forgiven—but something unspoken passed between them.

It was enough.

For now.

⸻

Later that night, John stood in the bathroom shirtless, hissing as he tried to clean the wound along his ribs. His warded lighter clattered to the floor. A low curse followed it.

“Idiot,” Severus said from the doorway.

John didn’t flinch.

“I told you it was shallow.”

“Still hurts like a bitch.”

Severus walked in without waiting for an invitation, took the cloth from John’s hands, and knelt. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he cleaned the gash with practiced ease.

“You almost died today,” Severus said, voice thin.

“So did Sirius.”

“You shouldn’t have jumped in like that.”

“You’d have done the same for Harry.”

Severus paused. Then: “I didn’t say you were wrong.”

John looked down at him, really looked. At the crease between his brows. The tension in his mouth.

“I’m here,” John said softly. “Still breathing.”

“I noticed.” Severus finished with a salve and stood, finally meeting his gaze.

There was a long moment of silence.

Then Severus leaned in and kissed him—not rushed, not hungry, but steady. Grounding.

John melted into it.

When they broke apart, Severus said, “Stay here tonight.”

John hesitated. Not out of fear. Out of hope.

“Alright,” he said finally. “But only if I get the left side of the bed.”

“You always do.”

They left the bathroom, hand brushing hand.

Softness was a rare thing in war.

But for now, they had it.

Chapter 69

Sunlight streamed in through the curtains like it had no manners.

John groaned, rolling over and nearly falling off the bed in the process. Severus, already awake but pretending not to be, sighed through his nose and grabbed John’s wrist before he knocked over the bedside lamp.

“Stop flailing.”

“Why do you always sleep on the side with the good escape route?”

“Because I know you’ll take the fall if we’re attacked in the night.”

John muttered something profane and dragged the blanket over his head. Severus smirked just barely—then froze when there was a knock at the door.

“Boys?” Molly Weasley’s cheery voice called. “Are we decent in there?”

John bolted upright like he’d been electrocuted, hair a mess and sheet falling off one shoulder. Severus, traitor that he was, didn’t even sit up.

“We’re decent!” John shouted back.

“Are you?” Molly asked, and they could hear the grin in her voice. The door creaked open anyway.

Severus threw an arm across his eyes. “Merlin’s sake, woman—”

“Oh, hush. I’ve walked in on worse. You two look positively domestic.”

John blinked at her in disbelief. “You barge in often, or is this just a perk of staying under your roof?”

“Don’t test me, Constantine,” Molly said sweetly, hands on her hips. “Now, what do you want for breakfast? I’ve got bacon, eggs, toast, and a few healthy options if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Severus, from beneath the blanket: “Tea. Strong. No questions.”

John rubbed his face. “Coffee if you’ve got it. And anything fried.”

Molly nodded, turned on her heel, and as she exited, tossed back: “And next time, boys, remember to silence the room. The children don’t need a live broadcast.”

The door shut.

John groaned and collapsed onto the pillows again. “I’m never showing my face again.”

“I told you,” Severus muttered. “Silencing charms. Every time.”

“You were the one who grabbed your wand too early last night!”

“You distracted me.”

John laughed, burying his face in the pillow. “Bloody morning person you are.”

Severus rolled over, eyes half-lidded. “Shut up and come back under the blanket.”

Which, of course, John did.

But only until Molly yelled, “Breakfast’s ready!”

And this time, John made Severus answer.

Chapter 70

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was already buzzing by the time John and Severus made their way downstairs—clothed, composed, and wearing their best “nothing happened” faces.

Not that it fooled anyone.

Around the long table, the kids were mid-breakfast and mid-gossip.

Fred was the first to spot them. His eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “If it isn’t our two most rested houseguests.”

George elbowed Ron and stage-whispered, “Look at that hair. That is morning-after hair.”

Hermione’s cheeks turned red. Ginny choked on her tea. Ron turned positively green.

“I did not need that image,” Ron groaned, pushing his plate away.

“Too late,” Ginny muttered, smirking.

Harry, trying to keep a straight face, looked between John and Severus. “So… sleep well?”

John narrowed his eyes. “I know at least four ways to curse toast.”

“Do any of them make it butter itself?” George asked brightly.

“Because that,” Fred added, “would be dead useful.”

John slid into a chair, muttering about bloody teenagers. Severus didn’t dignify anyone with a response—just reached for the tea like nothing was happening.

Hermione, ever the tactful one (and least able to suppress her curiosity), glanced at John and asked, “So… Professor Constantine, you and Professor Snape are…?”

John raised a brow. “Adults. That’s all you need to know.”

Ginny snorted. “Not what the walls said last night.”

Severus nearly choked on his tea.

Harry looked horrified. “Wait—you heard—?”

Fred and George said in unison, “The silencing charm broke.”

Ron buried his head in his arms on the table. “I’m never sleeping again.”

John leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered now. “Consider it magical education. You’re welcome.”

Hermione cleared her throat and went back to her eggs, cheeks pink.

Molly passed by behind the adults, humming as she topped off their mugs. “Maybe next time, boys, double the silencing charm. Or pick a room without teenagers on either side.”

Severus didn’t move.

John grinned. “Noted, Molly.”

Fred raised his juice in a mock toast. “To John and Snape—our favorite unexpected romance!”

George clinked his glass. “May your silencing charms always hold.”

Hermione facepalmed. Ron moaned. Harry laughed into his porridge.

Somehow, breakfast went on—with the kids whispering, giggling, and side-eyeing the two professors.

And John, for once, didn’t mind.

Chapter 71

The chatter at the breakfast table was starting to settle when Remus and Tonks stood up, holding hands.

Tonks’ usual bold demeanor was softer this morning, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she grinned at everyone. Remus, typically reserved, had a small smile tugging at his lips, his hand gently squeezing Tonks’.

“Alright, everyone,” Tonks began, her voice a little louder than usual, catching everyone’s attention. “We have an announcement.”

The room quieted as the eyes of the adults and kids alike turned to the couple.

“We’re getting married,” Remus said with a soft chuckle, his usual quiet self but with a warmth that made it clear how much this meant to him.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

Then, Sirius, who had been in a daze over the teasing and awkwardness of the breakfast, blinked rapidly as he processed the news.

“Wait—WHAT?!” He jumped up from his seat, knocking over his mug of tea in his excitement. “You’re actually—finally—getting married?” His voice cracked with both laughter and disbelief.

Tonks threw her arms around him before he could do anything, and Remus joined in, laughing at the surprise.

“We are,” Remus replied, his voice warm and a little shy. “After everything we’ve been through… well, it just felt right.”

Sirius beamed at the pair, his eyes a little glassy. “This is fantastic! I never thought I’d see the day when you two finally did it.” He paused, catching Tonks’ playful grin. “No offense, Remus, but I figured you’d be the last one to put a ring on her finger.”

Remus gave him a pointed look, but the affection in it was clear.

“Well, I wanted to wait for the right moment, mate,” Remus said softly, his hand still holding Tonks’ fondly. “And this is it.”

Tonks gave Sirius a wink. “And you, Black, better behave yourself when we have the wedding. We’re not having any pranks—well, maybe a little one—”

Sirius’s laughter cut her off. “I’ll behave! For you two, I’ll behave.” Then he grinned wide, throwing his arms around both of them. “And just think, Remus—now we’re family for real.”

Tears welled in Sirius’ eyes, and he pulled them both into a tight embrace. “You’ve always been family,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion. “But now… now we’ll finally get it right. All of us. This is the best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

The whole room seemed to exhale with a shared, relieved joy. Even John and Severus shared a soft look across the table—something unspoken in the brief exchange.

“Congratulations,” Harry said, his voice breaking through the moment. “It’s about time.”

Ron and Hermione both nodded in agreement, and Ginny gave them a big smile.

Tonks beamed at everyone. “Thank you, thank you! We’ll make sure to send out invitations to the rest of you when the time comes.”

Sirius clapped his hands together. “Alright! Who’s ready to start planning? Because I’m already thinking about the best bachelor party you could imagine.”

“No,” Remus and Tonks said in unison, laughter echoing around the room.

But the joy lingered in the air, and for a moment, the weight of the war and everything else outside those walls seemed a little lighter.

Chapter 72

The announcement that Remus and Tonks were getting married had been met with surprise and excitement from most of the room. But while everyone else was beaming, John and Severus exchanged a quiet glance.

John, ever the one to look for the practical angle in anything, raised an eyebrow. “You’re just going to sign some papers at Gringotts? No ceremony? No family dinner?”

Tonks grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Considering the state of the world, I think a quick trip to Gringotts and a couple of signatures will do the trick. No need for any big fanfare right now, John. The world’s a bit too… unstable for that, don’t you think?”

John’s lips twitched upward. “Fair point,” he muttered, then turned to Severus, who hadn’t said a word yet. “And you? Any thoughts, Severus?”

Severus merely lifted his tea cup and took a measured sip, not revealing a single ounce of emotion. “I’ve learned that certain things, such as family and loyalty, do not require ceremony to be valid. Their decision makes sense. The world is precarious. You don’t need a grand event to validate your bond, especially when it could all be gone tomorrow.”

John studied Severus for a moment. There was something more in his tone—more than just an acknowledgment of the reality of their situation. It was… vulnerable, maybe. The fact that Severus wasn’t more cynical about it was something John hadn’t expected.

“Agreed,” John said after a moment, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, considering how things went with us, I’m sure a Gringotts visit works just fine.”

Severus shot him a look that was half exasperated, half amused. “Do you ever shut up?”

But John was undeterred, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Not likely. You should get used to it.”

Tonks, ever the one to keep things light, took advantage of the small pause. “So, we’re going to head to Gringotts next week. Nothing too crazy, just paperwork. You’re both welcome to join us if you want to make it official on paper.”

John raised a brow. “You think I’m going to walk into Gringotts with you two? You might want to reconsider your invitation. I’m still not sure if I’d go for a wedding with no fireworks.”

“That’s the spirit,” Fred said, leaning over and offering a grin. “Make it a proper Constantine wedding.”

“Fireworks, a dragon, and maybe a small explosion or two,” George added with a wink.

Sirius, still grinning broadly, chimed in: “If I’m going to be a godfather again, I’d at least like to be present when all this goes down.” He turned to Remus. “No one’s going to blame me for making a scene if I get to say something halfway sentimental, right?”

Remus smiled softly. “If you can behave, you’re welcome to join us. But this isn’t about being the center of attention. We’ve lived through too much to get swept up in that right now.”

“Too right,” Tonks agreed, the warmth in her eyes settling as she looked around at the group. “We’ve got each other, and that’s what matters. It’s just… easier this way.”

Severus, ever the pragmatist, nodded in agreement. “If that’s how you choose to handle it, I can’t argue with the logic. The war may take all of us at any moment. To take time away from it for something as meaningless as a public ceremony would be…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if the very idea was beneath him. But then he glanced at Remus and Tonks, his gaze softening slightly. “… Unwise.”

John leaned back, watching Remus and Tonks with something akin to respect. “You two have your priorities straight.”

Tonks nodded. “Gringotts next week, then. It’ll be small, but it’ll be ours. Just the way it needs to be.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics after that, the weight of their lives and the war still present but no longer the only subject in the room. John and Severus exchanged a look, and for the first time in what felt like ages, John felt a small flicker of something he hadn’t quite put a name to—a sense of family.

Even in the chaos, even in the face of danger, the ones that mattered were still choosing each other.

And that, in its own way, made all the difference.

Chapter 73

It was a quiet afternoon at Grimmauld Place, the usual bustle of life momentarily quiet as the adults made their preparations for the upcoming conflict. But Hermione was sitting alone in one of the smaller rooms, surrounded by books as she tried to distract herself from the ever-growing tension.

