Discimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Hellsing series

  When dawn finally broke on January 8, 1989, the wizarding side of London woke to a crisp, cold wind that rattled the eaves and swirled the lingering residue of streetmp fog across slick cobblestones. At first gnce, the wintry sky promised little more than another brisk day in January—yet behind drawn shutters and discreet wards, a man known to the world as Albus Dumbledore felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

  In his private office at Hogwarts, he closed his eyes against the morning's pale light filtering through the stained-gss windows. For a long moment, he simply breathed, forcing his mind to slow. Outside, an owl tapped insistently against the gss, beak ccking on the frosty pane, but the Headmaster ignored it. His focus remained on the folded copy of The Daily Prophet in his trembling hands. Long, delicate fingers—too often a symbol of paternal gentleness—now clenched the paper with unmistakable tension.

  He had read the headline three times already. He could practically recite it: Prominent Wizard "Marvolo Slytherin" Shocks Society—A Mysterious Benefactor or a New Pyer?

  Every detail on the front page seared itself into Dumbledore's memory: the blocky print, the flourish of swirling script beneath a glossy photograph, the figure in that photograph wearing an expression both assured and calm. With a weight settling in his chest, Dumbledore trailed one finger across the small, bck-and-white image of the man. The wizard shown was in his early thirties, dark hair carefully combed back, his posture regal, his expression guarded. The lightning in the photograph wasn't fshy—just ordinary wizarding photography with subtle movements, but the slightest tilt of the man's head and the ephemeral arch of a brow sent a jolt of recognition through Dumbledore's gut. This face, handsome yet edged with quiet intensity, mirrored the youthful visage of Tom Riddle before he had cimed the name Lord Voldemort.

  Dumbledore's lips pressed into a thin line. He breathed carefully, recalling, unbidden, the memory of a bright, promising student half a century prior—a teenager whose ambition glowed behind courteous smiles and mild manners. That ambition had spread like poison in the years that followed, manifesting in bloodshed under the moniker "Voldemort." Yet this photograph, so reminiscent of Riddle's face, dispyed a man alive—and apparently untainted by the ravages that had once twisted him into the snake-like figure of the Dark Lord. The dissonance made Dumbledore's scalp prickle with dread.

  A scratchy crackling accompanied the logs in his firepce, and he turned, reflexively, scanning the cluttered expanse of his office. Books, silver instruments, whirring contraptions—every corner crowded with the wizard's favored tools. Yet the morning's hush felt oppressive now, as if each device was judging him for his failure to anticipate such a development. He sank into the rge, burgundy armchair behind his desk, releasing the breath he had held. The copy of the Daily Prophet fluttered from his hands to rest on a stack of notes, the photograph's occupant continuing to shift subtly in that magical motionless motion, as wizarding pictures do.

  A single question thundered in Dumbledore's mind: How is Tom Riddle alive in this guise, so youthful, so bold, so... visible?

  The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. For a moment, he was transported back to a younger time—Tom Riddle standing in a Transfiguration cssroom, his posture impeccable, answering questions with the self-assured tone of a genius. A wave of guilt mixed with anger coursed through Dumbledore. Had he nurtured that brilliance only to see it transform into cruelty? Had he allowed something to slip through his vigince?

  He swallowed these old pangs. He had more immediate concerns. His role in shaping certain events—arranging for a prophecy, maniputing families, constructing illusions—must never come to light, not if he was to preserve his reputation and keep controlling the chessboard. If Tom Riddle had truly regained a physical form under the name "Marvolo Slytherin," it threatened everything Dumbledore had built. Worse, it might expose what he had intended for Harry Potter if the boy ever surfaced. He rubbed his temples, conjuring a feeling of calm, though a faint tremor lingered in his fingers.

  Leaning forward, he scanned the Prophet article again. The text praised "Marvolo Slytherin" as a newly arrived wizard from abroad, phinthropic in his dealings, rumored to be the benefactor of small wizarding orphanages and some half-blood initiatives. Dumbledore scowled, disbelieving. He spotted carefully pced details about Slytherin's supposed lineage—descendant of an ancient line, they said. The more he read, the more he recognized the cunning hand behind the cims. The notion that Tom Riddle would position himself as a charitable figure smacked of perverse irony, a veneer behind which an old cunning lurked. No, Dumbledore understood precisely how Riddle worked. Riddle never did anything without a pn.

  He set the paper aside, rose to his feet, and paced across the intricate rug. Each footstep nded with uncharacteristic heaviness. He had to be cautious—no accusations without evidence. The wizarding public would never believe him if he decred, Yes, Marvolo Slytherin is actually Lord Voldemort, who is decades older and should be hideous from dark magic. They'd call it senility, or paranoia, especially given the hero's reputation Dumbledore had crafted for himself. No, if he wanted to remove this threat quietly, he needed proof. He needed to confirm beyond doubt that this man was truly Tom Riddle returned. He also needed to ensure that Harry Potter—wherever that elusive boy might be—remained under Dumbledore's ultimate control.

