The table settled into the warm rhythm of a large, contented group — plates cleared, wine refilled, laughter bubbling like the soft fountains beyond the terrace. Conversation skittered from the food to maps to ridiculous stories the twins insisted on telling again. For a moment Cairo seemed indulgent and harmless.
Then Tonks, casually, as if she were talking about a rude waiter rather than near-violence in a back alley, said, "One of the men actually tried to grab my arse."
There was a beat of silence like a held breath.
"What?" Daphne choked out.
"He touched me," Tonks repeated, shrugging as if it were nothing and everything. "So I put my fist where his face was supposed to be. Nasty habit, the world thinks it can touch women."
A couple of the older women—Petunia, Molly—made small, sharp sounds of outrage. Hermione's face went white in the way that means anger and hurt and an old, familiar disgust. A surge of praise and incredulous laughter rippled around the table.
Harry watched them all, expression neutral. For a second, anyone looking closely — and Petunia always looked closely — could see his pupils change. They went a faint, flat grey for a breath, like cloud crossing green glass, then snapped back to green as if nothing had happened. It was a small thing, a whisper of a shift, but it landed heavy. Petunia stiffened. Vernon's fork stilled halfway to his mouth.
"Well done," Harry said quietly, and the words were almost soft — approving, but coated. He set his knife and fork down with deliberate care and rose from his chair.
"I'm going to the washroom," he announced, as if the act were ordinary.
A dozen immediate replies cascaded at once. "Harry—" Ron began, rising, eyes wide. "You don't need to—"
"The girls handled it," Molly said, her voice thin with the desire to smooth things over. "They got a broken nose and possibly concussion as well. They got what they deserved."
"Leave it," Sirius added, a grin that didn't touch his eyes. "No need to—"
Harry just smiled but his eyes were cold. "I'm just going to the washroom." He said as he walked slowly towards the bathroom across the hall with a careful pace.
As he entered the door, Petunia caught the tiniest glimpse of grey in his eyes. Her stomach did a small flip. Vernon, at her side, swore under his breath and made the same tiny involuntary motion: the hair on his neck prickled.
And then the door closed behind him, before anyone could say anything.
For a beat the table sat stunned. Then the room erupted into a dozen small panicked noises — forks dropped, chairs scraped back, voices overlapped.
"He went to the washroom, right?" Percy asked with caution in his voice. "He really went to the washroom right?"
Sirius was already on his feet, moving toward the washroom. He opened the door and looked inside.
"Oh, Merlin's beard. He is gone."
The sound of his voice—low, grim, too calm—seemed to freeze the air in the private dining hall. Then chaos.
Petunia shot to her feet so fast her chair toppled backward with a harsh scrape. "What do you mean gone?" she demanded, her voice already trembling. "He—he said he was just going to the washroom!"
Vernon's face drained of all colour. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, pressing a hand to his mouth. He looked toward the now-empty seat Harry had left behind, as if the boy might suddenly reappear there with that easy grin of his.
The Weasleys erupted next. Ron and the twins both spoke at once—"What does that mean—""He's gone after those blokes, hasn't he—""Fred, tell me he didn't—""He did," Sirius cut in sharply. His tone left no room for doubt.
Molly gasped, her hand clutching the edge of the table. Arthur's jaw went tight, his eyes widening with the kind of fear only adults who had seen war could know. Percy looked stunned into silence, while Ginny just whispered, "No, no, he wouldn't…" even though the quiver in her lip said she already believed he would.
Abigail's chair screeched backward, and she half rose, voice small but panicked. "Sirius—why would he do that? He promised—he promised not to do anything reckless anymore!"
Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because that's Harry," he said quietly. "Because when someone crosses a line… he doesn't just get angry. He acts. He's probably tracking those men right now."
Hermione's eyes widened in horror. "Tracking—Sirius, you don't mean he's going to—"
"Kill them?" Sirius finished for her, grimly. "I don't know. But if they're lucky, he'll only make them wish they were dead."
