Harry Potter: Blood Raven

Harry drained the last of his coffee like a condemned man taking communion, then set the mug down with a sharp clink that echoed with finality.

"Neville," he said, voice low but steady, "rally the team. Tell them to meet at Fleur's workshop. Full regroup. No more owl-post, no more delays. We run drills. We share intel. We suit up and lock in."

Neville, looking like a Viking cosplaying a soldier of fortune, nodded and pulled a battered communication galleon from his coat pocket. "Right. Give me an hour. Fred and George'll take the longest. Last time I reached out before noon, they jinxed my eyebrows off."

"Well," Hermione said briskly, brushing croissant flakes off her Weasley-red jumper, "you were the one who told them you thought their new product line was 'childish.'"

"I stand by it," Neville muttered, already muttering the first incantation into the galleon.

Harry's emerald eyes glittered as he glanced around the breakfast table's battlefield—jam smears, abandoned toast, and the cursed bowl of porridge that had somehow survived three house-elves, two explosions, and one poorly aimed Summoning Charm.

"Nothing more threatening than breakfast that refuses to die," he said dryly. "We'll sic a House Elf on it when we get back."

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached into her ever-reliable beaded bag. "Focus. I brought our gear."

She pulled out two tightly-wrapped bundles of black dragonhide and tossed one to Harry. He caught it one-handed, the weight familiar and heavy with meaning.

He unfurled the bundle to reveal the armor—his armor—deep crimson and glinting obsidian, made from reinforced Ukrainian Ironbelly scales, stitched with Acromantula silk that shimmered slightly in the morning light. It flexed like cloth, but felt like wearing a promise: pain would come, but he'd survive it.

His red hood and black mask, with their expressionless white eye-lenses, stared back at him like a second soul.

Hermione already had hers on—sleek matte-black armor with subtle brown runes etched across the seams. She moved with the ease of someone who had outgrown the word "bookworm" and now answered only to legend.

"Nice threads," Daphne drawled from her seat, legs crossed with regal laziness, watching Harry shrug into his suit with clinical interest.

He looked up, grinned like a wolf. "It's dramatic. Ominous. Sexy."

"It's unnecessarily red."

"It's Gryffindor-coded."

"It's peacocking," she shot back.

"And yet, you're still staring," he said, tugging the red hood back just enough to show off a tousle of black hair and a smirk that should have been illegal.

Daphne's lips curled in a way that could have started wars. "I'm only wondering how you manage to get it over that ego."

Harry stepped closer, brushing a thumb against her cheek and coming away with a smear of strawberry jam.

"Sticky situation," he murmured, licking the jam from his thumb with infuriating slowness.

Her pupils dilated just slightly. "If you're flirting with me, Potter, try harder."

"I'm not flirting," he said, lips twitching. "This is my resting sass face."

Neville groaned from the corner. "Please. At least wait until we've survived today before you two defile the manor's furniture."

Daphne smiled sweetly. "No promises."

Hermione, tightening the leather gauntlets at her wrists, didn't look up. "Honestly. One of you's a war hero, the other's a war criminal in stilettos. Can we focus?"

Daphne cocked a brow. "Please. These are combat-ready wedges."

"You'll get your new gear at Fleur's," Hermione added, reaching for a small scroll she unrolled with a flick. "She said it's 'un style mortel.'"

"If there's fringe, I swear to Merlin—"

"No fringe," Hermione interrupted, tone clipped. "Razor-lined silk, warded seams, anti-scrying weave. Fleur pulled an all-nighter. I helped with the charms."

Daphne tilted her head, genuinely intrigued. "Tell her Skadi is grateful."

Neville looked up from his galleon. "Still going with that codename?"

Daphne's eyes glittered. "Do you have a problem with Norse goddesses of winter and vengeance?"

Neville held up his hands. "Just asking. Bit intimidating, that's all."

"Good." She smiled. "Fear is the beginning of wisdom."

Harry, now fully suited up and adjusting the clasps on his belt, flicked open a pouch and tucked the mask inside for later. He rolled his shoulders, the armor shifting silently with him like an extension of his body.