  His breath turned ragged, but he forced it steady. Summoning a small, enchanted quill from a drawer, he began scratching out coded letters to a select few. The hush of the quill's feather brushing against parchment belied the turbulence in his thoughts. He stamped each missive with an ancient seal, ensuring that only the intended recipient could read it. Old allies, old members of the Order, individuals in the Ministry who still owed him favors—he needed them now. If Riddle is back, I must find Harry, he thought, an urgent cngor in his mind. The boy must not slip beyond my reach, or all is lost.

  Each letter burned with subdued urgency, sealed with a gentle puff of shimmering wax. As he affixed the st envelope, he paused, eyes darting to a silver contraption on a side table—an outdated device that once tracked wards pced on the Dursley home. It had stopped spinning meaningfully long ago, and try as he might, Dumbledore had not managed to recalibrate it. The Dursleys had lost the boy; the wards had colpsed. And now, in a world where a resurrected Tom Riddle might roam free, the thought that Harry could be anywhere made Dumbledore's stomach twist with genuine apprehension. If Riddle reached Potter first, or if Potter was beyond Dumbledore's designs, the entire prophecy might unravel. He mentally weighed the cost of each day that passed without finding the child.

  He flicked his wand, sending the coded letters away via a specialized courier owl. The office door swung shut behind them, rattling like a final pronouncement. Dumbledore exhaled, turning to stare at the aging portraits of previous Headmasters along the walls. Their painted eyes flicked anxiously, but none spoke. In the quiet, he could almost sense them accusing him: You let your control slip, Albus. You let that child vanish. Now see the consequences.

  He ignored the phantom scolding, focusing instead on the next steps: stealthily gather intelligence, watch for any sign of "Marvolo Slytherin," and above all else, discover Harry Potter's location. If that meant using unorthodox or morally murky spells, so be it. This was war, after all, and the greater good demanded that he remain in control.

  As the pale morning light rose higher across Hogwarts's spires, Dumbledore withdrew further into his office, swallowing the dread that churned in his gut. He could not show the world his arm. He would proceed methodically, cloaking each move. The hum of frantic energy in the corridor outside was a reminder that csses continued, that staff and students still looked to him as the wise, unshakeable Headmaster. He forced himself to present calm. But behind that oak door, he plotted, hands csped behind his back, eyes narrowed. The name "Marvolo Slytherin" resonated in the silence, a specter from the past come to life.

  Unbeknownst to him, events in the Muggle world were marching just as swiftly, though in a wholly different direction.

  Far from the snowy expanse of Hogwarts's grounds, winter draped the manicured wns of Hellsing Manor in a glittering hush. On the same frosty morning of January 8, the estate awakened to the sound of quiet footfalls and hushed voices, the kind that spoke to deeply held secrets and intense preparations. Indoors, the warm glow of sconces reflected off polished marble, and staff passed purposefully through corridors, mindful of the new schedules that Integra and Walter had devised in recent weeks.

  In a rge drawing room near the manor's heart, the curtains had been drawn to let in the dull January sunlight. The tang of cold clung to the windows, forming a thin yer of condensation. Flickering candles on a long, oval table chased away the gloom, revealing the silhouettes of a gathering of wizards and witches who had arrived discreetly over the past few days. Their robes varied in style—some wore simple, travel-worn cloaks, while others sported tailored regalia reminiscent of older traditions. At the head of this assembly sat Marvolo, posture straight, arms resting on the table as he surveyed the group with calm intensity. The setting contrasted sharply with the grand, modern look of Hellsing Manor, but the tension in the air mingled the two worlds seamlessly.

  Harry perched on a smaller chair at the far end, half-hidden by the curve of the table. Though he remained quiet, his eyes flicked from face to face, searching for signs of sincerity or duplicity. He still wrestled with the complexities of his new life—no longer a downtrodden orphan, but not quite a conventional wizard child either. Next to him stood Integra, her gloved hand occasionally resting on the chair's back, a silent statement of her watchful authority. Alucard loomed in the corner, wearing his habitual crimson coat, an almost zy posture disguising lethal readiness.

  The hush deepened as Marvolo began to speak. His voice was steady, each sylble measured: "I've asked you here because our world stands at a crossroads. Many of you know me from older times. Some of you have doubted my intentions. Let me be clear: I once bore a name that inspired terror, but it was a name shaped by maniputions and pain I did not fully comprehend. Today, I seek a different path."

  He paused, letting the echoes of his words settle. A flicker of regret crossed his features, genuine enough to still the faint murmurs from the gathering. In the faint candlelight, one could see a tension in his jaw, as if each admission cost him an ounce of pride. "I was Tom Riddle, who ter became Lord Voldemort. I was guided—nay, twisted—by Dumbledore's maniputions from early on, steered by a prophecy that led me to commit atrocities. You need not believe all of this, but I show you enough truth to earn your trust."

  A thin, elderly witch with silver hair and a resolute gaze stood slowly, the tip of her cane ccking against the floor. Her voice, reedy yet unyielding, broke the silence. "I recall hearing rumors. Stories of your cunning, your madness. Yet none spoke of Dumbledore's role in your fall. Why should we believe this?" Her question didn't carry outright hostility, but there was caution in her eyes.