A heavy silence fell.Every face at the table registered the same thing—shock, disbelief, and dawning panic.
On the other side of the table, the rest of the group was staring, completely lost.
Pansy frowned. "Wait, hold on—what's happening?"
Daphne crossed her arms, eyes darting between the adults. "You're all acting like he's gone to war. He just left the room."
Luna tilted her head, her calm voice floating above the noise. "He didn't just leave. The magic around him—it shifted."
Dan and Emma Granger looked confused but worried, while Ted Tonks's expression hardened slightly, the father in him beginning to understand what this meant.
Tonks herself froze, realization dawning with a sick drop in her stomach."Oh… Merlin," she whispered, guilt tightening her voice. "This is—this is because I said what that bastard did, isn't it?"
Sirius turned to her, his eyes full of weary understanding. "It's not your fault, Nym. You didn't make him go. But yes—he heard that, and it was enough."
Tonks swallowed hard, her usual confidence gone. "I just… I thought it was funny, you know? Like a stupid story. I didn't think he'd—"
Molly pressed a hand to her mouth. "He's going to hurt them…"
Arthur nodded grimly. "If he finds them first."
Fred and George exchanged a look—one rare, unspoken, and without a single joke between them. Percy leaned back weakly, his face pale.
Abigail buried her face in Petunia's arms. "He's not going to kill, right? He's not going to—"
Petunia smoothed her hair, though her own voice shook. "No, sweetheart… he's just… angry."
"Angry doesn't cover it," Sirius said, scanning the room like a man trying to find his bearings. "You've seen what happens when he snaps. The boy's magic isn't—normal. If he decides to take it out on someone…" He trailed off, the implication finishing itself.
For a long moment, no one spoke.Only the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor—staff moving plates, a faint hum of music somewhere far off—cut through the silence.
Then Arthur exhaled slowly, voice firm. "We need to find him. Now."
Sirius was halfway to the exit when he heard it—a click followed by the rush of running water from behind.
He froze mid-stride. The others nearly ran into him.
"What...?" Arthur began, but Sirius had already turned sharply on his heel, pushing the washroom door open again.
And there, calmly standing at the sink, was Harry rolling his sleeves up, washing his hands as if nothing had happened.
He looked up, blinking. "...Sirius? What's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
For a beat, Sirius just stared. His chest heaved."Harry... where... where the hell were you?"
Harry frowned, flicking some water off his hands. "Uh… right there?" He pointed toward the cubicle at the far end. "I said I was going to the washroom. Why are you all looking at me like that?"
By now the others had crowded around the doorway—Petunia clutching Abigail, the Weasleys in varying stages of shock, and Tonks frozen with her mouth half open.
Molly gasped. "Harry James Potter! We thought you—oh, for Merlin's sake—we thought you'd gone missing!"
Harry blinked, clearly (and very convincingly) confused. "Missing? I was literally just here."
Fred and George exchanged a look.George whispered, "I told you he was probably washing his hands."Fred muttered back, "Yeah, after committing light homicide, apparently."
"Five minutes," Percy said stiffly, still pale. "You were gone five minutes, Harry. Sirius thought you'd Disapparated."
Harry snorted softly. "Why would I Disapparate from the middle of dinner?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "What look?"
"The I'm about to end a man look!" Sirius barked.
Everyone erupted—Ron started laughing awkwardly, Molly scolded Sirius for the language, Ginny rolled her eyes, and Vernon muttered something about "bloody dramatics."
Harry, feigning exasperation, dried his hands with a paper towel. "You lot really need to calm down. It's just a washroom, not the bloody Azkaban."
The laughter that followed was tinged with relief, the group's panic dissolving into embarrassed chuckles. Tonks let out a shaky laugh too, whispering to herself, "I'm an idiot…"
Harry walked past them, tossing the paper towel neatly into the bin. "Next time I go to pee, should I bring a tracking charm too?"