"I suppose I'll refrain from calling you 'Snowbunny' in the field then?"

Daphne stared him down. "You'll try."

He grinned. "Skadi it is."

Hermione pulled her hood up, runes shimmering faintly as it settled over her curls. "Neville?"

"Messages are out. Ron and Luna were already up. The rest... well, Fred and George sent me a drawing of a middle finger made out of fireworks, so I assume they got the memo."

Harry walked toward Daphne, pausing just before they Apparated. "Last chance to back out," he said softly.

She looked up at him. "If I were backing out, you'd already be dead, and I'd be ruling whatever ash heap Riddle left behind with a glass of champagne in hand and a knife in my garter."

He leaned close, so close his breath grazed her cheek. "I love it when you talk dirty."

She smirked. "Keep dreaming, Potter."

"Every night."

"Oi," Neville muttered. "Some of us haven't had our third coffee."

Hermione gave him a look. "You've had three?"

Neville just shrugged. "I'm a Hufflepuff in a warzone. Leave me my coping mechanisms."

They stood in a loose square, magical tension buzzing in the air like storm clouds waiting to break.

Harry looked around at them—his family, his fighters, his future.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Always," Hermione said, voice steady as stone.

"Born for it," Daphne replied, flipping her hair with imperial grace.

Neville gave a tired grin. "Just try not to die before I do."

Harry chuckled, then took a final look around the breakfast table. The sunlight glinted on the silver butter knife, and somewhere, inexplicably, the porridge plopped again.

They vanished with four thunderclaps of Apparition—

—leaving behind the warm scent of toast, the still-uneaten bowl of porridge that defied the natural order,

and a silence that tasted like the calm before the storm.

—

The world snapped back into being with a rush of displaced air and the scent of old magic—coppery, electric, and edged with ozone. They landed on rune-scribed granite set like ancient bones before a building that looked like it had been carved into the highland cliffs by a dragon with architectural aspirations. Sleek curves met brutalist lines in a structure equal parts sanctuary, forge, and fortress.

Fleur's workshop.

The obsidian-reinforced doors parted with a whisper, reacting to their magical signatures as though the building itself recognized who was worthy of entrance. Inside, the air was heavy with molten metal, exotic spell-oils, and dragonhide. Sound shimmered around them—runes buzzing faintly, enchanted tools clinking in the hands of darting House Elves, some of whom wore leather smocks and goggles far too large for their faces.

Suits of armor lined the walls like slumbering titans. Each one bore distinct runes, filigreed enchantments, and enough presence to make a Hungarian Horntail think twice.

And there, standing like he'd just sauntered out of an action movie adaptation of Norse mythology, was Bill Weasley. His dragonhide armor was worn, comfortably molded to his frame, every scuff a badge of honor. Tattoos curled along his arms—one definitely looked like a Basilisk yawning, another pulsed with anti-curse magic. His long red hair was tied back in a rough leather thong, and the stubble on his jaw looked rugged enough to sharpen a blade on.

"Well," Bill said, eyeing the group with a smirk that screamed big-brother menace. "Look who finally decided to upgrade from breakfast to battlefield."

Harry strode forward with an easy grin, emerald eyes gleaming beneath his tousled black hair. "Morning, Bill. Still brooding like you're auditioning for the next season of 'Highland Heartthrobs'?"

Bill snorted and clasped Harry's forearm. "Better brooding than babysitting idiots who think saying 'please' makes Dark Magic polite."

Neville whistled low, eyes tracing the runes on Bill's exposed biceps. "I need a Curse-Breaker friend who looks like Thor's hotter older brother."

"Keep dreaming, Longbottom," Hermione murmured, adjusting her enchanted vambrace.

"Right," Harry said, grinning. "How's the family? Still the usual mix of chaos, freckles, and enough drama to fuel a soap opera?"

Bill chuckled. "More or less. Percy's still convinced he's the smartest in the room, Charlie's still covered in burns and dating dragons—literally. Ginny's playing Quidditch, dating some guy who thinks sarcasm is foreplay."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And Ron?"