It was then that Dumbledore entered, his expression unusually somber as he walked towards her, his eyes carrying the weight of something heavy. He sat down across from her, the silence between them deafening.

“Hermione,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle but firm. “There is something I must tell you.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked up, sensing the seriousness in his tone. “What is it, Professor?”

“Your parents,” Dumbledore said carefully, his words like a blade to the chest. “They… they were killed by Death Eaters earlier today.”

The room seemed to freeze. The sound of her breath was the only thing audible for a long moment.

“What?” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible. She blinked rapidly, trying to process the words. “No… no, that can’t be true. They—they can’t be…”

Dumbledore sighed, the sorrow in his eyes clear. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I wish I could offer you better news. They were attacked in their home, and the Aurors were unable to reach them in time.”

Hermione’s world seemed to collapse in on itself. The words echoed in her mind, and yet, they didn’t make sense. Her parents—the people who had always loved her unconditionally, the ones who had supported her through everything—were gone. And she hadn’t been there to protect them.

Her hands trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall, at least not yet. She didn’t want to fall apart, not in front of anyone. But the weight of the news was unbearable, and the numbness that began to spread through her chest only deepened the ache in her heart.

Dumbledore looked as though he wanted to say more, but before he could, the door opened, and John entered the room. He had been nearby when the news had been delivered, and when he saw Hermione, her face pale, her hands shaking, his instinct kicked in.

He quickly crossed the room to her side, kneeling in front of her. “Hermione…” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’m so sorry. There’s no right thing to say right now.”

Her eyes met his, and the dam broke. The tears she had been holding back flooded down her cheeks, and she gasped for air, as though she had been holding her breath for hours.

John didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, his hands gently rubbing her back, murmuring quiet words of comfort as he let her cry. The rest of the room—Dumbledore, Ron, Harry, and the Weasleys—stood back, unsure of how to provide the comfort she needed. Everyone had tried to offer something, but it was clear that John’s presence was the only one that could reach her.

Ron stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes filled with helpless rage. “How could they—why would they—” He broke off, unable to form the words.

Harry stood beside him, his jaw set, fighting his own emotions. He wanted to comfort Hermione, but he also knew that right now, John was the one she needed most.

Dumbledore placed a hand on Ron’s shoulder, giving him a meaningful look. “We will find a way to bring those responsible to justice,” he said, though it was little comfort.

But Hermione, despite the tears, clung to John. She buried her face against his chest, the grief too much to bear alone. John simply held her, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he whispered soft words in her ear, trying to offer a semblance of solace.

“I know it hurts,” John murmured, his voice thick with empathy. “I know it feels impossible to breathe right now, but you’re not alone. We’re all here, and we’ll get through this. Together.”

Hermione shook her head, her voice breaking as she whispered, “I should have been there. I should have protected them…”

John pulled her back slightly, gently cupping her face in his hands so she could look at him. “You can’t blame yourself. You’re one person. No one could have predicted this. But you’ve fought for so many. You’ve done more than most.”

Her eyes locked on his, searching for something to hold onto, and for the first time since the news had been delivered, she allowed herself to lean into him completely.

“You’re not alone,” he repeated, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm of grief.

Dumbledore watched from the doorway, his heart heavy with sorrow for Hermione. He had hoped she could stay untouched by the cruelty of the world, but now it seemed that even the strongest among them weren’t immune.

“We will give her time,” Dumbledore said quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “But you’re right, John. She’s not alone. She has all of us. And we will do everything in our power to protect her and her parents’ legacy.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. In that moment, she simply needed to feel safe, to feel held, and John was giving her that—offering not just comfort, but something deeper. A sense of understanding. A sense of solidarity.

And when she finally calmed, though her tears still lingered, she knew one thing for certain: she would get through this. Not alone. But with the people who cared about her most.

Chapter 74

The house had gone quiet again after dinner, as quiet as Grimmauld Place could ever be with a dozen people grieving and preparing for war. Hermione sat alone in the drawing room, her knees pulled to her chest on the old velvet sofa. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the worn wallpaper, but she barely noticed it.

She had barely spoken since the news. Ron had tried to sit with her. Harry had too. But all their kindness, though welcome, didn’t reach the cavern in her chest that now throbbed with emptiness.

She heard the door creak softly and glanced up. John Constantine stood in the doorway, no cigarettes for once, his trench coat hanging loosely around him like he hadn’t bothered to take it off after coming in from the cold.

“Mind some company?” he asked.

Hermione shrugged slightly. “No. It’s fine.”

He crossed the room quietly and sat across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The fire popped again.

“I keep thinking,” Hermione said quietly, “that they died not even knowing why. That someone just… took them away. For no reason.”

John nodded. “They probably didn’t even know it was coming. That’s the way the Death Eaters work. Especially with Muggle targets. Swift. Brutal. Cowardly.”

Her jaw clenched at the word. “Cowardly.”

John watched her carefully. “You’re allowed to be angry. Grief’s messy like that.”

Hermione met his eyes. “How do you know? Have you lost someone?”

John leaned back, staring into the flames. “Yeah.”

Hermione waited. She hadn’t really expected an answer—adults didn’t always share like that. But after a beat, he spoke again.

“My sister. Cheryl. And my niece. Gemma.” His voice was rough, tight with something long buried. “They were killed by Death Eaters during the first war. Cheryl was a Muggle. Gemma had magic—only six years old. Bright as hell. Thought the stars listened when she talked to them.”

Hermione blinked. “What happened?”

He inhaled slowly. “They came looking for me. I was already on the run, in the thick of it. Cheryl… she didn’t even know half of what I was involved in. I’d kept her out of it. Or I thought I had. But they found her. Used her to send a message.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “Did they suffer?”

John’s gaze grew distant. “No. I don’t think so. It was fast. They left her on the front porch of the old house we grew up in. Gemma, too. Like… like it was nothing.”

Silence fell again. Hermione felt tears sting at the corners of her eyes.

“I ran,” John said softly. “For a long time. From the grief. From the guilt. Thought maybe if I drank enough, smoked enough, cast enough wards, I could forget. I didn’t.”

Hermione nodded. “I don’t think I will either.”

“You won’t,” he said, gently. “But you’ll learn to live with it. To carry it in a way that doesn’t crush you every second of the day.”

She wiped her face. “How?”

John tilted his head. “One day at a time. Some days will hurt like hell. Others, you’ll remember something and smile before the pain hits again. But eventually, the good memories will be louder than the bad.”

Hermione leaned her head on her knees. “It just feels like there’s this hole in my chest. And I don’t know how to breathe around it.”

He leaned forward, voice low. “Then don’t try to fill it yet. Just sit with it. Let it hurt. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Hermione.”

Her eyes flicked toward him. “That’s what everyone keeps expecting me to be.”

“Yeah, well, sod that,” John muttered. “You’re not a soldier. You’re a bloody teenager who just lost her parents. Anyone tells you to ‘be strong’ can get hexed.”

That startled a laugh out of her—wet and shaky, but a laugh all the same. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I know.” He offered a faint grin. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. You are.”

He stood after a few moments, but not before placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “If it gets too much, come find me. I’ve got all the bad habits and none of the judgment.”

Hermione gave him a small, grateful smile as he left the room.

She was still hurting, still raw and broken in places she didn’t have names for. But now she wasn’t alone in it. And for tonight, that made all the difference.

Chapter 75

The dining room at Grimmauld Place was filled with the usual buzz of clinking silverware and low conversation, but there was tension in the air—grief still hung like fog. Everyone had been treating Hermione gently since the news. She appreciated it, but it also made her feel like she was going to shatter any time someone looked at her with too much pity.

Tonight, she’d had enough of being stared at like a wounded bird.

She stood up quietly. The conversation dulled as eyes turned toward her.

“I want to say something,” she said. Her voice was soft, but the room hushed completely.

She looked across the table at Ron, then Harry, then at the adults—Molly, Arthur, Remus, Tonks, Sirius, and even Snape, who sat stiffly at the edge of it all. John wasn’t there. He’d gone off for a smoke—or a drink, maybe both—after dinner, as he often did.

“Yesterday,” she said, “Professor Constantine sat with me. After I found out. About my parents.”

Silence.

“And he told me something. Not because I asked, and not because he wanted to make it about him. But because he understood what I was feeling.”

Molly’s hand moved to Arthur’s without a word.

Hermione inhaled slowly. “His sister, Cheryl, was a Muggle. She had a daughter, Gemma. Gemma had magic—she was only six years old when Death Eaters killed them both. During the first war.”

Gasps rippled through the table. Tonks whispered, “Merlin,” under her breath. Even Sirius leaned back like he’d been struck.

“They weren’t even part of the war,” Hermione continued. “They were killed because someone wanted to hurt John. They found his family. And he’s been carrying that ever since.”

The golden trio’s faces were pale. Ron looked stunned. Ginny’s eyes welled with tears.

“He didn’t tell me to feel better. He told me it would hurt. That it should hurt. And that I’d survive it anyway.”

She swallowed thickly and looked toward the door as if she expected him to walk through it.

“I think we forget,” she added, “because he makes everything a joke, or he’s sarcastic, or he pushes people away. But he’s hurting, too. And maybe if we stopped judging him for the things we don’t know, we might see the parts of him that matter.”

She sat back down.

No one said anything for a long time. The only sound was the steady crackle from the fireplace in the corner.

Then Arthur spoke softly. “Thank you, Hermione.”

Molly dabbed her eyes. “That poor man…”

Harry leaned over to whisper, “We should tell him. That we know.”

“No,” Hermione said gently. “Not yet. I think… I think he shared it with me because he trusted me. Let’s not take that from him.”

Sirius looked down at his plate, visibly shaken. Even Snape seemed quieter than usual, his fork unmoving in his hand.

And just outside the door, unlit cigarette forgotten between his fingers, John Constantine stood frozen.

He’d come back to grab his coat. He hadn’t meant to overhear. But as Hermione’s voice floated through the partially open door, he stayed.

It was the first time in a long time that anyone had told his story not with fear or disdain—but with kindness.

And he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

Chapter 76

The library at Grimmauld Place was quiet, save for the soft rustle of Severus turning a page and John leaning back in his chair, legs kicked up on the table like he owned the place. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit—for once.

Severus glanced over the edge of his book. “You’ve had that out for fifteen minutes.”

John blinked. “I like the smell of tobacco more than the taste, sometimes.”

Severus snorted. “You like theatrics.”

John grinned. “Guilty.”

The door creaked open.

They both turned to look, and Sirius Black stood there, hesitating in the doorway like a man unsure if he belonged in the room.

“What do you want, Black?” Severus asked with his usual snide edge, but even he sounded tired.

Sirius ignored the bait and stepped in. “Hermione told everyone. About your sister. And the kid.”

John’s easy posture shifted—legs dropping from the table, back straightening like someone bracing for a blow. “Did she, now.”

“She didn’t do it to embarrass you,” Sirius added quickly. “She just… she wanted people to understand.”

“I don’t give a damn what people understand,” John muttered. “They weren’t there.”

“No,” Sirius said softly. “But maybe if we had been, someone might’ve stopped it.”

Severus looked between them but said nothing.

Sirius crossed the room slowly, then sat across from John. “I used to think you were just some cynical bastard who liked stirring shit. But Hermione said you lost your family because of this war—because of us. The first one.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“I lost my brother to it,” Sirius continued. “Not in death. Worse. He chose their side. Chose them over me. Over what was right. But I still had a choice. I could fight back.”

He looked up. “You didn’t even get that.”

John let out a sharp breath. “You’re not wrong.”

Severus finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Cheryl Constantine and her daughter were collateral. That’s what the Death Eaters called them. I remember hearing about it. Most thought you’d killed the ones responsible.”

“I did,” John said simply. “It didn’t help.”

