Dark Wings Over Hogwarts

Zane sat in the backseat of the taxi, his gaze fixed on the dimming New York skyline. His mind raced. He had pieced together fragments of James' attack on the embassy, but something still didn't add up. If James wanted attention, why target the U.S. Embassy in London? And more importantly—what had happened to his missing daughter?

There were too many unanswered questions. The only place to start was James' house.

As the taxi rolled to a stop in a quiet suburban neighborhood, Zane took a moment to survey his surroundings. The streets were mostly empty—only a few joggers and residents heading home from work. James' house stood at the end of the block, a modest two-story home with an American flag fluttering gently by the porch.

Zane stepped out and approached the door, ringing the bell. He waited. No answer. He rang again. Still nothing. A third time. Silence.

His instincts prickled. No one was home.

Just as he was about to consider his next move, he sensed movement behind him. His muscles tensed. The sound of deliberate, measured footsteps. Someone trained.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse without giving himself away. A woman, mid-20s, athletic build. The way she carried herself—controlled, assessing—told him everything. She wasn't just some neighbor. She was military, or something close to it.

She stopped a few feet away, her voice firm but polite.

"Excuse me. Who are you?"

Zane hesitated for half a second before slipping into an easy smile.

"Ryan," he said smoothly. "Old friend of James. We served together back in his ranger days. Just got into town and wanted to check in on him."

Her expression barely shifted, but a flicker of something—tension, wariness—passed through her eyes.

"You came at the wrong time," she said, exhaling slowly. "His funeral was this afternoon."

Zane stilled. Two days. That was how long James had been dead. A funeral already? That was quick. Too quick. Someone wanted this buried.

He schooled his features into an apologetic look.

"I'm really sorry for your loss."

She nodded, but her posture remained rigid. She wasn't in the mood for conversation, and she certainly didn't trust him.

As she turned toward the door, he made his move.

"I just got off a long flight," he said, letting just the right amount of weariness creep into his voice. "Do you mind if I have a cup of coffee before I head out?"

She hesitated. Studied him.

Then, after a long pause—"Fine. Come in."

---

Inside the House

The moment Zane stepped in, he felt it.

She appears to be watching him.

The house was well-kept, but something was off. The faint scent of gunpowder and cleaning chemicals lingered in the air—a telltale sign of someone used to handling weapons. The walls were lined with framed pictures of James, but none in his NYPD uniform. Only his ranger days.

She led him into the living room, gesturing toward the couch.

"Wait here," she said before disappearing into the kitchen.

Zane sat, but his eyes kept moving, cataloging every detail. The layout. The furniture. The quickest exits. The locations of possible weapons.

The sound of mugs clinking. She was taking her time. Too careful.

When she finally returned five minutes later, she carried two steaming cups. She handed him one before sitting across from him.

For the first time, she introduced herself.

"I'm Anna O'Malley." A beat. "James' sister."

Zane nodded, lifting his cup slightly in acknowledgment.

Just as he was about to take a sip, his senses flared.

Something was wrong.

The way she was watching him—not just observing, but waiting. Testing.

In one smooth motion, Zane tilted his head slightly.

The instant he did, she moved.

A pistol flashed into her hands, barrel trained on his chest.

"Who are you really?" she demanded. "Why are you here?"

Zane didn't flinch.

Slowly, he placed the coffee cup on the table, his movements deliberate.

"I told you," he said calmly. "I'm Ryan. An old friend of James."

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

"Lies. James never mentioned you." Her eyes narrowed. "And I know a trained fighter when I see one. You're not just some old friend."

She was sharp. He had to give her that.

Before he could respond, she fired.

Bang!

Zane moved.

His body twisted, the bullet missing him by inches, embedding itself in the couch.

Bang! Bang!

Another shot. Then another.

Zane dodged, his movements impossibly quick. He leaped over the couch, rolling as a bullet whizzed past his ear.

But he didn't attack. Didn't retaliate. He needed answers, not more complications.

So he flicked his fingers.

A pulse of invisible magic shot across the room.

Anna's body stiffened mid-motion. Her pistol slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor. She stumbled, her knees buckling as she collapsed onto the carpet.

Her breath was ragged, her limbs unresponsive. But her mind was still sharp.

As she struggled, her eyes locked onto his.

Shock. Anger. Then—realization.

A whisper escaped her lips.

"You… you're Zane Falconer."

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