There was a beat—a pause filled with a flicker of something unreadable behind Bill's blue eyes. Then:

"He's... Ron. Keeper for the Cannons. Convinced this is their year. Dating Lavender Brown now."

Neville made a face. "Please tell me he doesn't still call her 'Lav-Lav'."

Bill grimaced. "Only when he's not too busy drooling over Fleur. Even when she's got soot on her nose and a hammer the size of his confidence issues."

Daphne twirled a blade she'd conjured from somewhere unseen. "Men have died for less."

That was when the temperature shifted. The very air changed, scented now with rosewood, firewhisky, and something ancient and intoxicating.

Fleur Delacour-Weasley entered like a spell made flesh—equal parts runway model, goddess of war, and sovereign of this enchanted domain. Her sleeveless leather apron was stained with ash, alchemical residue, and confidence. Her platinum-blonde hair was braided into a crown that shimmered beneath the enchanted lights, and her eyes—icy blue, sharp and intelligent—cut across the room like twin blades.

She stopped in front of Harry without a word, flicked his cloak aside, and began inspecting his armor like he was a student and she was the professor of Tactical Perfection.

"You 'ave not reapplied ze reinforcement runes here," she said, tapping the shoulder seam with a soot-stained, perfectly manicured nail. "Ze stitching is fraying. And bloodstains? Really, 'Arry. Did you wear zis into battle or a nightclub?"

Harry's grin didn't fade. "Bit of both. Depending on the drinks menu."

She gave him a look that would make Voldemort flinch.

Then she turned to Hermione.

"Très bien," Fleur murmured, inspecting her vambrace. "Sigils, polished. Wards, maintained. Binding oil—fresh. Good work."

Hermione straightened, flushed slightly. "I added a shock absorption enchantment. Just in case we face another kinetic curse barrage."

Fleur's nod was brief but unmistakably approving. "You are wasted on books."

"You say that every time."

"And every time, I am right."

Then her gaze landed on Neville. She looked at his scuffed boots, the slightly-too-loose coat, and the faint aura of caffeine and impending anxiety.

"I will make you something fireproof," she said, gently. "And maybe... charm-proof."

"And sexy," Daphne added from the back.

"Preferably not both," Neville muttered.

Finally, Fleur turned to Daphne Greengrass.

Daphne stood like a woman who'd walked out of a noir film and buried the hero for being too predictable. Silk blouse under dragonhide, black trousers that screamed danger in fluent French, and an expression that mixed mild disdain with dark amusement.

"You," Fleur said, "will get yours soon. It is almost ready. Too many knives."

"There's no such thing," Daphne replied, smirking.

Harry's eyes lingered on her. The heat between them crackled, even here, even now. They hadn't spoken since the last mission ended with a kiss against a wall and a mutual agreement to not discuss it.

"So," she said, voice low and smooth as poisoned honey. "You going to stop ogling and buy me dinner, or do I have to seduce someone else into bleeding for me?"

Harry stepped closer, barely a foot away now. "Depends. You still like rooftop candlelight, cursed wine, and mid-battle flirtation?"

Her grin was slow and dangerous. "Only if there's dessert."

"Then I'll bring chocolate-covered phoenix feathers and something to scream about."

Hermione groaned. "Can you two not flirt like a Bond movie with a body count?"

Neville muttered, "I feel like I should be taking notes or running away. Possibly both."

Bill chuckled. "Flirt later. Fleur looks like she's about to drop a prophecy."

Fleur led them deeper into the sanctum. House Elves floated past, arms full of dragon-scale pauldrons and vials of glowing oils. The inner room was warded thrice over, sigils blazing with active enchantment.

She pointed to a table. "Hydrate. Sit. Zere is wine. And I 'ave news."

Harry tilted his head. "Good news or 'start writing your will' news?"

Fleur's eyes glinted with the promise of chaos. "Ze kind that makes porridge seem like a mercy."

Harry sighed. "I knew that porridge was evil."

Daphne leaned closer to him, lips at his ear. "If we die, I'm haunting you."