Silence settled in the room, thick but not uncomfortable. For once, there were no insults. No accusations.

Just understanding.

Sirius shifted again. “Look, I’m not saying I like you. But I don’t hate you anymore. You saved my life in the Department of Mysteries. You’ve been protecting the kids. And you clearly love Severus, which… honestly, I still don’t understand, but I respect it.”

John glanced at Severus, whose eyebrows had risen slightly. “You what?”

Sirius stood, brushing off his robes. “I said I respect it, not approve.”

John gave a short, dry laugh.

Sirius started for the door, then looked back. “You should light the damn cigarette. You look like a ghost without it.”

He left.

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Severus reached over and plucked the cigarette from John’s fingers, tossed it into the empty fireplace, then leaned in and kissed him, slow and deliberate.

When they parted, Severus murmured, “You’re not alone in this, John. Not anymore.”

John stared at him a moment longer, then rested his forehead against Severus’ shoulder. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“You’re surviving,” Severus said. “Like the rest of us.”

Chapter 77

The evening air at Grimmauld Place was unusually still—oppressive in its silence. Most of the Order had gathered in the drawing room, tense and waiting. Something was wrong. The mood had shifted since Dumbledore sent word he was coming.

John leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed, and Severus stood near the bookshelf, dark eyes unreadable. Sirius paced. Hermione sat curled into herself on one armchair while Harry and Ron flanked her like bookends.

When the door finally opened and Albus Dumbledore entered, the energy in the room changed.

He looked old—older than usual. His eyes, normally twinkling with something between mischief and mystery, were heavy tonight.

“We need to move,” Dumbledore said without preamble. “The Death Eaters have discovered the location of Grimmauld Place.”

Gasps echoed. Molly’s hand flew to her mouth. Arthur stood, his face grim. Remus swore under his breath.

“Is it the Secret-Keeper?” Sirius asked, fury rising. “Is it me?”

“No,” Dumbledore said firmly. “You haven’t said a word. It’s Kreacher.”

John muttered, “Should’ve exorcised the little bastard weeks ago.”

Sirius didn’t even argue.

Dumbledore continued. “We must evacuate tonight. I’ve been searching for a viable location, one that can be protected quickly, but time is short.”

“I have a place,” Severus said quietly.

Everyone turned.

“You do?” Molly blinked.

“I haven’t spoken of it because there was no reason to. But… I am the heir to the House of Prince.”

Stunned silence.

“You’re what?” Sirius demanded.

“The Prince family were purebloods,” Severus said coolly. “We were dwindling by the time I was born, and my mother married a Muggle, which didn’t endear her to the rest of the family. But I was still the only magical heir, and thus I inherited the estate.”

“You’ve had a manor this entire time and didn’t say anything?” Tonks asked, incredulous.

“I prefer to keep my past… compartmentalized,” Severus said smoothly.

“I knew,” Dumbledore added gently. “As did John.”

All eyes turned to Constantine, who shrugged. “Wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Severus raised a brow. “Thank you for not ruining my mystique.”

John smirked.

“The manor is well warded,” Severus went on. “Isolated. Protected by blood-magic wards and forgotten by nearly everyone still alive. We’ll be safe there.”

Dumbledore nodded. “It’s the best option we have.”

“Where is it?” Remus asked.

“Yorkshire. Deep in the moors,” Severus said.

“Well,” Molly said, standing and squaring her shoulders, “I suppose we’d better start packing.”

The room burst into motion.

But John stayed still, looking at Severus with something almost like admiration. “You could’ve kept that to yourself.”

“I was going to,” Severus said with a small sigh. “But I’m tired of secrets. And besides, the lot of them know now. Might as well let them in.”

John stepped closer. “You sure about this?”

Severus looked around the room—at the people who had, slowly and against all odds, become something like allies. Like family.

“I’m sure.”

And as the house around them descended into chaos, preparing to flee one sanctuary for another, John reached over, tangled their fingers together, and squeezed.

“Prince manor, huh?” he said. “Do I have to curtsy when we arrive?”

Severus smirked. “Only if you want to make Molly laugh.”

Chapter 78

Prince Manor was unlike Grimmauld Place in almost every way. Where Number Twelve was heavy with darkness and decay, the Yorkshire estate was eerily quiet and frozen in time. Cold grey stone wrapped around ivy-covered towers, and thick mist rolled off the moors in haunting waves. But the inside—though sparse—was clean, preserved. Ancient and proud.

The Order bustled in, voices bouncing against tall ceilings. Molly was already muttering about “making the kitchen livable,” and Sirius was poking around corners with Remus in tow. Hermione looked wide-eyed at the massive library just off the entrance hall, and John caught Harry tugging her inside with a quiet sort of relief.

John trailed behind the others until he felt Severus brush past him on the stairs.

“Come on,” Severus said, quiet and purposeful. “I’ll show you the rooms.”

They climbed the winding steps to the top floor, their footsteps echoing off the walls. Severus led him to the largest bedroom—a space lined with rich tapestries and accented with an enormous four-poster bed and carved wooden furniture that hadn’t seen use in years.

John raised a brow. “The royal suite, huh?”

Severus looked around, expression unreadable. “I grew up visiting here when my mother had nowhere else to go. My grandfather despised us. After her death, it became mine by law.”

He hesitated, then turned to face John fully. “You don’t have to keep pretending to sleep in guest rooms.”

John blinked. “What, no more late-night creeping past portraits and shifting beds every few days?”

Severus gave him a withering look, but it softened. “I’m tired, John. Tired of hiding. Tired of… this stupid dance we’ve been doing since you got back to Hogwarts.”

John’s grin faltered. There was something real behind Severus’s voice now. Something rare and vulnerable.

“You want me to stay?” John asked, quieter now.

Severus nodded. “I’d rather not go to sleep wondering if you’re three doors down or across the hall. And frankly, you always steal the good pillows anyway.”

John stepped closer, reaching out to touch the hem of Severus’s sleeve. “You realize this makes it real, right?”

“It already is.”

A silence settled between them, charged but warm. Outside, the rest of the Order was still unpacking, still trying to make sense of their new reality. But inside that room, behind that door, things finally felt… simple.

John threw his bag onto the floor, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed with a groan. “Alright, fine. But I’m not folding my clothes, and if you hog the blankets, we’re fighting.”

Severus climbed in beside him, lying back with a faint smirk. “You’re already here. That’s enough.”

John turned his head to look at him. “No more sneaking around?”

“No more doors between us,” Severus said softly.

And for once, John believed it.

Chapter 79

By the next morning, it was obvious.

There was no slam of a guest room door at dawn. No creaking floorboards announcing John sneaking back to his room before breakfast. No muttering under his breath about “damned drafty hallways” while rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Instead, John Constantine and Severus Snape walked into the Prince Manor dining room side by side.

No drama. No separate chairs. John even poured Severus tea without being asked.

Sirius blinked.

Molly arched an eyebrow as she handed plates down the table.

Tonks smirked and bumped Remus, who was trying very hard not to laugh.

“I knew it,” Fred whispered loudly across the table.

“No more bedroom shuffle,” George whispered back.

“You’re all so subtle,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

John sat down and casually reached for the toast. “What?”

“You know what,” Sirius said, arms crossed. “You’re… domestic now.”

Severus took a deliberate sip of tea and didn’t look up. “Is there a problem?”

“Only that it’s terrifying seeing you two act like functional adults,” Sirius said, half-grinning. “I’m not used to it. Can we go back to hating each other and passing notes like teenagers?”

John gave him a dry look. “You’re just mad I got to the good pillows first.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, I for one think it’s nice you’ve found… consistency. That’s important, especially with everything going on.”

Molly nodded in agreement. “It’s about time, too. Honestly, it was getting exhausting trying to pretend we didn’t hear the silencing charm fail—again.”

Severus set his cup down with a tiny clink. “That was one time.”

“Two,” Remus said helpfully.

“Three if you count the library,” Tonks added, chewing a piece of toast and grinning.

John looked entirely unbothered. “You lot need better hobbies.”

Fred leaned across the table. “So are you, like… boyfriends now?”

George wiggled his eyebrows. “Or is it still a terrifying, slow-burn, emotionally repressed entanglement of passion and sarcasm?”

“Do you want to be hexed?” Severus asked, deadly calm.

“Kind of,” George admitted.

But even as the table filled with laughter and relentless teasing, no one missed the look John and Severus shared—a glance that said more than either of them was ready to put into words.

No more sneaking around.

No more pretending.

No more doors between them.

Chapter 80

It had been three weeks since Dumbledore returned from his final mission—bloodied, burned, and triumphant.

The Horcruxes were gone.

Every last one.

The diary, the locket, the ring, the cup, the diadem, the snake… and Harry’s scar. Whatever soul fragment had tethered Voldemort to this world was gone, purged in ash and fire and magic so ancient it left even Dumbledore gasping.

Now, there was only one thing left to do.

Lure the bastard out. And kill him.

Hogwarts had always been more than a school—it was a fortress. It was also the one place Voldemort still wanted, still feared, and couldn’t resist once the protections fell.

They gathered in the war room at Prince Manor—Order members, professors, Aurors, allies. The air buzzed with magic and nerves. Maps and enchanted blueprints covered the tables. Dumbledore stood at the head of the room, commanding the attention of even the most jaded witches and warlocks.

“We return to Hogwarts tonight,” he said, voice quiet but powerful. “The Death Eaters will follow. Voldemort will come. He will believe it’s his victory—his final step toward domination. But it will be his undoing.”

Beside the map, John stood with arms crossed, cigarette long since forgotten between his fingers. Severus hovered just behind him, their shoulders nearly touching.

“How are we setting the trap?” Kingsley asked.

“John and Severus will disable the wards long enough to create the illusion of vulnerability,” Dumbledore said. “Voldemort will take the bait. The rest of us—students, staff, and fighters—will already be waiting.”

“And if he doesn’t fall for it?” Sirius asked, brow furrowed.

“He will,” Severus answered. “He’s arrogant. Predictable.”

John’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “And he’s scared. Not of dying—of being nothing. That’s what we’ll give him.”

The room murmured, but no one disagreed.

As the meeting broke and people moved to pack, say goodbyes, or check their gear, John lingered by the fireplace. He felt Severus approach before he saw him.

“You ready for this?” Severus asked quietly.

John gave a humorless laugh. “Not even a little.”

Severus didn’t smile either. “We might not make it back.”

“I know.”

There was silence, then a hand on his wrist—just firm enough to keep him grounded. John looked at him, eyes searching.

“If this is it,” Severus said, “I just—”

John kissed him. No snark. No teasing. Just warmth, fear, and love twisted together into something messy and real.

“I know,” John said when they broke apart. “Me too.”

Outside, the sun set over the hills. Inside, the war was about to begin.

The manor felt like it was holding its breath.

For the first time in months, there was no laughter in the kitchen. No teasing during meals. No bickering about silencing charms or breakfast habits. The air was thick with the silence of what-ifs and the knowledge that not all of them would make it back.

People moved quietly, almost reverently.

Molly packed food and potions into bags with trembling hands, hugging every child and adult who passed by. Arthur kissed her forehead every few minutes like he couldn’t stop himself, as though memorizing the shape of her in case he had to live without her.

Fred and George handed out enchanted products from their shop—some useful, some just funny.

“Just in case,” George said with a strained grin as he passed Harry a charmed nose-biting teacup.

“To make someone else’s life a little worse,” Fred added.

Harry smiled weakly, pocketing it. “Thanks.”

Ron and Hermione stood off to the side, speaking in low voices. He held her hand tightly, and she didn’t let go.

Remus handed out protective spells and shield runes. Tonks double-checked everyone’s gear, joking softly to keep people from unraveling.

Sirius, for once, wasn’t joking at all.

