Chapter 30

Deep beneath the London Underground, countless trains roared back and forth. The sprawling network of tunnels formed a labyrinth so vast and intricate that few truly knew its extent, or how deep it went.

Within this maze, long-forgotten sections and abandoned tunnels stretched endlessly. And hidden in one of those deserted tunnels, a newly constructed secret refuge had just been completed.

Orlens, a seasoned healer.

He had been in this profession for many years. He could still remember the person he had met in his youth, radiant, full of passion, and impossible to forget.

Serving as the healer to the Roland family had always been a source of pride for him. Watching the family rise from nothing to what it had become gave him immense satisfaction. The only regret was that his friend, the one who shone so brightly, had left this world far too soon.

Still, Orlens was comforted by one thing: the Roland family had heirs who carried the same fire.

Wooden shelves, high as the ceiling, lined two of the walls. Rows upon rows of bottles and flasks filled with potions and magical concoctions gleamed under the faint light. Every piece of equipment in the adjoining laboratory was the finest one could find.

This place, conceived and designed by Diana and Anne, was meant to serve as a transfer base: a hidden safehouse in case the Roland family ever faced attack. Here, wounds could be treated first, and if necessary, escape could follow swiftly.

The modified underground space now held three rooms, a living area, and a small kitchen: one laboratory doubling as a storage room for potions, one main bedroom, and a fully equipped treatment chamber.

Orlens was arranging bottles on the shelf, rare elixirs he had brought back from India, when a loud crack shattered the stillness of the living room.

The sound of Apparition.

At this hour?
Something’s wrong!

Orlens hurried out of the storage room.

A blood-soaked figure materialized and collapsed limply to the floor, the earpiece slipping from her hand.

“Anne?” Orlens rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground.

“Grandpa Orlens, tell Aunt Diana and Uncle Aaron—”

Her voice was faint, barely a whisper.

Supporting her weight, Orlens half-carried her toward the treatment room.

“The Order of the Phoenix… there’s… a traitor, cough, someone betrayed us—”

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The London sun still hung slanted and pale in the cold sky. The weather was raw, biting.

Deep beneath the city, in the Ministry of Magic, Aaron Hall sat in his office, frowning at a report on his desk, a Ministry directive to suppress the centaurs. He loathed it, yet had no choice but to sign it.

Just as his quill touched the parchment, his shirt pocket began to vibrate.

A new mission from the Order? What now?

Aaron pulled out his wand, locking the door with a quick charm before taking out his deputy badge.

The glowing sigil on it flashed orange, an SS-level alert.

The blood drained from Aaron’s face. He shot to his feet so fast that his chair crashed backward with a loud thud.

Anne!

He rushed to the door, yanked at the handle twice before remembering, he had just locked it himself. Taking a sharp breath, he forced himself to stay calm.

One wave of his wand unlocked the door, and he strode swiftly toward the elevator, face pale but composed.

Inside the lift to the fifth floor, the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the badge in his pocket pulsed violently. Messages flooded in from senior Order members.

“What happened?” “What’s going on?” “Is it true?”

He shut off the badge’s reception.

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Far away in a forest in Wales, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat silently at a small table inside their enchanted tent, each eating breakfast in unspoken understanding.

On the table, a magical radio crackled, broadcasting the latest uncensored news from the wizarding world.

“Good morning, listeners, it’s another day, and this is Little A sending you our warmest regards. Hey, newbie, it’s your turn to take today’s news!”

“Hey! We agreed it was my turn!” came George’s voice.

“What? Can’t we be polite to our new recruit for once?” Fred replied, his tone deliberately teasing.

“Hello, everyone, this is ‘Crown’ speaking—”

Harry and Ron couldn’t help but grin again at Xenophilius’s ridiculous self-chosen nickname. Hermione, however, continued eating her cereal without reacting.

“Today’s headlines,” George said, “include several deaths the Daily Prophet deemed ‘not worth mentioning.’ It is our painful duty to report that Dirk Cresswell was murdered, and a goblin named Gornuk has also been found dead.”

Harry and Ron’s smiles faded instantly. They ate in silence.

“At the same time,” George continued grimly, “a Muggle family of five was found dead in Cardiff. The Muggle authorities blamed a gas leak, but it’s clear the Killing Curse was used. Yet another incident, like we needed more proof, that under this new regime, slaughtering Muggles has become a form of entertainment.”

“Listeners,” Fred said solemnly, “please join us in a moment of silence for the victims.”

The three of them set down their spoons, heads bowed.

“Thank you,” George spoke again, his voice soft but firm. “And now, let’s turn to ‘Crown,’ who’ll talk about how the new wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

“Muggles continue to suffer heavy losses,” Xenophilius said, “still unaware of the true cause behind their tragedy—”

The small wooden badge on the table suddenly vibrated, making all three jump.

“What is it?” Ron asked.

Harry picked it up, glanced at the surface, and froze.

Hermione frowned. Harry’s face had gone pale as parchment. A wave of dread gripped her chest.

Ron leaned in to see, and froze too.

“What happened?” Hermione snatched the badge from Harry’s hand.

The glowing orange SS-level warning sent a chill through her entire body. Her fingers trembled; her lips went white.

She knew exactly what it meant.

As one of those directly handling the Order’s operations, Hermione understood that the SS-level alert was the highest state of emergency, signifying ultimate danger.

At that level, every Order member must go into hiding, destroy all materials related to the Order, and never again speak its name.

The alert also triggered the self-destruction protocol at the Order’s headquarters, to ensure that no information could ever leak.

If the Head of the Order had initiated this alert, it meant one of two things: either the organization had been fatally compromised or the Head themselves was gravely injured… or dead.

Once confirmed, command would pass to the Deputy, and the alert would downgrade to S-level.

The tent was deathly silent, save for the faint hum of the radio.

Then suddenly,

“I’d like to urge all—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Fred’s voice cut in, followed by another voice, deep, steady, unmistakable.

Kingsley Shacklebolt.