Harry smirked. "Promise?"

—

A soft pop sliced through the tension like a sabre through silk. A House Elf appeared, goggles still perched on her brow, her leather apron smudged with soot and iron shavings.

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Fleur," she chimed, voice like windchimes over glacier water. "The Skadi Armor, the Blood Raven Armor, and ze Arrow Armor are being brought to ze Viewing Room, as requested."

Fleur inclined her head, eyes gleaming. "Merci, Brindle. We will be zere shortly."

Harry squinted. "Wait—Blood Raven Armor?"

Fleur turned, the corners of her lips curling into a smug, devastating smirk—the kind that said she'd been waiting days for that question.

"Oui," she said smoothly. "You are wearing ze prototype, mon cœur. Functional, yes. But temporary. Your magical aura is… disruptive."

He glanced down at the faint scarring along the left pauldron and the threadbare lining around his ribs. "I thought that was aesthetic."

She gave a laugh that was equal parts amused and scandalized. "Aesthetic? 'Arry, zat armor is unraveling faster than your Occlumency practice. You need something better. Something bonded. Something alive. Something made of Basilisk Hide."

He blinked. "You built me new armor without telling me?"

Fleur arched a brow, the gesture so perfectly practiced it should've come with a runway and a warning label. "Would you 'ave said yes if I did?"

"… Probably not."

"Exactement."

Hermione, seated on the sofa with a tea cup in one hand and an open runic ledger in the other, didn't even look up. "She has a point, Harry."

"Don't encourage her," he muttered.

Bill, lounging in the doorway like a red-haired Viking demigod, let out a chuckle. "We've learned to just nod and hand her the hammer."

"But seriously," Harry frowned. "Where'd you get Basilisk hide? Last I checked, Diagon Alley doesn't have that on their clearance rack next to the Fanged Frisbees."

Fleur's smile turned feral. "I took it. From ze carcass you left rotting in that castle's oubliette like a discarded shoe. Mon dieu, 'Arry. Monstrous remains are valuable. Also a Class Five biohazard."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "That thing was massive. You salvaged it?"

"I repurposed it," she said primly. "You impaled it so elegantly—straight through ze mouth. Zat is ze only place ze skin is not invulnerable. It is light. Flexible. Resistant. Like dragonhide if it went to a Paris fashion house and came back with a superiority complex."

Neville, broad-shouldered and quietly leaning against a bookshelf with the calm of a man who'd tamed man-eating plants, raised a brow. "So, let me get this straight. Harry's going to be walking around wearing a skin suit made from a sixty-foot death noodle?"

"Oui," Fleur confirmed. "One he killed. At twelve."

"I still say I'm not tough," Harry muttered. "The snake bit me."

Hermione shot him a dry look. "And then a phoenix cried on you, which healed you. Most people don't have magical birds that double as emotional support animals and portable defibrillators."

Harry smirked. "What can I say? Fawkes had excellent taste. Tragic fashion sense, though. Too much red."

Daphne, lounging in an armchair across from him, gave a purr of laughter and tilted her head. "Bit like you, really."

Harry turned to her, smile slow and lopsided. "Are you comparing me to a mythical flaming bird with unresolved trauma and boundary issues?"

Her lips curved. "I'm saying you burst into flames at the worst possible moments and look good while doing it."

He winked. "Flattered. But I only combust when you're nearby."

She didn't blush. Daphne never blushed. Instead, she uncrossed her legs, recrossed them deliberately slower, and murmured, "Then I'll make sure I'm always within striking range."

Hermione made a gagging noise. "Can you two not flirt like you're starring in a noir film where everyone ends up dead or pregnant?"

Daphne didn't even glance over. "Don't be jealous, Granger. He's just not into encyclopedias."

"Actually," Harry said, lifting his tea cup. "Books are sexy. It's the footnotes that get me."

Neville snorted into his scone.

Before Hermione could retort with something that would probably involve statistics, Fleur's tone shifted. Her teasing warmth faded like twilight into steel-edged focus.