He sat with Harry for a long time, the fire crackling beside them. “No matter what happens,” Sirius said, voice rough, “you’ve made me proud.”

“I’m glad you came back,” Harry said softly.

Sirius smiled, sad and fierce. “I’m glad you did.”

John sat on the stairs, smoking silently. Watching. Feeling it all press in on him. He didn’t realize someone had approached until Hermione knelt in front of him.

“I wanted to say thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For being here. For saving Sirius. For staying. Even when it’s hard.”

John gave a ghost of a smile. “Didn’t have much choice, love. Dumbledore’s got me on a leash, remember?”

“You still could’ve run.”

He didn’t answer.

She stood, and before she left, she hugged him. It was brief. Awkward. But he didn’t pull away.

Severus approached after she was gone, something unreadable in his expression. “We should gather our things.”

John stood, but not before glancing back at the people filling the halls—his chaos-ridden, war-hardened, impossible little family.

“I hate this part,” he muttered.

“So do I,” Severus said. “But we still go.”

Chapter 81

The castle looked the same—but it wasn’t.

The train didn’t bring them this time. They apparated in groups, slipping through secret paths, underground tunnels, and ancient passages the founders had long forgotten. The air around Hogwarts crackled with old magic. It welcomed them like a slumbering giant sensing a storm.

John stood just outside the gates, fingers pressed to the stone as he whispered a string of runes into the wall. The castle shifted, as if turning its head to acknowledge him.

Severus moved beside him, wand flicking with precision, disabling the outermost protection ward—just long enough. Just enough to make it seem vulnerable.

“Time’s ticking,” John muttered, sweat beading on his brow as his magic burned through the blood seal.

“It’s done,” Severus said, jaw tight.

Together, they stepped back and let the illusion settle into place—an exposed weak point in Hogwarts’ defenses, a glowing thread of temptation Voldemort would not ignore.

From the Astronomy Tower, Dumbledore watched. “He’ll come.”

“We know,” John said grimly.

Inside the castle, chaos turned into purpose.

The Great Hall was cleared. Long tables vanished, replaced with supply stations and barricades. Protective charms were woven into the walls. Professors and Order members organized students into squads—defense groups, messengers, healers.

McGonagall commanded her Transfiguration students like a general.

Flitwick turned suits of armor into sentries.

Sprout and Neville flooded the corridors with venomous plants only allies could safely pass.

Moody patrolled the halls, grumbling about trap placement. “Put the explosive runes near the western corridor. Bastards always try the west.”

Sirius and Remus helped lead younger students into the Room of Requirement, which had transformed into a fully functioning medical bay.

And above it all, on the highest floors, John stood staring out a window with Severus beside him, watching the first shimmer of dark magic ripple across the sky.

“He’s coming,” John said.

Severus nodded. “Then we’re ready.”

They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t kiss. But they stood close enough that when the sky cracked with thunder and the shadows began to move, neither flinched.

Chapter 82

The first curse hit the wards like a hammer.

Magic howled through the air, shaking the stones of Hogwarts as the Death Eaters descended in black clouds. The sky churned red with fire spells and shrieked silver with protective enchantments flaring to life.

Ron pressed his back to the corridor wall just off the Great Hall, wand gripped tight, chest heaving.

“I just want to make it to seventeen,” he said, voice hoarse. “Is that so bloody much to ask?”

Hermione, crouched beside him, gave a shaky laugh. “You will. We all will. We’ll see adulthood—we have to.”

Ron looked at her, eyes flickering with fear and fierce loyalty. “You better be right.”

“I usually am,” she whispered.

And then the stone wall beside them exploded.

They rolled, wands raised, curses flying back before they could think. A Death Eater staggered into view—masked, tall, ruthless—and Hermione hit him with a hex that knocked him through a tapestry and into unconsciousness.

Across the castle, the chaos bloomed like a storm unleashed.

In the Entrance Hall, Sirius fought side by side with Remus, spells dancing from their wands in perfect rhythm. Nearby, Tonks rolled beneath a curse, flipped, and hit her attacker with a jinx that made him seize and fall.

Molly Weasley, red-faced and unstoppable, held the Grand Staircase with Arthur, stunning anyone who dared try to push through. “Not my children!” she roared as she dueled.

And somewhere in the firelit corridors, Severus and John moved like shadows.

John banished three masked wizards down the stairs with a flick of his hand, blood dripping from his temple. “You alright, Snape?”

“Nothing broken,” Severus snapped, catching his breath. “You?”

“Only my pride.”

A shriek rang out above—students shouting as a group of Death Eaters crashed through a window. John ran toward it, magic surging through his fingers.

And then, as if the world paused, he heard it—Voldemort’s voice, slithering through every corridor.

“Give me Harry Potter, and the rest of you may live.”

John froze. Severus did too. Across the castle, people stood still.

But then—

“No!” someone screamed—Neville, loud and defiant.

“You’ll never have him!” shouted Luna.

A student tossed a book from a window. Someone else threw a chair.

The castle roared back.

Chapter 83

John and Severus moved as one.

They always had, in the battle and beyond. Their magic was a synchronized dance of lethal precision, each spell cast to complement the other, each strike designed to disable and disarm with minimal collateral damage. As the Death Eaters flooded Hogwarts, they cleared their path with efficiency, slicing through enemies like blades through air.

“Left!” John shouted, sending a blast of fire toward a group of advancing Death Eaters. Severus didn’t hesitate, flicking his wand to freeze one in place before shattering his wand hand with a single curse.

They were a well-oiled machine, but the battle was a storm, and in a storm, no one could remain untouched.

Severus moved to intercept a tall figure cloaked in black, wand raised in a swift arc. A flash of light shot from the enemy’s wand—a flash too quick for Severus to block. The curse struck him square in the chest, a flare of violet light bursting outward.

“Dolohov’s curse,” John muttered under his breath, his heart sinking. The curse was merciless—deadly, if not treated immediately.

Without thinking, John reached for Severus, yanking him away from the crowd of battling figures. Severus staggered but didn’t fall, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight the overwhelming wave of pain crashing over him.

“I’m fine,” Severus hissed, but his breath came shallow, his color already paling. “Get moving, Constantine.”

John shot him a dark look, the edges of his vision blurring with fury. He didn’t need Severus’s pride right now. He needed him alive.

“Shut up,” John growled, spinning Severus’s body so he could channel his magic directly. He didn’t care if the world could hear it, if everyone could see. He wasn’t about to lose him—not here, not now.

With a surge of power, John’s hands glowed with a bright, emerald light, drawing upon old, forbidden healing magic—ancient runes he’d carved into his own body long ago. Severus’s eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as the healing process began.

John could feel the curse fighting against him, clinging like poison in Severus’s veins, but he pressed harder, focused all his energy on breaking it down. He murmured quiet incantations, carefully working to remove the dark curse that was eating away at Severus’s insides.

The battle raged around them, but in this moment, there was only Severus. His pulse was weak under John’s fingers, but it was steady now. The poison was receding, the curse weakening with each passing second.

When John finally pulled his hands away, Severus’s breath evened out, the color returning to his face.

“You’ll survive,” John said softly, but his voice was tight. “Next time, don’t try to play hero. I’ll save you, but not if you’re dead in the first place.”

Severus’s lips twisted in a grimace, but the sneer didn’t come. “I don’t need you to play nursemaid, Constantine.”

“I’ll nurse you all I want if it means you’re alive to argue with me tomorrow,” John shot back.

Severus gave him a curt nod, pushing himself up despite the lingering weakness in his legs. “We have a war to win.”

John didn’t argue. He helped Severus to his feet, and together they turned back to the fray, wands raised once more.

Chapter 84

The silence that fell over the battlefield was deafening.

The Death Eaters paused in their movements, eyes flickering to the dark figure standing in the center of the chaos. Voldemort’s cold, reptilian eyes followed every motion of Harry Potter, who—seemingly out of nowhere—had stepped into the clearing between the fighting forces.

Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. His breath was shallow as he locked eyes with Voldemort, but there was no hesitation. No fear. He was ready.

This was the moment. It had to be.

The Death Eaters murmured, their wands still raised, their eyes flicking between their master and Harry. They seemed confused, unsure of what was happening. Even the students, hidden in the distant parts of the castle, had paused—waiting, watching.

Harry stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. The world seemed to hold its breath.

“I surrender,” Harry said clearly, his voice carrying across the battlefield, cutting through the tension. “Take me.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a cruel, thin smile, his pale fingers twitching around his wand.

“You choose wisely, Potter,” he hissed. “You’ll die at my hands, but it is fitting. You’ve always been the greatest obstacle, and now, you’re nothing.”

Harry could feel the weight of the moment settle over him. He had prepared for this, planned for it. The truth about his connection to Voldemort—the shared blood, the link that had kept him alive so far—would be his weapon. He had known it would come to this.

He could hear the others, their shouts in his mind: Don’t do it! Get out of there! Severus’s voice, John’s, Ron’s—But Harry, it’s the only way.

He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t fail now.

In a sudden, sharp motion, Harry dropped to his knees, seemingly offering himself up to Voldemort. His heart pounded as Voldemort stepped closer, the triumphant sneer on his face widening.

The Dark Lord raised his wand.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted, the green light exploding from his wand, streaking toward Harry.

But Harry was ready.

He was prepared. The sacrifice—his sacrifice—was already made. Voldemort’s curse hit the air, but it never reached him.

Instead, the curse collided with the invisible barrier surrounding Harry. A barrier formed from the love of his parents, his friends, his mentors—everyone who had ever cared for him. The link between them, forged over the years of battle and pain, was more powerful than the curse itself. The curse splintered, dissipating into nothing.

Harry’s chest surged with warmth—the power of love, the only thing Voldemort had never understood. The connection between them, that piece of Voldemort’s own soul inside Harry, burned away. The dark magic cracked and fractured.

“No,” Voldemort gasped, his eyes widening in disbelief.

With a cry of fury, Harry thrust his wand forward, focusing everything into one final spell, his voice echoing through the empty space.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell slammed into Voldemort’s chest, knocking him backward. The force of it was so overwhelming that the Dark Lord’s wand flew from his hand, and in the same moment, his dark, snake-like body crumpled to the ground.

Voldemort’s body lay still.

The air was heavy. The silence deafening.

Harry stood, chest heaving, shaking from the effort. His wand remained raised, but the battle was over. The dark force that had plagued the wizarding world for so long was no more.

And then it started.

The collective shout, rising from every side—the sound of victory. The sound of hope.

Severus and John were at his side in an instant, their faces grim but full of pride. He caught a glimpse of Ron and Hermione in the distance, running toward him, their faces lit with disbelief and relief.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar face. A face he never thought he’d see again.

Sirius stood, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes gleaming with pride and something far deeper—something almost mournful.

“You did it, Harry,” he said softly, his voice full of awe.

Harry nodded, still panting, still shaking. But he could feel the weight of the world lifting. The war had ended, the nightmare had passed. They had won.

Chapter 85

The chaos of the battlefield was slowly fading into the distance, replaced by the sounds of cheers and the heavy footsteps of survivors who were picking themselves up, still unsure if they had truly won. But for John Constantine and Severus Snape, there was only the stillness of the moment, their bodies sore from the violence, but their hearts oddly calm as they found a quiet spot to sit just off to the side.

The aftermath of the battle had left a strange weight in the air. The war was over, but there was still so much to process. The world was shifting, rebuilding, and everything felt like it was both at an end and just beginning.

John wiped the dirt from his hands, his face grim but soft with relief. The fight had been long, and though victory had been theirs, the cost was always heavy. He glanced at Severus, whose expression, though less rigid than it usually was, still bore the weight of his own burdens. The man was a survivor—tired, battle-worn, but still standing.

