Dark Wings Over Hogwarts

The moment Zane left Hogwarts, he knew he had to cover his tracks.

With a quiet pop, he Apparated into one of his hidden safe houses—a secure, well-stocked location designed for covert operations. The room was dimly lit, lined with shelves of potions, disguises, and forged documents.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a vial of Polyjuice Potion and downed it. The familiar, unpleasant sensation spread through his body like molten wax. His bones creaked, his skin bubbled, and within seconds, his reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable. His hair had grayed, wrinkles deepened, and his posture slumped slightly. Now, he appeared to be an elderly man.

From a hidden compartment, he pulled out a forged passport under the name Henry Whitmore. The alias had just enough history to pass scrutiny but was obscure enough to avoid suspicion.

With everything in place, he Apparated to a secluded area near Heathrow Airport. Blending into the crowd, he moved with the ease of an experienced traveler, boarding a flight to New York without drawing a single glance.

As the plane took off, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He had eight hours to think.

---

Hogwarts – The Next Morning

At breakfast, Dumbledore stood before the Great Hall, his calm voice carrying over the murmuring students.

"Professor Falconer will be away for the week due to urgent personal matters. In his absence, Professors Flitwick and Snape will be handling his classes."

The announcement sparked mixed reactions.

The Ravenclaws murmured in disappointment. Despite his strictness, Zane's lessons were engaging, and many admired his teaching. The Slytherins exchanged curious glances—Falconer never played favorites, but he wasn't biased against them either. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, however, looked relieved. His piercing gaze and no-nonsense attitude had made some uneasy, and his absence meant a brief reprieve.

But at the Slytherin table, one student wasn't buying it.

Isla Rosier sat with her arms crossed, her fingers tapping against the wooden surface as she analyzed the situation.

Falconer was gone.

Just like that? Without notice? Without a reason?

No. That didn't make sense.

Zane Falconer was too calculated, too methodical to leave without good reason. And Isla had learned to trust her instincts—he wasn't on a vacation.

Her narrowed eyes flickered toward the head table, where Dumbledore sat, perfectly composed.

What aren't you telling us, Headmaster?

Finishing her meal quickly, she made her way toward the Owlery, ignoring the morning chill. Pulling out a parchment, she scribbled a message to her uncle, a man well-connected in both the magical and political world.

> "Find out exactly where Zane Falconer has gone and his purpose. It's urgent."

She tied the note to her owl's leg and whispered, "Fly fast."

As the owl disappeared beyond the castle walls, Isla smirked.

Let's see how long you can stay hidden, Professor Falconer.

---

New York - bound Flight

Zane's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as he skimmed through a newspaper.

It wasn't the headlines that caught his attention.

It was the man in the article.

James O'Malley.

A former ranger. Later an NYPD officer. A man who had once saved his life.

And now, that same man had just attacked an embassy.

---

Flashback - A Hunt Gone Wrong

The Montana wilderness was silent, its snow-covered ground bathed in cold moonlight. Zane moved with the precision of a predator, his eyes locked on his target.

This was supposed to be a simple job—one of his earliest contracts since entering the mercenary world.

The target: a rogue werewolf responsible for three wizarding families' deaths. The bounty was high, but the job itself? Straightforward. Track, neutralize, disappear.

Back then, Zane wasn't yet the hardened operative he would become. He had skill, he had intellect, but there was still an edge of inexperience.

And inexperience led to mistakes.

He struck first—fast, precise, no hesitation. His enchanted daggers cut through the air, laced with silver and spells designed to disable.

But then—the air shifted.

A sudden, sickening realization settled in.

This wasn't just a rogue werewolf.

From the surrounding darkness, eight more figures emerged, their golden eyes glowing in the moonlight.

Zane's heartbeat slowed.

A pack.

A cold fact hit him: He had been set up.

They lunged. He fought back. His spells lashed out in rapid succession, honed by rigorous training. His daggers found their mark—one wolf fell. Then another. Then another.

But it wasn't enough.

He was outnumbered.

A claw ripped through his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his body. Blood splattered across the snow. His grip weakened. A boot slipped.

Then—blackness.

---

A Stranger's Help

When he woke, his body felt like it had been through a war.

The scent of burning wood filled his nose. His wounds were wrapped—tight, expertly done.

A man sat nearby, staring at him.

"You're lucky I found you," the stranger said, his voice rough like gravel. "Thought you were dead."

Zane forced himself to sit up, ignoring the sharp sting in his ribs. His gaze locked onto the man—tall, rugged, wearing an old ranger's uniform.

This man wasn't a wizard.

Yet somehow, he had saved him.

"How long have I been here?" Zane asked, his voice hoarse.

"Three days," the man replied, tossing another log into the fire. "That pack would've finished you off if I hadn't put a bullet in the last one. Dumb bastards didn't check if you were dead before leaving."

Zane exhaled slowly, assessing the situation. He had been reckless. Too confident.

If not for this man, he wouldn't have survived.

That man was James O'Malley.

A ranger, a survivalist, a man who knew the wilderness like the back of his hand.

For a month, Zane stayed there, healing. At first, he had debated erasing O'Malley's memory. But something about the man's quiet understanding had stopped him.

Instead, Zane had told him everything.

About the hidden world. The creatures lurking in the shadows.

And James had kept his promise. Not a single word had ever left his lips.

And now, years later...

James O'Malley had attacked an embassy.

Not because someone had controlled him.

Because he had wanted to be noticed.

Which meant one thing.

James needed help.

And Zane was going to find out why.

---

Arrival in New York

As the plane touched down at JFK Airport, Zane remained seated, waiting until most passengers had exited before moving.

The moment he stepped into the restroom, he pulled out another vial of Polyjuice Potion.

Within a minute, his features shifted once more—this time into a tall, rugged man with a beard, dressed casually like an out-of-town visitor.

Perfect. No loose ends.

Casually exiting the restroom, he melted into the crowd, his mind already running through possibilities.

James had been one of the most honorable men Zane had ever met.

For him to publicly attack an embassy meant something big was happening.

And whatever it was...

Zane was going to find out.