"I received word last night," she said, setting her tea aside with deliberate care. "From my cousins in ze Carpathians. Old Veela blood. They still guard ze forgotten places. And they say… zere is movement."

Hermione straightened. "Movement?"

Fleur nodded. "Ancient Pureblood lines. Parselmouths. Ones we thought long dead. Zey are relocating—to England."

Harry's jaw tensed. "Then it's confirmed."

Bill's arms folded across his chest, voice low. "Confirmed? You already knew?"

Harry looked around the room, meeting their gazes in turn. "They're working with the Legati Noctis. Draco and Theo are fronting them—but I don't think they're in charge."

Neville's tone darkened. "They're planning something big. Old magic. Forbidden. Worse than Horcruxes."

Hermione nodded tightly. "They're trying to bring Voldemort back."

Bill's hand twitched toward his wand. "What?"

Harry raised a hand. "Not him. Not exactly. They're trying to bring back his legacy. Through… his daughter."

Fleur's lips parted. She blinked once. "Voldemort 'ad a child?"

Bill's voice was flat. "Wait, he had a daughter? With who?"

Harry stared at them. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

The silence that followed was dense. Cosmic.

Finally, Bill said slowly, "I didn't know Voldemort had a functioning dick."

Harry coughed into his tea. "Same."

Fleur just muttered in French, "Ce monde est foutu."

Hermione looked queasy. "They're turning the girl into a living tether. Like a Horcrux—but worse. It's necromantic possession via bloodline."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Why is it always the creepy aristocrats and incest-fueled death cults trying to resurrect snake-faced genocidal maniacs?"

Neville mumbled, "We need a checklist. 'Stop Voldemort's Bastard Resurrection Plan #97'."

Harry's lips twisted into a grim smile. "They named her Delphini. She's been trained. Raised in secret. Indoctrinated. But…"

"But what?" Fleur asked, voice sharp as glass.

"She's different," Harry said. "Less unhinged. For now. But powerful. And if they succeed—"

"They will not," Fleur interrupted, eyes like winter lightning. "We will not allow it."

Another sharp crack interrupted them. A different House Elf, this one in a miniature waistcoat and holding a silver clipboard, appeared at her elbow.

"Apologies, Mistress. Ze armors are ready. Ze Viewing Room is prepared."

Fleur rose to her full height, something ancient and regal in her bearing.

"Then let us see what we have wrought," she said, voice low, lethal. "Before ze world ends again."

Harry stood, adjusting his collar. He looked over at Daphne, whose gaze met his with slow, predatory amusement.

"If it does end," he said lightly, "I'm haunting you first."

She smirked. "Just make it sexy, Potter."

Hermione groaned. "We need stricter necromantic laws."

As the group moved, footsteps echoing in the corridor lit with shifting runes and soft white fire, the air shimmered with magic, purpose, and far too much sarcasm.

War was coming.

And this time, they weren't going in with school robes and luck.

They were going in armored.

And maybe—just maybe—with matching color palettes.

—

The chamber looked like a gothic cathedral had drunkenly married the Batcave and their honeymoon was spent experimenting with magic-infused tech.

Arched ceilings ribbed with silver-veined obsidian reached high into the air, like the bones of some long-dead dragon. Runes the size of dinner plates hummed with soft blue light. Crystal panels paved the floor—some clear, revealing the complex circuitry beneath; others inscribed with moving runic glyphs that adjusted to whoever walked above them.

Dominating the center were three raised platforms, evenly spaced in a crescent moon arc. Two were already unveiled. One was still covered in a velvet cloth the color of dried blood, and it pulsed like it had a heartbeat.

Fleur stepped forward, heels echoing like the tick of a time bomb.

"First," she said, voice dipped in silk and steel, "ze Arrow Armor."

A gesture from her hand—elegant, casual, lethal—and the nearest platform lit up with a soft hum. Light cascaded down from the rafters like sunlight through cathedral glass.

There it stood.