“I thought we’d be dead by now, you know?” John said, his voice rough but with a trace of humor. His eyes flicked over to Severus, the corners of his mouth twitching. “The way everything went… It felt like one of those damn prophecies that was supposed to end in disaster.”

Severus let out a sharp laugh, the sound foreign but not unwelcome. “You have a talent for putting things into perspective, Constantine. Yes, I thought we might meet our end sooner, but it appears fate has other plans.”

John grinned, though there was a slight sadness in his eyes. “Fate. Funny thing, that.” He paused, looking away. “A lot of people didn’t make it.”

“Indeed,” Severus said softly, his gaze drifting to the horizon, where the castle of Hogwarts loomed in the distance. “But we did. That counts for something.”

John exhaled slowly, his fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. The weight of everything—of all the losses, the battles, the moments they had shared and those they’d almost lost—pressed down on him. But there was one thought that refused to leave his mind, and the time felt right to say it.

“I’ve been thinking…” He looked at Severus, his eyes meeting his lover’s, soft but serious. “We’ve been through hell and back, Severus. And we’ve come out the other side. I know we’ve talked about it before, but…” He hesitated. “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but also wary. “Time for what, Constantine?”

John took a breath, his expression serious now, a rare vulnerability shining through. “For us. For this. I don’t want to spend another day running from what we could have—what we should have. We’ve both lost so much, but…” He shrugged. “I think we deserve something good, something real. Something that lasts.”

Severus was silent for a moment, his gaze studying John with an intensity that made the air between them crackle. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady. “You’re suggesting… marriage?”

John’s lips quirked into a soft smile. “I’m not suggesting, Severus. I’m saying it. I’m saying I want to marry you.”

Severus’s expression softened, just slightly, but it was enough to make John’s heart race. “You truly are impossible, Constantine,” Severus muttered, shaking his head with a small smirk tugging at his lips. “But… I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.”

John’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with relief and affection. “Good. Because I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to marry. And I don’t think there’s anyone else who could handle me, let alone love me, the way you do.”

Severus shifted closer, the warmth of his body an anchor in the chaotic sea of emotions that still swirled inside John. “You’re lucky, Constantine,” he said quietly. “I’m a difficult man to love.”

“I don’t care about easy,” John replied, his voice firm but tender. “I care about you. And if that means the rest of my life spent by your side, then I’m in.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them continued to settle, people beginning to regroup, the sounds of victory mingling with the quiet of their shared understanding. Severus let out a soft breath, his features softening further.

“I suppose we’ll need to tell the others,” Severus said, his voice laced with a touch of amusement.

John’s smirk returned, though it was less playful and more affectionate. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say. Especially with how much they love to gossip. Molly will have a field day.”

Severus looked at him, a rare warmth flickering in his eyes. “Molly will be insufferable. She’s already spent far too much time plotting what kind of wedding we should have.”

John chuckled, but there was a deeper warmth in the sound now. “Let’s just say I’ll leave the planning to her. As long as I get to marry you, the rest is just details.”

Severus nodded, the edge of his lips curling into the faintest smile. “Then I suppose we should make it official.” His voice softened, his tone holding a quiet, sincere note. “You’ve made a decision I never thought I’d hear. And I’m glad you did.”

John looked at Severus for a long moment, feeling the weight of everything they’d been through and everything that still lay ahead. “Me too. And I’m damn lucky I have you, Severus.”

Severus’s expression softened even further, and for the first time in what felt like ages, there was no war in his heart. No regrets. Just the two of them, together.

“Well then,” Severus murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s make sure the rest of this world survives long enough for us to enjoy the quiet. After all, I do believe we’ve earned it.”

John smiled, his hand brushing against Severus’s. “We have. And I’m not going anywhere.”

As they sat there together, the war behind them and their future waiting, it was the first time in a long while that John truly felt at peace.

Chapter 86

The Great Hall had turned into a triage station of sorts—injured students and fighters being tended to, families reuniting, Order members taking stock of the damage. But just outside the side doors, where the torchlight spilled onto the cool stone steps, Hermione Granger sat curled in on herself, silent tears tracing down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

She thought no one would notice. Everyone was too busy, too relieved, too preoccupied with the war being over.

But John Constantine noticed.

He paused mid-step, having just been walking back up from checking on a few students with Severus at his side. His hand instinctively went out, catching Severus’s wrist.

“There,” he said softly, nodding toward the edge of the steps.

Severus followed his gaze and stilled. Hermione, brilliant, fierce, loyal Hermione, looked impossibly small in that moment—like a girl who had fought a war, won, and realized too late what she’d lost.

Without a word, the two men crossed over. John crouched first.

“Hermione,” he said gently.

She sniffled and looked up, hastily wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her ruined jumper. “Oh—Professor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to see…”

“You don’t have to apologize for grieving,” John said, his voice low, kind in a way few ever heard from him.

Severus settled beside them, his usual stoicism softened by the raw emotion in her eyes. “You’re not alone, Miss Granger.”

She looked between them, a sudden wave of emotion crashing over her again. “I just… I don’t know what happens now. I don’t have anywhere to go. My parents—they’re gone. My house is gone. The war’s over, and everyone’s talking about what comes next, but I don’t have a next.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

John glanced at Severus, and without even needing to speak, the man gave him the faintest of nods.

“You do now,” John said, firm but kind. “Hermione… you’ve got a home. With us.”

Her breath caught. “Wh–what?”

Severus leaned in, his voice even and calm. “You are one of the bravest people I’ve ever had the honor of teaching. And more than that, you are a good person. If you’ll have us… we’d like to offer you a home.”

Hermione stared at them, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. “You… you mean live with you?”

John gave her a small smile. “More than that, sweetheart. We’d like to adopt you. Make it official. You’d have a place. A family. Us.”

She blinked rapidly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’d want me as your daughter?”

Severus’s hand reached out, gentle on her shoulder. “We already care for you. That wouldn’t change. But if having the name and the security means something to you—then yes, we’d be proud to call you ours.”

Hermione broke down then, sobbing openly as she threw herself into John’s arms. He caught her easily, holding her tightly, while Severus gently placed a hand on her back, grounding her with quiet strength.

After a few minutes, she pulled back enough to look at them, tears still streaking her face but a hopeful, fragile smile there now.

“I’d like that,” she whispered. “I’d really, really like that.”

John kissed the top of her head. “Then it’s settled. You’ve got a home. And no one’s ever taking it from you again.”

Severus, ever precise, added quietly, “You will never be without family again, Hermione. We promise.”

And there, in the wreckage of a castle that had been their battleground, the first piece of something whole was built again. A family—not forged by blood, but by choice, by love, and by the promise that even in the ashes of war, new beginnings could take root.

Chapter 87

Grimmauld Place buzzed with post-war energy. Though the house still bore the weight of its long and dark history, laughter and life echoed through the halls in a way it never had before. Members of the Order were gathered in the dining room, tired but alive, all of them clinging to the rare moment of peace.

John Constantine leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, cigarette burning low between his fingers—Molly had already tried to confiscate it twice, but he’d pulled the “I died once” card and she gave up. Severus stood behind him, arms crossed, his black eyes observing the room like a sentry.

Hermione was at the far end, sitting with Ginny and Luna, bright-eyed despite the grief still clinging to her like fog.

Dumbledore’s soft murmur died down after sharing final status updates, and a silence settled over the room. John took that as his cue.

“Right,” he said, standing and clearing his throat. “We’ve got a few things to say.”

Severus looked momentarily pained, as if he preferred being hexed to this kind of public display, but he gave the slightest nod and moved to stand beside John.

Hermione looked up, curious.

John’s tone was casual, but firm. “First off, we’ve decided to adopt Hermione.”

Every head turned toward them. Hermione blinked, stunned, her mouth slowly falling open.

“You—what?” she whispered.

Severus’s expression softened just enough for her to see it. “We meant what we said. You’ll never be alone again.”

John turned to her fully, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “We wanted to tell you properly, with everyone here. You’ve lost enough, love. But you’ve gained two stubborn blokes who happen to care a bloody lot.”

Hermione’s eyes welled with tears again—but happy ones this time.

Molly clasped her hands over her heart, smiling so wide it nearly hurt. Arthur gave her a warm, approving nod. Remus grinned, and even Sirius, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, gave John a mock salute.

And then—

“And we’re getting married.”

The room froze.

Hermione whipped around. “You’re what?”

John blinked. “Oh—did I not mention that part?”

“You most certainly did not!” she squeaked, staring at them both.

Severus cleared his throat. “I told him we should have led with that.”

John shrugged. “Well, it’s not like we’ve been subtle.”

Fred and George let out synchronized, overly dramatic gasps.

“You’re marrying Snape?” George gasped, nudging Hermione with wide eyes.

“You’re marrying Constantine?!” Fred echoed, louder, pointing at Severus.

Hermione put her head in her hands. “This family is going to be completely insane.”

Tonks beamed. “You’ll fit right in.”

Kingsley raised his glass. “To Hermione Constantine–Snape—or Snape-Constantine?”

“Whichever’s alphabetically superior,” Sirius muttered, but he was smiling.

Hermione laughed, wiping her eyes. “You two are mad.”

“Yes,” Severus said, deadpan. “We are.”

“But we’re your kind of mad,” John added, and reached out to ruffle her hair with far too much affection for someone who claimed to hate sentimentality.

“Disgusting,” Ron said loudly. “Absolutely disgusting.”

“Cheers to that,” Harry added, grinning at Hermione.

And just like that, amid the chaos, teasing, and soft declarations, the war-weary Order celebrated something it hadn’t had in a long, long time:

Family.

Chapter 88

The evening crowd had dispersed at Grimmauld Place, laughter lingering like the scent of Molly’s roast chicken. Hermione sat in the library curled up in a large armchair, a thick book in her lap, though she’d barely turned a page in the last twenty minutes.

John hovered nearby, pretending to reorganize a shelf but mostly just keeping an eye on her.

“You alright, love?” he asked finally, thumbing a dusty spine.

Hermione looked up. “Yeah. It’s just… weird. A good weird. I didn’t expect it.”

John left the shelf and dropped onto the sofa beside her with a groan. “That makes two of us. Snape nearly hexed me when I suggested the whole… adoption thing. Said it was ‘overly sentimental.’ Then I told him it was too late because I already ordered matching enchanted mugs.”

She snorted. “You didn’t.”

He gave her a sly grin. “One says ’Grumpy Dad’ and the other says ’Sarcastic Dad.’”

Hermione laughed, properly this time, and the sound made something settle in John’s chest. A good ache.

“It’s not going to be perfect,” he said, tone quieter now. “You’re not always gonna like how we handle things. But we’ll show up. Always.”

Her smile was small but real. “That’s already more than I had.”

He reached out, brushed a bit of hair behind her ear. “You’re ours now, Hermione Granger. Whether you like it or not.”

She leaned over and hugged him tightly, catching him off guard—but his arms wrapped around her easily, the gesture clumsy but sincere.

They stayed like that for a moment too long before—

BANG.

“JOHN CONSTANTINE, SEVERUS SNAPE—FRONT ROOM, IMMEDIATELY!” Molly Weasley’s voice bellowed from downstairs like the call of a war horn.

John groaned into Hermione’s shoulder. “Bloody hell. I knew it.”

“She’s here to plan the wedding,” Hermione said, voice muffled against his chest, already giggling.

“I’ll fight Voldemort again instead,” he muttered.

⸻

Molly Weasley had taken over the front room. There were fabric samples pinned to floating boards, enchanted flowers weaving through color palettes, and a rather detailed list that appeared to be self-writing.

John stared at it in horror.

“Molly,” he said slowly, “we’re not doing a big production. Just a simple—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted cheerfully. “You’re marrying Severus Snape. That man has worn nothing but black for thirty years. He needs a tasteful boutonniere and perhaps some deep burgundy robes to bring out his cheekbones.”