That drew a round of groans and playful scolding. Sirius just shook his head, still watching him, trying to decide whether to laugh or scold.
But as they all turned back toward their table, Pansy lingered.
She hadn't laughed. She hadn't spoken. She just watched him.
Harry's expression was relaxed, cheerful, even—but there was something… off.
A faint brightness behind his eyes, a sharp calm that didn't match the situation. When he said, "Relax, I'm fine," there was an ever-so-slight curl in his tone; something darkly satisfied.
Pansy's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
She didn't say a word.She didn't need to.
The dinner resumed—awkward at first, like everyone was pretending nothing strange had happened. Sirius kept glancing at Harry every few minutes, as if expecting him to suddenly explode. Petunia, though visibly calmer, kept one hand looped around her wine glass too tightly.
Harry, however, was perfectly normal. Or so it seemed. He joked when Fred and George made fun of the menu, laughed when Ron spilled his drink, even complimented Molly's enthusiasm for Egyptian desserts. He was effortlessly composed — almost too much so, as if the quiet smoothness was a deliberate mask.
Pansy didn't laugh. She watched. That faint shadow of satisfaction she'd caught earlier hadn't vanished; it lingered in his posture, his ease, the unshakable calm of someone who had already tied up loose ends.
After dinner, the group slowly drifted out of the restaurant — tired, full, content. Outside, sleek black cars from Gringotts were waiting to take them back to the hotel. The desert night air was warm and heavy with the scent of spices and distant music.
Back at the hotel lobby, everyone exchanged goodnights. The Greengrasses and Parkinsons went off together, the Weasleys disappeared toward their floor in a loud cluster, Sirius started organizing something with the Grangers, and Petunia was busy reminding Vernon not to drink too much water before bed.
Harry simply smiled faintly and said, "I'm heading up. Long day."
Nobody questioned it.
He entered the elevator alone.
But he wasn't alone.
Pansy, moving like a shadow, slipped through just as the elevator doors began to close. She pressed herself against the mirrored side quietly, wand in her sleeve, her eyes fixed on the floor number ticking up. 12… 18… 24… Penthouse.
The soft chime broke the silence. The doors opened into the high-ceilinged penthouse suite — a space that was both elegant and faintly alive with invisible magic.
Harry walked in without noticing her. His movements were casual but precise, almost ritualistic. He undid his collar, tugged off his shirt and tossed it lazily toward the couch.
Pansy's eyes widened.
Mid-air, the shirt snapped straight, folded itself, and settled neatly over the armrest — clean, pressed, faintly steaming as if freshly ironed.
Harry didn't look back. He crossed the room, unhurried, and the air shifted faintly around him. A rectangular wooden box slid across the table — opening itself with a quiet click.
Cigars.
One floated up. The tip sliced itself clean with an invisible cutter. A moment later, it turned in the air as a spark of fire flared to life, lighting it perfectly. The cigar glided into Harry's waiting hand.
He exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips, eyes glinting in the low light.
Pansy barely breathed. The air itself felt thick with power — not the focused intensity of a duel, but something deeper, effortless. Every object in the room moved like it obeyed his unspoken will.
At the bar, Harry scanned the bottles. He scoffed softly.
A tumbler floated up, spinning once in midair before frosting over — condensation forming instantly as the glass chilled. A moment later, a dark bottle slipped out from his pouch, poured a steady amber stream into the glass, and set itself aside.
Harry picked up the drink and his cigar in one smooth motion. He didn't say a word as he walked toward the balcony, the city lights spilling gold and silver across his bare shoulders.
Pansy stayed in the shadows of the doorway, her breath shallow. She had always known he was powerful terrifyingly so... but this… this was different. This was control. Raw, absolute command over his surroundings, exercised without even a flick of his wand.