A forest green bodysuit, matte, brutal, and undeniably sexy in that "I might murder you in an alley and you'd thank me" way. Black paneling hugged the joints—shoulders, elbows, ribs, knees—trimmed in aged gold, like class had been to war and came back hungrier. The hood, draped low over the mannequin's faceless skull, shimmered with concealment runes that flickered like starlight caught in oil.

Harry gave a low whistle. "Oliver's gonna weep tears of joy and insecurity."

Daphne stepped up beside him, blonde hair tied in a loose braid, black leather gloves tucked into her belt like she'd just come from interrogating a minor warlord. Her eyes, the color of expensive whiskey and bad decisions, slid over the armor with deliberate interest.

"He'll get over it," she said, voice lazy and velvet-smooth. "Or he won't. Either way, I win."

Hermione adjusted her jacket—charcoal tweed, naturally—and stepped closer, eyes already cataloguing the details like she was mentally writing a research paper about it.

"Utility belt has wandless activation points," she noted. "Enchanted locking mechanisms keyed to a magical signature. I'm assuming—"

Fleur nodded. "Only works if attuned. So either one of you darling know-it-alls—" she looked at Hermione and Daphne, "—charges it for him… or 'Arry does it himself."

Harry smirked, folding his arms. "You're giving me homework on my own armor now?"

"Think of it as magical foreplay," Daphne muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He choked on absolutely nothing. "Please say that louder for the room."

She turned to him, smirking. "Please focus, darling. Some of us are trying to save the world in style."

Neville—massive, broad-shouldered, and wearing an expression of mild, garden-variety confusion—grunted approvingly.

"Looks like it'd stop a Bludger," he said.

"Or a bad date," Harry added.

"Is there a difference?" Bill asked, voice deep, amused, and unfairly attractive in that I wrestle dragons and read poetry sort of way.

Fleur gave him a look that practically smoked. "Only ze stakes."

Hermione glanced toward the hood. "What about identity masking? Voice scrambling?"

Fleur's smile was all dangerous teeth. "Triggered by skin contact. Distorts Muggle AI, magical tracking, facial recognition, and charm surveillance. Voice modulation makes him sound like…" She tilted her head, considering. "A thunderstorm learning how to swear."

Harry wiggled his eyebrows. "So, me before coffee."

"You before anything," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "But with less charm."

Harry leaned closer to her. "Don't get jealous of my chaos, sweetheart. It's part of the brand."

Daphne tilted her head up, their faces almost comically close. "Jealous? Please. I bottle chaos. I bathe in it. I exfoliate with it."

Bill coughed into his fist. "Could we maybe not flirt in front of the Death Armor?"

"Fine," Fleur cut in sharply, spinning on her heel. "Zen let us continue. Ze Skadi Armor."

Spotlights shifted—this time a wash of glacial blue that shimmered like moonlight on snow.

The second platform lit up, and the temperature seemed to drop two degrees.

The suit that shimmered into view was white and arctic blue, patterned in spiraling Norse runes that looked carved from winter itself. It was sleek, minimal, skin-tight—more second skin than armor—and moved with the grace of a blade sheathed in ice. It looked like something a snowstorm would wear to war.

"Fireproof. Frostproof. Impervious to most elemental magic," Fleur said. "Crafted from Chinese Fireball hide, treated with White Wyvern resin, and stitched with reinforced Acromantula silk. Woven by moonlight. Blessed by my grandmother. Enchanted by dwarves who don't like you."

Neville blinked. "That's a… lot."

"Like most exes," Harry quipped.

Daphne smirked. "I've worn tighter."

Harry's head whipped around so fast he practically gave himself whiplash. "Where? When? Who do I kill?"

She smiled slowly. "Jealousy. Cute."

Hermione stepped in, trying to keep the tone academic and failing. "Those runes—are they all inscribed by hand?"

"Oui," Fleur nodded. "Each one sealed with intention. Vengeance, protection, rage. And—how you say—emotional regulation. You do not feel ze cold in this armor…"

She stepped closer, eyes locked with Harry's, voice dropping into a low, husky cadence.

"…ze cold feels you."

He blinked. "Is it weird that I'm slightly turned on and terrified?"