“I’m never telling him you said that,” John muttered.

Molly handed him a parchment and a quill. “Now, guest list.”

“I don’t have a guest list.”

“Well, make one, dear.”

Severus appeared at the doorway then, a look of mild betrayal on his face. “You said she wasn’t allowed to take over.”

John pointed at her. “She ambushed me!”

“She summoned us like a demon,” Severus said, walking into the room with his arms folded.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Molly chirped, flicking her wand to send floral samples swirling toward him. “Wait until the tasting.”

Hermione appeared at the door with a knowing smile. “You two are in trouble.”

“We adopted you,” Severus said, “and you repay us with mockery.”

She grinned. “Welcome to parenthood.”

Chapter 89

The sitting room looked like a war planning tent, albeit one covered in lace samples and cake sketches. Molly Weasley, with her wand tucked behind her ear and a quill flying across parchment, glanced up at John and Severus with a bright smile that promised absolutely no mercy.

“Now then,” she said, clapping her hands, “aside from the Order, family, and… well, the obvious guests, is there anyone either of you would like to invite? Friends? Mentors? Surviving exes you’d like to dramatically ignore at the reception?”

John raised an eyebrow. “What sort of weddings do you go to?”

“The right kind,” she replied, not missing a beat.

John rubbed the back of his neck and exchanged a glance with Severus, who gave a small shrug as if to say this is your circus. He sighed. “Yeah. There’s a few people I’d like to invite, actually.”

Molly perked up. “Lovely! Names?”

“Chas Chandler. He’s…” John paused, lips twitching. “My best mate. Don’t be surprised if he shows up looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. That’s normal.”

Molly nodded, scribbling it down. “Chas Chandler. Got it.”

“And Sara Lance,” John added. “She’s… a bit stabby, but she means well.”

Hermione choked on her tea. “Stabby?”

“She’s reformed,” John said with a grin. “Mostly. Anyway, she’s married now. To Ava Sharpe. They’re both brilliant. Bit intense. But brilliant.”

Molly blinked, quill hovering. “Do either of them work with magical creatures or curses or—?”

“Time travel,” John said. “Long story. You probably don’t want to know.”

Severus let out a low sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. You’re inviting time-traveling assassins to the wedding.”

“They RSVP on time,” John said brightly. “That’s more than I can say for most of your colleagues.”

Hermione giggled. Molly, after a stunned pause, chuckled as well and waved her wand, adding the names with a flourish.

“Alright then,” she said. “Chas, Sara, and Ava. I’ll prep three extra seats at the head table. And make sure there’s a firewhisky bottle labeled ‘for emergencies only.’”

Severus deadpanned, “Make it three.”

Chapter 90

The knock echoed through the grand foyer of Prince Manor, sharp and confident—someone who didn’t just expect to be let in, but expected attention.

John, who’d been lounging on the worn velvet settee in the drawing room with Severus reading beside him (and pretending not to lean against John’s shoulder), glanced toward the door and narrowed his eyes. “You expecting anyone?”

Severus didn’t look up from his book. “Besides the occasional hexed howler from the Ministry? No.”

John stood and opened the heavy door—only to be immediately met with a blur of blonde hair and black leather.

“What the hell?!” Sara Lance’s voice cut through the quiet manor like a knife. “Since when are you in a relationship?!”

Behind her, Ava Sharpe stood perfectly composed in her crisp white button-down, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in disapproval, but clearly holding back amusement.

John blinked. “Good to see you too, Sara.”

“You’re smiling, John. Like actual smiling. Not your usual smug I’m-about-to-get-us-killed smirk,” Sara said, poking his chest. “What the hell is happening?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but Ava cut in smoothly. “Let me guess. That’s the Severus Snape?”

Severus had appeared behind John silently, arms folded, eyebrow arching just so. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Sara’s eyes darted between them, then she grinned slowly. “Oh my God, it’s real. You’re really—you’re dating Snape. I thought the wedding invite was a prank. Or a cry for help.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “I can assure you, I am neither a prank nor in need of rescuing.”

“You sure?” Sara said, elbowing John. “Because he’s got the whole broody ‘I’ll hex you and brood about it later’ vibe going.”

“I like the broody ones,” John said with a smirk. “And he’s devastating in a duel, sharp-tongued, and somehow tolerates me.”

“Must be love,” Ava said dryly. “We brought a bottle of aged firewhisky and a very nice set of enchanted steak knives. You know. For a normal wizard wedding.”

“And because she still doesn’t trust you not to summon a demon for the vows,” Sara added.

“Only if the vows get boring,” John muttered.

Severus glanced toward the parlor. “Will you two be staying long?”

Sara beamed. “We brought our best cloaks and our worst judgment. So yes.”

Behind them, a few Order members poked around the corner—Molly, Sirius, Tonks, and even Kingsley—all eyeing the newcomers with a mixture of suspicion and awe.

Tonks whispered, “Are those the time-traveling lesbians?”

Molly shushed her, but Sara grinned, clearly hearing it. “Damn right.”

The parlor was buzzing with murmurs as Sara and Ava stepped fully into Prince Manor, their boots echoing on the polished floor.

Fred and George were already elbowing their way past Remus and Arthur, eyes gleaming.

“Blimey,” Fred whispered, nudging George, “look at her—leather, daggers, dangerous glint in the eye.”

“She’s like Tonks if Tonks did crime,” George replied in awe.

Tonks looked vaguely offended. “I do crime.”

“Not hot assassin crime,” Fred said. “No offense.”

Sara turned, catching the twin commentary with a grin. “You two are trouble, aren’t you?”

“We try,” they said in unison.

“I like you already.” She tossed one of her throwing knives between her fingers and added, “You know how to make Molotovs?”

“Do we know—” Fred and George exchanged a gleeful look like it was Christmas morning.

Across the room, Ava found herself cornered by Hermione, who was looking at her with wide, curious eyes.

“You’re Ava Sharpe,” she said, breathless. “You work in time regulation? I’ve read about temporal enforcement theories—you’re with the Time Bureau, right?”

Ava blinked, pleasantly surprised. “That’s… correct. Not many people outside our circles know that.”

“I read everything,” Hermione said. “And I have so many questions.”

Ava chuckled and nodded toward the armchair. “Alright. Hit me.”

From the side, John muttered to Severus, “I think they’ve adopted each other.”

Severus glanced at the small crowd forming around Ava and Hermione. “At least they’ll keep each other intellectually stimulated. We can only hope Sara doesn’t teach the twins explosives.”

Too late—Sara and the twins were already drawing up something suspicious-looking on a bit of parchment, with Tonks leaning over their shoulders and offering commentary.

Sirius approached John, arms crossed but a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. “So, you do have friends. And they’re not all demons or criminal informants.”

“Only on weekdays,” John replied.

“And the blonde one,” Sirius nodded toward Ava, “looks like she could get you arrested just by filling out a form.”

“She could,” John said proudly. “And has. Twice.”

Chapter 91

The front doors of Prince Manor creaked open again—without anyone knocking this time.

John frowned from where he stood in the hallway, halfway through a conversation with Kingsley about protective wards. “Who the hell—?”

“John!”

A small blur launched itself across the entrance hall and right into John’s chest. He barely had time to brace himself before he was being hugged fiercely by a girl with long, dark curls and a determined little scowl that looked eerily familiar.

“Trish?” John blinked, arms wrapping instinctively around her. “What the—how did you get here?”

Behind her, Chas Chandler walked in, looking only slightly frazzled and juggling a small overnight bag and a well-loved stuffed animal. “She told me she needed to see you. She somehow blackmailed the neighbor into driving us to the floo. I didn’t even know she had floo powder.”

Trish looked up at John with big, shining eyes. “You said you’d visit, but you didn’t, so I came here.”

John crouched slightly, hands on her shoulders. “I’ve been a little busy, love. Dark Lords. World-ending doom. Y’know.”

“I drew you this,” she said, pulling out a wrinkled parchment with a slightly wobbly but clearly magical creature battling a stick-figure wizard in a trench coat.

Severus, who had silently appeared behind John, looked over the drawing with an arched brow. “Is that meant to be you?”

John gave him a look. “Don’t ruin it.”

Trish, however, looked up at Severus with unflinching confidence. “Are you the grumpy bat who stole my godfather?”

Fred, George, and Sara howled from the sitting room.

Severus blinked. “I suppose I am.”

Trish nodded once, satisfied. “You don’t look like you do hugs. That’s okay. You make him smile, so I guess you can stay.”

Chas stepped forward then, offering John a tired smile. “She’s been asking about you constantly. I figured… with things finally settling, maybe she could stay for a bit?”

John looked to Severus, who simply nodded once.

“She can stay,” Severus said quietly. “This house is large enough.”

Trish looked between them, then up at Hermione, who had joined the growing group near the foyer. “Are you a witch?”

Hermione smiled gently. “Yes. I’m Hermione.”

“I’m Trish,” she said. “I’m his goddaughter. That means I’m important.”

John ruffled her hair, clearly trying not to tear up. “Damn right, you are.”

Sara, from behind Fred and George, elbowed Ava. “Told you he had a heart.”

Ava murmured, “Still surprised it’s beating.”

The long table in the main dining hall was groaning under the weight of a classic Molly Weasley feast: roast chicken, potatoes three ways, buttered carrots, fresh bread, and enough treacle tart to put the entire Order into a sugar coma. Somehow, every seat was filled—even the spares conjured last minute to accommodate the growing crowd of misfits, heroes, and half-reformed rogues.

Trish was planted firmly between Hermione and John, chattering animatedly about everything from magical creatures to how she thought dragons were “probably just big misunderstood puppies.”

Hermione was enthralled. “You’ve read Fantastic Beasts?”

“Three times!” Trish beamed. “And I drew my own monster. He has seven eyes and eats people who don’t do their homework.”

Fred leaned over from across the table. “Terrifying. Have you considered a career in artistic hexing?”

“She’s ten,” John muttered, though he looked proud.

“I’m ten and a half,” Trish corrected pointedly.

On John’s other side, Molly Weasley was fussing as if Trish had always been part of her brood. “You need anything, sweetheart? More rolls? Some pumpkin juice?”

“I’m good, thanks!” Trish said, already halfway through her second helping of pudding. “This is so much better than the sandwiches dad makes.”

Chas, farther down the table, looked only slightly offended. “Hey!”

“I know how to make sandwiches,” Trish added primly, sipping her juice.

Ava leaned toward Hermione with a grin. “She’s incredible.”

“She’s going to rule the world by sixteen,” Hermione whispered back.

At the far end, Severus was unusually quiet, observing it all with a strange expression on his face. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was definitely… fond.

John nudged him with his knee under the table.

“What?” Severus muttered.

“You look like you’re realizing you’ve accidentally become a domestic wizard with a kid, a fiancé, and dinner plans.”

“Shut up, Constantine.”

“You love it.”

Severus didn’t answer, but the twitch of his lips gave him away.

Sirius raised a glass. “To new family,” he announced. “And to surviving just long enough to start feeling like one.”

Everyone clinked glasses and murmured their agreement.

And as the fire crackled in the hearth and laughter echoed off the stone walls, Trish turned to John, tugged his sleeve, and whispered, “You’re not leaving again, right?”

John swallowed hard, then shook his head.

“Not a chance, love.”

Chapter 92

After dinner, once the kids were ushered off with promises of dessert later and Hermione took Trish to show her the library, the adults settled into the drawing room, drinks in hand, a low fire burning in the hearth. The air was thick with exhaustion and relief, with the lingering shadow of war still clinging at the corners of peace.

John sat back in an armchair, a glass of Firewhisky in hand, while Chas stood near the mantle, arms crossed but relaxed. The two exchanged a look—one that said they’d both survived too much to dance around things.

