Who cares anyway?
At least they were full tonight.
Meanwhile, London, England, 12 Grimmauld Place.
If the Austrian inn was filled with the aroma of roast beef and red wine, the air in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix held only one scent: charred despair, mixed with Mrs.
Weasley’s hysterical weeping and Sirius Black’s roof-raising fury.
“Lost?!
You’re telling me he’s lost?!” Sirius was pacing back and forth in the kitchen like a rabid dog trapped in a cage, kicking a nearby chair hard with every step.
The elegant long table that belonged to the House of Black already had a corner blown off by his wand.
“He’s not lost, Sirius, calm down…” Remus tried to grab his arm, though the usually gentle werewolf was currently as pale as paper, his forehead slick with cold sweat.
“We’ve just…
temporarily lost track of him.” “Temporarily?!
It’s been four days, Remus!
Four days!” Sirius shoved Remus away and pointed at Mundungus Fletcher, who was cowering in the corner, still smelling strongly of alcohol.
“Just because this bastard wanted to peddle some lousy French cauldrons!
Harry is gone!” “I…
I only left for a little bit…” Mundungus clutched his head, curling into a ball, his voice like a mosquito.
“Who knew the kid was waiting…
and that French girl…” “Shut up!” This time, it wasn’t Sirius who roared, but Mrs.
Weasley, normally the gentlest of them all.
Her eyes were red and swollen, and she tightly clutched the letter Harry had left behind (more precisely, that mocking paper airplane).
She looked as if she wanted to shove Mundungus directly into the oven.
“He’s just a child!
He’s only fourteen!
Out in the world alone, with no passport, no money, and Voldemort hunting him!” Molly wailed, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
“And what did we do?
We locked him up in that horrible house and didn’t even let him receive letters!” At the far end of the long kitchen table, Albus Dumbledore sat quietly.
His blue eyes, which usually sparkled with wisdom, were dim as he stared at a pile of silver instruments on the table.
Those delicate alchemical devices once used to monitor Harry’s vital signs, location, and magical fluctuations had all stopped spinning.
Some had even burst apart, emitting black smoke.
Particularly the ritual instrument representing the “blood protection” had completely crumbled into dust.
“He didn’t just run away,” Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice sounding ten years older.
“He actively severed the connection.
The protective charms at Privet Drive broke, not because someone breached them, but because Harry no longer considers it ‘home.’ In his heart, he rejected that place of belonging, and so the magic collapsed.” “That’s not the point, Albus!” Sirius slammed his hands on the table, leaning in close to Dumbledore, his teeth gritted.
“The point is, where is he?
Where are your portraits?
Your spies?
The whole of Britain is under your nose, how could you fail to find a boy with an owl?” “This was a premeditated evacuation.” From the shadows, Kingsley stepped forward, a trace of shock hidden deep in his eyes.
He held a copy of the Ministry of Magic’s border entry and exit records (obtained illegally, of course).
“No Floo Network records, no Portkey records, no Knight Bus records,” Kingsley said.
“Even the magical trace on Potter’s broom vanished over the Strait of Dover.” “He had help.” Kingsley tossed a piece of parchment onto the table.
“According to the analysis of the magical residue at the border, it was Veela magic.
An advanced illusion shroud.” “Fleur Delacour.” Hermione Granger sat at the end of the table, tears welling in her eyes as she clutched an old Daily Prophet clipping about the Triwizard Tournament.
“It has to be her.
Harry kept bringing her up after the tournament…
if you look closely at his previous letters, he was actually hinting that he couldn’t take it anymore, but we…
we only wrote back telling him ‘don’t do anything foolish’.” Ron sat beside Hermione, looking as pale as if he had just swallowed a plate of slugs.
“This is crazy…
That’s Fleur!
The Beauxbatons school beauty!
How did Harry convince her to…
elope with him?” The moment the word “elope” left his mouth, the kitchen fell into a dead silence.
Mrs.
Weasley let out a sharp gasp, nearly fainting.
“Whether they eloped or not,” Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye whirled wildly as he limped in, bringing the chill of the outside world with him, “the boy is smarter and tougher than we thought.
Not only did he evade our surveillance, but he also bypassed the Ministry’s tracking grid.
That paper airplane he threw back at the last second…” Moody pointed to the piece of paper on the table.
“It was imbued with a highly sophisticated anti-tracking curse.
The moment we try to use this paper to locate him, it will incinerate.
This is absolutely not magic a wizard of Potter’s age and knowledge could cast.
That is the handiwork of Delacour.” “The current situation is,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said in a deep, exhausted voice, “the Ministry of Magic is in a complete mess.
Fudge thinks this is Dumbledore’s conspiracy, believing you’ve hidden Potter away to force the Ministry to admit Voldemort has returned.
The Auror Office is no longer looking for Potter; instead, they’re starting to monitor every member of the Order of the Phoenix.” “That’s exactly what Harry wanted.” Sirius suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with sorrow and a twisted sense of satisfaction.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the room full of frantic wizards.
“He hates us.
And I hate this place too.” Sirius pointed to his chest.
“Locking you up in a place you detest, cutting off all hope, and telling you it’s ‘for your own good’.
If it were me, I would have run too.
And I wouldn’t just run—I’d set the place on fire before I left.” “He is free now.” Sirius looked up at the ceiling.
“Wherever he is, even if he’s feeding penguins in Antarctica, it’s better than staying at Privet Drive.” “But it’s too dangerous!” Mrs.
Weasley cried.
“No money, no protection, no…” “Maybe he is doing better than we think,” Remus interrupted.
He held an urgent brief just delivered by an owl.
“This is news from our informant in Knockturn Alley.
Just a few hours ago, word came from Austria.
A silver-haired witch and a black-haired boy, using a ‘ten-year promise’ as a blank check, swindled ten Gold Galleons out of a notorious local miser in a remote wizarding inn.” Dead silence.
“Swindled…
ten Gold Galleons?” Ron’s mouth fell open.
“But Harry’s vault has—” “He can’t access Gringotts,” Hermione reacted instantly, then covered her mouth.
“Oh my god, they are penniless.” “Penniless, yet still capable of running scams in Austria.” Severus Snape’s face contorted into a highly complex expression, as if he had swallowed a blowfly, mixed with a warped kind of appreciation.
“Potter…
this is the perfect outlet for his reckless arrogance.
Living as a traveling con artist.” Dumbledore let out a long, heavy sigh.
He stood up, gazing out into the dark night.
“It seems our Savior has decided to take a vacation,” Dumbledore’s voice carried a deep weariness.
“We must find him before Voldemort discovers he has left his protection.
But remember…” The old headmaster’s gaze swept across the room.
“Do not push him too hard.
The resentment on that paper airplane tells me that if we appear before him now and try to drag him back, he might not hesitate to raise his wand against us.” “The current Harry Potter is no longer that student of Hogwarts.” “He is a hawk that has broken its chains.” The words Grindelwald had spoken in his high tower in Austria seemed to echo across thousands of miles, overlapping with Dumbledore’s sigh.
And at this very moment, this “hawk” and his beautiful “sister” were at the foot of the Austrian mountains, burping contentedly, planning which unlucky soul they would swindle for their next meal.