"It's you," Daphne whispered beside him, mock-sympathetic. "That's your factory setting."

Bill laughed. "Just don't try and take her out to dinner in it."

"Do not assume it cannot be both," Fleur said, arching an eyebrow.

Hermione sighed. "We really need stricter laws about Veela multi-classing into fashion design."

Then—

Silence.

Fleur turned to the final platform.

The velvet cloth covering it pulsed faintly, like it was alive. Like it breathed. The air around it seemed thicker, charged, crackling with something not quite lightning, not quite magic.

Her heels clicked three times. And then she stopped.

Her voice dropped an octave, velvet over razors.

"And now… ze pièce de résistance."

No flourish. No spell.

Just a name.

"Brindle."

There was a pop—and the House Elf appeared beside the platform. She wore brass goggles, oversized gloves, and a tool belt larger than her torso. Her hands trembled as she stepped forward.

She reached up.

Gripped the edge of the velvet.

And pulled.

The lights died.

Blackout.

—

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

A single rune flared red on the third platform, pulsing once like a heartbeat. Then another. And another. A chain of blood-red light, ancient and angry, ignited across the floor—like veins awakening beneath a glass skin.

And then—

The velvet cloth didn't move.

It simply ceased to exist.

Not pulled. Not torn. Just—gone.

Evaporated like ash in a dragon's breath.

The silence that followed was unnatural. Expectant. As if the room itself was holding its breath.

And in the center—

The armor stood revealed.

Tall. Imposing. Still. Like a war god mid-prayer.

The new Blood Raven armor.

The red: deeper now, almost predatory. It shimmered with a wet gleam, as if it had been birthed, not forged—bled into existence. The armored segments were jagged, tessellated—like scales. No. Not like.

Exactly like.

"Basilisk," Harry muttered, eyes narrowing, voice thick with memory. He knew that pattern like he knew his own heartbeat.

The black was no less alive—midnight-soft, yet humming with arcane force. It clung to the bodysuit like it had been poured onto skin, stitched with runes that whispered promises of death delivered without warning.

The pauldrons were broader, swept back and forward like wings of steel. Sleek. Aerodynamic. Reinforced but elegant. The gauntlets gleamed, layered, hiding holsters beneath the plates. His wands—one stubborn, the other supreme—would rest there soon. Like fangs sheathed. Waiting.

The hood lay dormant, coiled behind the neck like a panther crouched in shadow. But Harry knew—once raised, it would fuse. Mask and cowl becoming one. A predator's visage—sealed, white-lensed, silent.

The lenses blinked. Once. Silver runes slithered across their surface in serpentine patterns—whispers of battle-readiness.

Threat-profile locked.

Mission-clear.

Kill-mode: Optional.

"Bloody hell," Neville muttered, sounding like someone who'd just walked into a cathedral made of violence. "It's like if vengeance was sexy."

Daphne tilted her head, the corner of her lip curving upward like a promise wrapped in sin. Her blonde hair shimmered under the rune-light. "Vengeance is sexy," she purred. "But that?"

She stepped closer.

"That is seduction wrapped in murder, wrapped in a ten-year vendetta wearing blood-red stilettos."

Harry didn't turn. Didn't smile. Just stared at the armor like it might blink.

"I suddenly feel like my old suit was just a posh Halloween costume," he said. His voice, dry. British Sass: Maximum Setting.

Fleur said nothing.

She didn't have to.

The silence was heavy. Reverent.

This wasn't just armor. It was a declaration.

A thesis on wrath.

A spell forged of venom and vengeance.

Harry circled it slowly. Carefully. Like it might reach out and bite.

"So this is basilisk hide armor," he said. Not asked. Just said.

Fleur inclined her head, every line of her body fluid, predatory, impossibly elegant. "From ze one you killed. Preserved. Alchemized. Transfigured at ze molecular level. I waited... until you were ready for it."

Hermione, wide-eyed and glassy like someone staring into the sun, stepped forward. Her fingers hovered in the air, as if scared to touch it.