“So,” Chas said, breaking the silence. “How long have you been a real professor and not just pretending to be one?”

That earned a laugh from Kingsley. “I asked the same thing. Still haven’t gotten a straight answer.”

“Technically,” John drawled, “since Dumbledore roped me in with blackmail and some creative guilt-tripping. But I’ve been teaching for a while now. Ancient Runes. And saving the world on the side.”

“Obviously,” Chas said dryly. “Wouldn’t be you if it were simple.”

Arthur sipped his drink, curiosity piqued. “And how exactly do you two know each other again? You said Chas was your goddaughter’s father?”

John nodded. “Chas is one of the only people I’ve trusted longer than I’ve hated the world.”

Chas rolled his eyes, but there was warmth behind it. “We’ve been through hell. Literal hell. Lost people. Fought things most of you wouldn’t believe. But I stuck with him. He saved Trish.”

Molly smiled softly at that. “She’s a lovely girl. You’ve both done well.”

“I tried my best,” Chas said with a shrug. “But she worships John.”

“She’s got good taste,” Ava said from where she was curled up with Sara. “I mean, if you look past the trauma, sarcasm, and bad life choices.”

“Oi,” John said, raising a brow. “I’ve significantly reduced my bad decisions.”

“You’re engaged to Snape,” Sirius deadpanned.

“And yet,” Severus said smoothly, “that is arguably the best decision John’s ever made.”

That earned some startled chuckles.

Dumbledore—quiet in the corner with a cup of tea—finally spoke. “The bonds formed in war often endure, but the ones forged in peace… they are the ones we must fight to keep. I’m glad you brought your friends here, John. We all need reminders of the lives we’re fighting to rebuild.”

John looked at Chas, then at Severus, and finally back to the gathered group.

“For the first time in a long time,” he said quietly, “I’m not planning my escape.”

And for once, no one had anything to add—because the truth didn’t need commentary.

Chapter 93

Later, as the others dispersed—Kingsley and Remus deep in conversation, Molly and Arthur chatting with Minerva—John stepped out onto the back terrace with Chas, Sara, and Ava. The night air was cool and quiet, stars scattered across the sky.

Chas leaned on the stone railing beside him. “So, you’re getting married, playing house, and living in a magic castle. That about sum it up?”

John gave him a look. “Prince Manor isn’t a castle. It’s just aggressively haunted.”

Sara snorted. “Still. I’m used to seeing you covered in blood, smelling like smoke, not walking around like someone’s half-domesticated cat.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Things change.”

Ava tilted her head. “What about the girl? Hermione?”

John let out a breath, resting his elbows on the railing. “She lost her parents near the end of the war. Death Eaters. She was barely holding it together, but she didn’t break. Reminded me of… Natalie. Smart, strong, always thinking three steps ahead. And Harry and Ron—she’s always protecting them. Even when she’s the one hurting.”

He paused. “She came to me crying after the last fight. Said she had nowhere to go. And Severus and I—we just looked at each other. We knew.”

“You adopted her,” Chas said quietly.

John nodded. “Yeah. We’re all she’s got. And truth is… she’s exactly what we needed too.”

Sara blinked, her usual sharp grin replaced with something soft. “You’re a dad now, John?”

He smirked faintly. “God help her, yeah. I’m trying.”

Ava smiled. “I think you’re doing better than you think.”

Chas nudged him with an elbow. “You’ve always had a habit of picking up strays. Just glad this one stuck.”

There was a pause, quiet but full.

“You’ll like her,” John added, glancing between the three of them. “She’s smarter than all of us, has zero patience for bullshit, and she’s already got Severus wrapped around her finger.”

Sara grinned. “Then she’s definitely a Constantine now.”

Chapter 94

The air was still and peaceful, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the past months. Chas, Sara, and Ava stood with John outside, letting the weight of everything settle. The soft murmur of their voices drifted over the yard, reaching the open window of the drawing room.

Hermione, having just finished her quiet walk through the halls of Prince Manor, was coming back from a moment of reflection in the garden when she overheard John’s voice, rising slightly over the rest.

“You’ll like her,” John said, his tone low. “She’s smarter than all of us, has zero patience for bullshit, and she’s already got Severus wrapped around her finger.”

Hermione froze for a moment in the doorway, not wanting to intrude but unable to stop herself from listening.

“Then she’s definitely a Constantine now,” Sara’s voice followed, teasing but warm.

Hermione’s heart swelled. It was strange to feel her name like that, so casually mentioned, like she was truly a part of this world now. It was strange to feel… loved.

She didn’t know why it made her throat tighten, but it did. The conversation continued, but by then, Hermione wasn’t able to hold herself back. She stepped out into the night, her footsteps barely a whisper on the stone floors, and then, without a second thought, she flung herself toward John.

“John!” she called, her voice full of emotion. “You—you really mean it? About… about me being your daughter?”

John turned, his expression softening when he saw her, and in one swift movement, he wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close.

“Of course, Hermione,” he murmured, his voice gruff, as though the weight of his own feelings caught him off guard. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. And you… you’re my daughter now. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

She buried her face in his chest, feeling the warmth of his embrace wrap around her like a safety blanket. It felt right. So right. Like the broken pieces of her heart had found a place to heal.

The sound of light footsteps interrupted the moment, and Hermione pulled back just enough to see Chas, Sara, and Ava standing a few feet away, watching the scene with soft smiles on their faces.

“You’ve done good, John,” Chas said quietly, his voice gruff with emotion. “She’s a lucky kid.”

John looked down at Hermione, and she saw the warmth in his eyes. “No, Chas. We’re the lucky ones.”

Hermione smiled, wiping her tears. “Thank you, John. I… I didn’t know if I’d ever have a family again. But you—you’ve given me something I never thought I’d have.”

The three adults exchanged glances and nodded in agreement, not saying anything more. They didn’t need to. The bond between John and Hermione was clear, stronger than anything words could express.

“You’re stuck with me now,” Hermione added with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

“Don’t I know it?” John chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately. “You and me both, kid. You and me both.”

Chapter 95

The manor was alive with the bustling preparations for the upcoming wedding. The air hummed with a nervous, excited energy as Molly Weasley directed everyone in setting things up. The long table for the reception had been set up in the great hall, with flowers already beginning to fill the air with sweet fragrances. Several of the other members of the Order were helping, offering their magical assistance wherever needed. It was clear that this wasn’t just any wedding—it was a coming together of two families, two histories, and two very different people who had been shaped by the world they lived in.

John stood with Severus by the large fireplace in the drawing room, watching Molly bustle around with a notebook, crossing off items from a long list. Severus had a slight frown on his face, the weight of the wedding still apparent on his brow, though he wasn’t outwardly annoyed. He’d quietly expressed his reservations over the event but had long since resigned to it. It was happening whether they wanted it to or not.

Molly looked up from her list, beaming as she caught sight of the two men. “Right, we’re almost done! Just a few last-minute details to go over before we can call it a night. Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll make sure to have the food and the drink sorted. I’ve got the best caterers from Diagon Alley.”

“That’s good to hear,” John said, his voice more teasing than anything. “I’m not sure what’s worse—the wedding itself or being in the same room as Fred and George when they start with their pranks.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Both, I imagine.”

A few quiet, joyful voices echoed down the hall, and soon enough, Tonks and Remus walked into the room, Remus holding a small bundle in his arms. The sight of baby Teddy brought an unexpected warmth to John’s chest. He smiled as Tonks beamed, her hair flashing between shades of purple and pink, while Remus looked as calm and collected as ever.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” John teased, walking over to them.

“We wouldn’t miss it, would we, Tonks?” Remus said with a grin, gently rocking Teddy in his arms.

“No way,” Tonks agreed, leaning in to give John a hug. “Besides, Teddy’s finally old enough to make an appearance. We’ve got to get him used to all the chaos.”

John smiled warmly. “Teddy’s got the right idea, I think.”

As he leaned down to get a better look at the little boy, Teddy’s bright blue eyes caught his, and the baby reached out a tiny hand. “Hey there, little one,” John whispered, gently cupping Teddy’s hand with his finger.

“Should’ve brought him in earlier,” Tonks said with a wink. “He’s the life of the party, you know.”

Remus chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on the baby with obvious affection. “We figured now was a good time. He’s already been practicing his giggling, and we thought you could use a little cheering up before the big day.”

John glanced at Severus, who was watching the interaction with a soft smile. It was rare for Severus to show such warmth, especially when it came to babies. But when he did, it was a reminder of just how much had changed between them.

The room filled with a comfortable silence as the baby’s quiet gurgles broke it. John turned to Severus with a soft smile of his own. “You know, for someone who likes to pretend he’s not a family man… You sure do have a soft spot for this little guy.”

Severus sighed, not at all offended but clearly trying to resist the tug in his chest. “This doesn’t mean I’m suddenly interested in being surrounded by children, Constantine.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” John replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Something tells me you’ll make a decent father figure. It’s in your blood.”

Severus snorted. “I’m far too old for that, thank you very much.”

Molly, overhearing their exchange, let out a loud laugh. “Oh, Severus, we all have our moments. You may not admit it now, but you’ll get used to it. After all, you’re going to be married soon. You’ll have plenty of time to practice.”

The mention of their upcoming marriage made John glance at Severus with a look of amusement. “Yeah, well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with meaning.

Tonks, noticing the shift in the room, grinned widely. “Oh, I think you two are going to make a wonderful family. Besides, I can’t wait for the wedding. You two deserve to finally have a day just for you.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “You’ve both been through hell. You’ve earned this.”

John’s smile softened, feeling an immense warmth in his chest at their words. There was a moment of peace here, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged. He glanced down at Teddy again, who had now fallen asleep in Remus’ arms.

“You know,” John said, breaking the silence. “We’re not just making a family today. We’re making sure no one’s alone. That’s what this is all about.”

Severus gave him a small, approving nod, though his usual stoic expression didn’t shift. “Yes, well. Let’s not turn this into a sentimental affair, Constantine.”

John laughed, reaching out to give Severus’ shoulder a quick squeeze. “Too late for that.”

Tonks and Remus shared an amused look as Molly started making her way over to them again. “Alright, let’s wrap this up. We’ve got a wedding to finish planning!”

John leaned back, his eyes lingering on Severus, then back to the people gathered around him—his chosen family. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was home.

Chapter 96

It was well past midnight when the manor had finally gone still. The laughter had faded, the candles had burned low, and most of the guests had either gone home or found spare rooms. The only sounds that remained were the crackle of the fireplace in the study and the occasional hoot of an owl outside the window.

John and Severus were curled up together on the loveseat in the study, a half-empty glass of firewhisky resting on the small table nearby. Severus had his legs stretched across John’s lap, a rare sight that would have once been unimaginable for either of them. But comfort, peace—it had slowly made a home here, between them.

John was absently running his fingers along the curve of Severus’ knee, staring into the fire, his brow faintly furrowed.

“You’re thinking,” Severus murmured, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Always am,” John said. “This time, though, it’s not about ancient demons or magical politics. It’s about… something else.”

Severus cracked one eye open and turned his head toward him. “Go on.”

John hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ve been thinking about Teddy. And… Hermione.”

“Yes?” Severus prompted cautiously.

“And how we took Hermione in. Not out of obligation, but because we wanted her. Because she needed a home and we had one to give.”

Severus watched him, silent but alert now.

John swallowed. “What if—later on—we adopted again? Not a grown teen like Hermione this time. I mean… a baby. Or a toddler. Someone from the magical world. There’s gotta be war orphans out there. Kids with no place to go.”

He was expecting Severus to scoff or stiffen, but instead there was only thoughtful quiet. Then Severus slowly sat up and reached for his own drink, sipping once before setting it down.

“You’d be willing to start from the very beginning?” he asked. “Diapers. Potty training. Sleepless nights.”