And as she watched him step out into the Cairo night, smoke curling lazily past his face and the city stretching endlessly below, Pansy Parkinson realized something quietly unnerving...
Harry Potter wasn't pretending to be calm.He was.Because whatever storm had passed through him earlier…was now perfectly, terrifyingly still.
Harry didn't turn right away. He took another lazy drag from the cigar, exhaled a faint stream of smoke, and said, almost too casually,"Enjoying the view, Parkinson?"
The sound of her name in his voice made Pansy go still. She'd been so careful— or so she thought.
"I— I wasn't—" she began, stepping back.
But she never got the chance. In one smooth ripple of unseen magic, the air itself pulled her forward. It wasn't rough — it was inexorable. Like gravity had just remembered who it served.
A moment later, she was standing beside him, so close her sleeve brushed his bare arm. The heat from his skin made her pulse stutter.
Harry finally looked at her. Those green eyes — deep, sharp, too calm — studied her like she was a curious puzzle."You really shouldn't sneak up on people who can feel you breathing from three floors away," he murmured.
"I wasn't sneaking," she muttered, trying to sound composed but failing miserably.
"Hmm." He leaned in slightly, voice dipping just above a whisper. "Then what were you doing… standing in the shadows, watching me undress?"
Pansy went crimson. "I— I wasn't— it's not—!"
He chuckled softly, the sound low and dark. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Tripping over your words." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "It's adorable."
Her breath hitched. "I'm not— adorable," she said, forcing the words out like a challenge.
"No," he agreed easily, eyes dragging slowly from her eyes to her lips, then back up again. "You're not."A pause. "But you could be, if you weren't so busy pretending you're not interested."
The air went still. She opened her mouth to reply — nothing came out.
Harry smiled, slow and deliberate. "Ah. There it is again. That silence."He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost her ear. "You wear defiance like perfume, Parkinson. But it fades fast when someone calls your bluff."
She took a shaky breath, her heart hammering like it was trying to escape her ribs. "You think you're so untouchable, don't you?"
"I don't think." He straightened, eyes glinting faintly gold under the balcony light. "I just am."
And somehow, impossibly, she laughed — half nervous, half thrilled. "You're insufferable."
Harry smirked, taking another slow sip of his drink, unbothered. "You say that like it's an insult."
Pansy realized only when her back met the balcony rail that he'd drawn her in. Not by force—by presence. The air between them hummed, a current she couldn't name. His breath brushed her temple, steady, unhurried.
"Careful, Parkinson," he murmured, eyes glinting like cut glass. "You stare too long at fire, you'll start to like the burn."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a suspended second, the city noise below fell away—just him, her, and the scent of smoke curling from his cigar. Then Harry leaned back, a small amused smile tugging at his mouth, the spell breaking as easily as it had begun.
Pansy swallowed, forcing her heartbeat down. "You're… impossible," she managed, voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckled softly and turned his gaze toward the Nile lights. "So I've been told."
Silence stretched between them before she spoke again, quieter this time. "Those men from earlier… the ones who harassed us. What did you do to them?"
Harry's eyes stayed on the skyline. "I killed them," he said simply—no drama, no hesitation. "And I'm glad they're dead. I saved a few hundred more from becoming their victims."
Pansy blinked, the words hitting like a chill. "Why?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted the answer.
For a heartbeat, something flared in his expression—steel and shadows, fragments of images only he could see. Then the hardness melted, replaced by that faint, unnervingly calm smile."They didn't deserve another sunrise," he said softly. "I just arranged their meeting with God a little earlier than scheduled."
He took another sip of whiskey, the faintest trace of satisfaction in his tone.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The night wind toyed with Pansy's hair, carrying the faint trace of the cigar's smoke and the sharp scent of whiskey. Harry stood there — calm, unreadable, his gaze somewhere between the stars and the Nile.
Then, without thinking, Pansy reached out and took the glass from his hand.Their fingers brushed — just once, light as static — but she felt it all the way up her arm. She raised the glass, eyes locked on his, and took a sip. From the same place his lips had touched.