"The black part," she breathed. "That's from the belly, isn't it? Still magic-resistant. Still stronger than dragonhide. Just... more forgiving. More flexible."

Daphne snorted. "Like Harry in bed."

Harry didn't miss a beat. "Flexible, yes. Forgiving? Darling, we both know better."

Daphne's grin sharpened. "That's why I'm still here."

Neville choked.

Bill, lounging near the wall, arms crossed over a broad chest that screamed I lift curses and boulders, whistled low. "So the red's the skull plates?"

"Oui," Fleur confirmed. "Diamond-hard. Spell-reflective. Bladeproof. Fireproof. Cursed to rupture anything zat touches it without your intent."

Daphne's fingers ghosted the crimson scales. "Mmm. Like me at a Ministry Gala."

"Hard. Dangerous. Sharp?" Harry quipped.

Daphne batted her lashes. "And usually surrounded by people who want to die."

Bill chuckled. "This armor's practically mythic-tier trauma couture."

"Utility belt?" Harry asked, tone curious, but eyes still locked on the armor.

"Expanded," Fleur said, proudly. "Rune slots. Healing draught injectors. Grappling charm launcher. Anti-Portkey wards. Automatic smoke-veil. And…"

She leaned forward.

"A little surprise I call ze Bitch Button."

Harry raised a brow. "Please tell me it doesn't do what I think it does."

"It turns every rune in ze suit into a flashbang, repulsion ward, cloaking field, and temporary teleport disruptor. All at once."

Harry blinked. "...I need that tattooed on my chest."

"Or lower," Daphne murmured.

"I'm not sure that's where the button is located, but I'm willing to conduct... field research," Harry said, winking.

Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "You two need a room and I need earplugs."

Harry turned to her, grin cocky. "Can't help it, 'Mione. Some of us were born to flirt with danger."

She sniffed. "Just try not to get blood on the floors. Again."

"The mask?" he asked Fleur.

"Adaptive," she said. "Voice modulation—pitch, cadence, accent. You can sound like a Death Eater, a GPS with attitude, or Ze French President."

Harry's grin widened. "Finally. I can prank-call Voldemort's grave and say, 'You've been evicted.'"

Hermione blinked. "That... might actually work."

"The eyes?" Harry asked.

"Linked to scrying runes," Fleur said. "Heat vision. Magic detection. Soul resonance. Scrollable interface. Encrypted HUD."

Daphne exhaled like she was letting go of a kink she didn't know she had. "You've turned him into the bastard child of Batman, Geralt, and bloody vengeance."

Neville raised a brow. "Sounds about right."

Hermione looked worried. "Harry, if you die in this, I swear I will haunt your stupid arse."

Harry finally turned to her. Smirk firmly in place. "If I die in this, Death's going to need backup."

He stepped onto the platform.

The armor moved.

Subtle. Anticipating. Like it knew him.

The mannequin shimmered—illusion unraveling. The armor hung there, suspended in a cradle of rune-light.

Harry extended his hand.

The armor came to him.

Gauntlets snapped forward first, locking onto his arms with a satisfying hiss. The bodysuit flowed like shadow, wrapping around his frame, absorbing into muscle and sinew. Red plates clicked into place—shoulders, chest, thighs—like dragon-scale, locking in.

The mask hovered.

Paused.

And then—with a whisper of wind—it sealed onto his face.

The white lenses flared.

The hood rose.

Coiled.

Fused.

Complete.

Blood Raven reborn.

The room didn't just exhale—it whimpered.

Daphne stared at him, hunger dancing in her eyes like wildfire. "Okay," she said softly, throat dry. "That's not fair. You're not allowed to look like a sexy apocalypse."

Harry tilted his head toward her. His voice came out low. Calm. Inhuman.

Like thunder politely knocking.

"I am vengeance," he said. "I am justice. I am the fucking dress code."

Bill laughed, full and booming. "He's going to love this."

Fleur looked smug. "Of course 'e will. It was made for him."

And in the sacred stillness, the hum of runes, the promise of war—

Blood Raven stood.

And the world felt more ready.

For fire. For fury.

For him.

---

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