John let out a low laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve handled a literal mess.”

Severus actually smirked. “You’d make a ridiculous father.”

John nudged him. “Oi. Don’t make me take that as an insult.”

“It wasn’t,” Severus said softly, more serious now. “You’d be… good. Infuriating, but good.”

John looked over at him, a hint of hope in his voice. “So… you wouldn’t hate the idea?”

“No,” Severus said. “I wouldn’t. I never thought I’d say that. But… this life we’re building… It’s not one I want to limit. And if we have more to give, to share—then why not?”

John exhaled, some tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying finally leaving his shoulders. “Maybe not right away. But when we’re ready… yeah?”

Severus nodded once. “Yes. When we’re ready.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at the fire. And then John reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

“Just promise me we’ll still have a library that’s not covered in crayon,” he muttered.

“No promises,” Severus said with a faint smirk. “Especially if they take after you.”

Chapter 97

The garden at Prince Manor was blooming wildly, an unexpected splash of summer brilliance after so much war. Wards shimmered just beneath the surface of the air, protecting everyone gathered—family, friends, misfits, heroes. The chairs were full, laughter floated on the breeze, and John Constantine stood under a floral arch that Molly insisted on arranging herself, tugging nervously at the collar of his dark green waistcoat.

He looked up when footsteps approached, and there was Severus, every inch of him elegant and sharp, but with a softness in his eyes only John ever got to see. Hermione was right behind him, beaming, dressed in soft lavender and holding a small bouquet. She took her place next to them with a proud smile, their witness, their family.

And then—Dumbledore. Dressed in bright plum robes that clashed magnificently with everything, he stepped forward and raised his hands to quiet the murmurs of the crowd. There was a sparkle in his eye, and John narrowed his own suspiciously.

“Dearly beloved,” Dumbledore began, “we are gathered here today to witness the joining of two utterly improbable men in the most improbable of bonds—matrimony.”

There were a few chuckles in the audience. John rolled his eyes. Severus looked like he was mentally reciting poison antidotes to avoid scowling.

“Now, before we begin the formal rites,” Dumbledore added, his voice cheerful, “I feel it’s only fair to remind the grooms—and indeed all present—that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t blackmailed John into returning to Hogwarts.”

A wave of laughter swept the garden. John visibly twitched. Hermione covered her mouth to muffle her snort. Sirius just let out a bark of laughter and muttered, “Classic Albus.”

John turned slightly and muttered to Severus, “I knew he’d pull some kind of stunt.”

Severus replied dryly, “You didn’t hex him yet, so I suppose we’re making progress.”

Dumbledore grinned brightly as if he hadn’t just said something absolutely deranged. “But in all sincerity, watching these two find something meaningful in the midst of so much darkness… It is a gift. And I consider it an honor to stand here and officiate their union.”

Then, the real ceremony began—beautiful and surprisingly grounded. Their vows were quiet but heartfelt, with Severus’ voice only wavering once, and John holding his hand so tightly Hermione swore his knuckles turned white. When Albus declared them bonded and sealed the union with a flash of golden light, the applause nearly shook the trees.

They kissed under the arch, not caring that half the crowd whistled and someone (probably Fred or George) shouted, “Finally!”

Dumbledore leaned toward John as they stepped down from the arch.

“I expect a thank-you, my boy,” he whispered with a twinkle.

John gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re lucky I’m wearing dress robes, Albus.”

Chapter 98

The reception buzzed with music and warmth, the long tables glowing under enchanted lanterns that floated lazily above the garden. Dobby had outdone himself with the food, to Molly’s vocal delight, and Fred and George were already charming bits of cake into dancing animals on the far side of the table.

John stood near the edge of it all, a half-full glass of firewhisky in his hand and his tie already tugged halfway loose. He was trying to enjoy five minutes of peace when two very familiar presences appeared at his side.

“Don’t even try to disappear,” Sara Lance said, elbowing him gently. “You’ve got something to do.”

Chas, holding his daughter Trish on his hip, nodded. “She’s right. You’ve got to thank the old man.”

John groaned, glancing toward Dumbledore, who stood near the drink table chatting with McGonagall and looking unbearably smug.

“Oh, come off it,” Sara added with a grin. “We both know if he hadn’t yanked your chain, you’d still be sulking in London and brooding over bad cigarettes.”

John sighed dramatically. “I hate when people are right.”

Chas smirked. “We know.”

Sara gave him a light shove toward Dumbledore. “Go on. Be a grown-up.”

Grumbling under his breath, John stalked across the grass. Albus turned just as he approached, as if he knew.

“John,” the Headmaster said, smiling with maddening calm. “Enjoying the festivities?”

John glared at him, then exhaled slowly. “Look. Don’t get used to it, but… thanks. For the blackmail. And the manipulation. And dragging me kicking and screaming back into the wizarding world.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “You’re very welcome.”

John pointed a finger at him. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I will light your beard on fire.”

Albus raised both hands in mock surrender. “Perish the thought.”

John turned on his heel and stalked back toward Sara and Chas, muttering the whole way.

“See?” Sara said, nudging Chas as he rejoined them. “That wasn’t so hard.”

John raised his glass. “You’re lucky I’m in love and married or I’d hex the both of you.”

Chas clinked his glass to John’s. “And yet you didn’t. Growth.”

Chapter 99

Hermione sat at a round table draped in enchanted ivy, watching the lanterns flicker above her. She looked radiant and content in her simple lilac gown, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she nursed a butterbeer and chatted with Luna and Ginny. Teddy was toddling by under Tonks’ watchful eye, occasionally grabbing fistfuls of grass and squealing at fireflies.

John spotted her and nudged Severus, who gave him a knowing look.

“You sure?” Severus asked, arching a brow.

“She’s already adopted us, mate,” John said, a little softer than usual. “This just makes it feel more… full.”

They approached Hermione, and she immediately lit up. “This was the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen,” she said honestly, beaming between them. “Molly’s flowers, the lights, your vows—”

“Oh don’t go quoting the vows, love,” John groaned. “You’ll make me cry in public. Again.”

She laughed, and Severus gave John a subtle elbow to the ribs.

“We wanted to talk to you about something,” Severus said, taking the chair beside her while John knelt on the other side, ignoring the grass stains on his slacks.

Hermione tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

“More than okay,” John said, brushing her curls affectionately. “We were just thinking—after all this… war and madness and starting over… what it’d be like to adopt again.”

Hermione blinked, surprise warming into curiosity. “You mean… another teenager?”

Severus shook his head. “Younger. A baby. Or a toddler. Someone magical who needs a home.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and then slowly, her smile deepened. “You want to give someone what you gave me.”

John nodded. “Exactly. But we wanted to talk to you first. This… this little family we’ve built, it’s yours too. You matter.”

“I’d love that,” Hermione said quietly, her eyes shining. “To help them grow up loved. Safe. And maybe learn not to be as emotionally constipated as either of you.”

John barked a laugh. “Oi!”

Severus didn’t even pretend to deny it.

Hermione pulled them both into a hug, tight and warm and full of something sacred. “Let’s do it,” she whispered. “Let’s make this family bigger.”

Chapter 100

The knock on the door echoed through Prince Manor, sharp and punctual. Hermione rushed to answer it, her curls bouncing with every step. She peeked out, then called over her shoulder, “They’re here!”

John adjusted the cushions on the sitting room couch while Severus cleared away a stack of potion journals he had forgotten were still hovering mid-air. He gave John a pointed look. “This is ridiculous. We defeated a Dark Lord. Surely we can pass an inspection.”

John smirked. “Says the bloke who nearly hexed the bread for being too stale this morning.”

Before Severus could reply, Hermione led in a middle-aged witch with sleek silver hair, practical robes, and a clipboard enchanted to float beside her. “Professor Constantine, Professor Snape,” she greeted crisply, extending a hand. “Marla Greaves, from the Magical Adoption and Child Welfare Department.”

“Just John,” he said, shaking her hand.

“And just Severus,” he added, though slightly more reserved.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” Marla began, seating herself. “This is rather… unconventional. Ex-auror, war hero, former underground exorcist—” she glanced at John, “—and the Hogwarts Potions Master with confirmed Death Eater history.” She paused. “And yet, you’ve both been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re not exactly sugar and rainbows, but we’re solid. We’ve built a home. Hermione’s proof of that.”

Marla gave a small nod. “And Miss Granger, would you say you feel safe, supported, and… loved in this household?”

Hermione smiled. “Completely. I have a family here.”

Marla stood. “Very well. Let’s see the rest of the manor.”

They led her through the sunlit library (which Hermione proudly noted was now hexed to be toddler-proof), the conservatory filled with Severus’s potions herbs, and the nursery—soft lavender walls, floating stars above the crib, and a wardrobe filled with handpicked clothes.

When they returned to the sitting room, Marla looked thoughtful. Then she snapped her fingers and a sealed scroll appeared. She handed it to John.

“This is Sadie,” she said. “Two years old. Magical. Both parents killed in the final battle. She’s been in foster care for the past six months. She’s bright, shy, and needs people who will love her without condition.”

John stared down at the scroll and then up at Severus, who simply gave a small nod. Hermione leaned against John’s arm, hopeful.

“Bring her home,” Severus said softly.

⸻

Later That Evening

Sadie stood just inside the front doors of Prince Manor, clutching a tiny stuffed unicorn in one hand. Her curly black hair was pulled into uneven pigtails and her big brown eyes scanned the room with nervous wonder.

John knelt first, extending his hand with a gentle smile. “Hey there, little one. I’m John. This grumpy git is Severus. And that’s Hermione. This is your home now.”

Sadie blinked up at him. Then, slowly, she toddled forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

John hugged her tight, voice thick. “Welcome home, Sadie.”

Chapter 101

The fire crackled low in the Prince Manor sitting room. Outside, the garden was bathed in silver moonlight, the air still after weeks of chaos and rebuilding. Inside, peace had finally taken root.

Hermione sat on the rug beside little Sadie, the two of them arranging enchanted wooden animals into a makeshift forest. A unicorn trotted across a levitating log while a tiny dragon napped nearby.

From the doorway, Severus watched them, arms folded loosely across his chest, a soft look on his face that few had ever seen—reserved only for the two girls who had come to mean everything.

Behind him, John entered with two cups of tea, passing one silently to Severus before standing beside him. They were older, more tired than they had been two years ago, but something in their posture had changed. They were no longer just surviving.

They were living.

“Do you remember,” John said, sipping his tea, “how this all started? You hexed me the first day I walked back into Hogwarts.”

“You deserved it,” Severus said dryly, but with a quirk of a smile.

“I probably did.”

They stood in companionable silence for a long moment, watching Hermione gently tuck Sadie into her arms as the little girl’s eyes fluttered shut.

“She’s already ours, isn’t she?” John said, barely above a whisper.

Severus nodded. “They both are.”

John turned to him. “Thank you—for not walking away. From me. From this.”

Severus looked at him, eyes dark and warm. “I’m not the one who keeps trying to run. But you stayed this time. That’s what matters.”

Behind them, footsteps padded into the room. Hermione approached, her voice quiet. “She’s asleep. I tucked her in.”

John looked at her, this bright, broken, brilliant girl who had fought through hell and still stood strong. He reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, love.”

“I don’t think I ever said it properly,” Hermione said softly, glancing between the two men. “Thank you for giving me a home.”

“You gave us one too,” Severus said.

And it was true.

Not built from bloodlines or clean reputations or fairytale endings—but from broken pieces, healed with stubborn love and forged in the fires of war.

Outside, the stars shifted. Inside, laughter echoed faintly through the hall, a soft and sacred thing.

In a house once filled with shadows, there was now only light.

And for once, for all of them—John, Severus, Hermione, and Sadie—it was enough.

It was home.

—The End

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Constantine/snape