The whiskey burned on her tongue; her heart thundered far louder than it should have.Harry arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't move, didn't speak, just watched her with that maddening calm.
Pansy set the glass back into his hand — or tried to, because her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than they should've."Good night, Potter," she said quickly, the words tumbling out before she turned on her heel.
She stepped out of the penthouse with a face nearly as red as the sunset they had witnessed before, utterly bewildered by her own boldness.
Harry, meanwhile, only chuckled under his breath, swirling the glass once before taking another sip."Kids these days," he murmured, amusement glinting in his eyes as the city lights danced below.
His smile faded as he was left alone. The evening replayed in his mind — the thugs, the alley, the scuffle. He had only meant to punish them. A lesson. A broken nose for a grabbed arse. Fear, a warning, nothing more.
But when he'd cornered them and glanced into their minds, the truth had hit him like a physical blow. Years of robbery, intimidation, and cruelty — all the petty crimes, all the malice — piled into a single, unbearable weight.
One memory, though, stood apart: a woman, cornered and pleading, utterly helpless. And them, laughing as if it were sport. That was the moment the plan changed. Not revenge, not punishment. Cleansing.
A slow, cold calm spread through Harry as he remembered it, reshaping the edge in his mind. The whiskey glass cracked audibly in his hand, the shards dissolving into faint smoke, the amber liquid still warm in his palm.
He inhaled slowly, letting the memory settle behind a steely mask of serenity. He hadn't done it for bloodlust. He had done it because some people simply had no place in the world they were harming. And the thought left him with a strange, quiet satisfaction — a grim certainty that justice had been done.
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Pansy didn't stop walking until she was halfway across the hall leading to the others' rooms. Her heart was still drumming against her ribs, her mind replaying every second on that balcony — the look in Harry's eyes, the weight in his voice when he'd said he killed them.
She took a deep breath, then turned sharply down the corridor where the others were staying. A few knocks later, Daphne opened the door, hair messy from brushing. Ginny, Luna, Tonks, and Abigail were sprawled around the suite in nightclothes, mid-laughter — the kind of laughter that died instantly when they saw Pansy's face.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Daphne said slowly.
Pansy shut the door behind her. "Not a ghost," she muttered. "Something scarier."
That got everyone's attention. Tonks frowned, leaning forward. "What happened?"
Pansy exhaled, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "You remember those thugs from earlier?" she began. "The ones who harassed us?"
"Yeah," Ginny said. "What about them?"
"They're dead."
For a second, silence. Even Luna blinked, wide-eyed.
Tonks straightened. "What do you mean dead?"
Pansy's gaze flicked between them, steady and sharp. "I asked Harry about them. He told me he killed them. Just like that. And when I asked why…" She paused, searching for words that didn't exist. "His face changed. Like he was remembering something — something horrible. For a second he looked furious… and sad. Then he smiled and said he only sent them to meet God sooner."
Abigail's mouth fell open. "He actually said that?"
Pansy nodded. "Like it was the most normal thing in the world."
No one spoke for a long while. The air felt heavier, filled with the weight of that revelation.
Tonks finally muttered, "Bloody hell…"
Luna, uncharacteristically serious, murmured, "He didn't do it out of anger. He did it because they were evil."
The silence lingered. It was Daphne who finally broke it."So," she said slowly, "you're telling us Harry just killed a bunch of grown men… and you're this calm about it?"
Pansy blinked, as if waking from a trance. "Calm? Who's calm?"
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "You look pretty composed to me."
Pansy let out a weird, breathy laugh — the kind that came from someone whose brain had melted about five minutes ago. "Oh, you have no idea."
The girls exchanged looks.
"He was—" she started, then stopped, running both hands through her hair like her mind had short-circuited. "He was just there, you know? In the penthouse. Shirtless. Casual. Like it's normal to look like a walking Greek statue. He throws his shirt off and it literally—literally—cleans and irons itself midair!"
Daphne's jaw dropped. "Wait—what?"
"Oh, I'm not done!" Pansy continued, her words tripping over themselves. "Then he lights a cigar. With magic. Just—just floats there and lights itself, and then this glass flies up, chills down, and whiskey pours itself in! And he's just standing there, all muscled and broody, like some sort of wizarding Weekly Hot Edition cover model having a mental breakdown in 4K!"
Ginny started snickering, covering her face with both hands. Tonks was choking on her laughter.
"And you stayed there?" Daphne asked, half disbelieving, half gleeful.
"Stayed?!" Pansy squeaked. "He looked at me! I didn't even breathe! And then—Merlin help me—I took his glass and drank from it! From his side!"
Luna tilted her head dreamily. "That's practically a declaration of intent."
Pansy froze mid-ramble, then groaned into her hands. "Oh my god, I did. I did do that. And then I ran. I just—ran out like a moron!"
By now, the suite was echoing with laughter — Tonks doubled over, Ginny red-faced, Daphne wiping tears from her eyes.
"Oh Pansy," Daphne wheezed. "You're gone. Completely gone."
Pansy pointed at her accusingly. "You didn't see him! The abs! The eyes! The—ugh—that smile! It was like he knew exactly what he was doing to me!"
"Of course he did," Tonks grinned. "He's Harry."
Pansy slumped back on the bed, covering her face again. "I hate him. I hate him so much. And I think I'm in trouble."
Luna's soft voice broke through the giggles. "Maybe. But it sounds like he's in trouble too."
The laughter eventually died down, replaced by small snorts and the occasional sigh. Pansy was still red-faced and glaring at the ceiling when Daphne finally spoke, her voice soft but sure.
"You know what's terrifying?" she said. "I get it."
The room went still.
"Get what?" Tonks asked, amused.
Daphne looked at her, serious now. "What she's saying. The way he is. It's not just looks. It's… something else. Like you want to be around him. Like if you don't, you're missing something."
Ginny nodded quietly. "It's like gravity."
Luna hummed, eyes distant as always. "Or magic."
Tonks tilted her head. "Well, he's Harry Potter. Magic probably leaks out of him when he sneezes."
That earned a round of small chuckles, but it didn't last. Pansy sat up, clutching a pillow to her chest. "It's more than that. When I talked to him—when he told me what he did—he didn't sound proud. He sounded… right. Like he'd done something terrible and necessary, and he'd already made peace with it."
Her words hung there, heavy and soft.
Daphne folded her arms. "You know, when you say it like that, it's kind of hard not to love him."
Tonks groaned. "Oh don't start—"
But then Ginny nodded. "She's not wrong."
One by one, the other girls looked away, and then back, and the silence filled with something unsaid — something every single one of them could feel but didn't want to name.
Luna smiled faintly. "It's not the sort of love you fight over," she said, almost dreamily. "It's the sort you hold a piece of, quietly. Like keeping a star in your pocket. He's… too big for one person."
Pansy blinked at her. "Merlin, that's… poetic."
"It's Luna," Tonks muttered, rubbing her temples. "Of course it's poetic."
There was a small nod from each of them. Even Pansy, whose expression had softened from flustered to thoughtful.
"So we just… share?" Ginny asked, half joking, half sincere.
Daphne shrugged lightly. "Not share him. Share the feeling. The space he takes up inside your chest."
A quiet agreement settled between them — not sworn, not planned, just understood. The strange, inevitable acceptance that this one boy had walked into all their lives and changed their emotional gravity forever.
Tonks flopped back on the bed, arms spread. "Well, girls, looks like we're all doomed."
Pansy laughed, tired and genuine this time. "Yeah. Completely doomed."
Luna's voice drifted again, soft and knowing. "Stars always pull you in, even when you know you'll burn."