  Marvolo inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Believe me or not, that choice is yours. But I ask: look at the wizarding Britain we have now. Dumbledore wields influence from Hogwarts to the Ministry, all while maintaining an image of grandfatherly wisdom. Is it truly the paradise you hoped for? Or do you see the quiet strangution of personal freedoms, the exploitation of orphans, half-bloods, and families that question him? In my past ignorance, I contributed to that system's darker edges. I do not come to you with a clean record but with a fervent desire to unravel his maniputions at st."

  One or two wizards at the table exchanged gnces. In the hush that followed, the pop of burning logs in the firepce sounded unnaturally loud. The silver-haired witch lowered her cane. "I have seen enough of Dumbledore's discreet maneuverings to suspect he's no saint. If we can confirm your sincerity... perhaps we can talk further." Her words seemed to signal cautious acceptance among the others.

  A younger wizard leaned forward, brushing dark curls from his forehead. His voice trembled just slightly. "If we stand against Dumbledore, we risk everything—our positions, our families. The wizarding world sees him as its moral compass."

  Marvolo nodded. "Precisely why we must proceed carefully. We do not decre open war. We gather allies, we reveal truths, and we keep safe those who are under threat. Dumbledore will not cede his hold willingly. Already, he hunts for a boy—one he intended to sacrifice to fulfill a twisted prophecy. We cannot allow more children, more innocents, to fall prey to his schemes."

  He made a subtle gesture toward Harry, who remained partially obscured behind the table's curve. A ripple of curiosity went through the group, though none voiced it aloud. Integra stiffened, alert to any sign of meddlesome questions. This gathering was dangerous enough, and she wanted no revetion of the boy's true role as a Horcrux. But the quiet hush that followed Marvolo's words suggested that these witches and wizards recognized the gravity of crossing Dumbledore. They understood that innocent lives were at stake. The meeting continued, each attendee pledging subdued but determined support. The old lines—Knights of Walpurgis, disillusioned pureblood families, half-blood advocates—blurred into a tentative alliance forged by mutual resentment of Dumbledore's maniputions.

  When the gathering ended, one by one, the visitors left through secure Floo channels or side entrances that Walter arranged. Their whispers lingered in the air, echoing off the lofty ceilings. Marvolo's shoulders rexed fractionally, though a shadow of tension remained. Integra exchanged a guarded nod with him, relief in her eyes. The alliance was fragile, but it was a start. Harry exhaled softly, crossing his arms as he stood. He wondered how many more cndestine meetings would shape his fate before all this was done.

  Later that evening, after the visitors had departed, the hush in Integra's private study felt almost comforting. The faint scratch of quills and the rustle of parchment filled the space, accompanied by the aroma of old leather bindings and fresh ink. Integra sat behind her imposing desk, candlelight dancing across her features. Her gaze flicked from one stack of documents to another, searching for patterns—Ministry records gleaned from wizarding contacts, academic treatises on advanced wards, letters from potential allies. Each page was a piece in a puzzle that might, if assembled correctly, undermine Dumbledore's stronghold.

  A small mp glowed on the far corner of the desk, highlighting a spy of archaic runes that Walter and Marvolo had deciphered. Despite her weariness, Integra refused to relent, scribbling notes in her tight, deliberate handwriting. The scratch of her pen matched the quickening beat of her heart whenever she uncovered a detail linking Dumbledore to questionable deals—unusual property acquisitions near orphanages, hush-money to certain Wizengamot members, or irregurities in how some Muggle-born children were funneled into the wizarding world. As the hours passed, she grew more certain of the Headmaster's extensive network of cover-ups.

  Exhaling softly, she pced her quill aside, pausing to roll her shoulders. The study smelled faintly of beeswax polish. A mp hissed on a side table, spitting sparks. The hush felt oddly intimate. She turned to see a shadow move at the edge of her vision—Alucard, stepping from the gloom near the firepce. His blood-red coat glimmered in the flickering light, and the faintest smirk curved his lips.

  "Tiring work, Master?" His voice held that smooth, sardonic note.

  She shrugged. "Vital work." Her eyes flicked back to the documents. "If we are to stand against a wizard of Dumbledore's influence, we need to know every crack in his fortress."

  Alucard tilted his head, observing the swirl of notes and references to wizarding genealogies. He sniffed once, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I've faced monstrous foes in my time, but I suspect Dumbledore's brand of cunning is a different beast."

  "Yes," she replied, tapping a finger on a page describing the organizational structure of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "He maniputes from within, steering entire institutions with a veneer of benevolence." After a moment of thought, she added, "I will not let that stand. Not when Harry's welfare hangs in the bance."

  Alucard's grin widened fractionally, revealing a hint of fang. "Then let us see how he fares when faced with Hellsing's brand of determination." Without another word, he vanished back into the dim edges of the study, leaving Integra to the quiet rustle of parchment and the silent vow that she would not falter.

  While Integra immersed herself in research and strategy, Harry embarked on his own journey of self-discovery. Early each morning, the boy rose with the faint glimmer of dawn, the manor's corridors still dim and cool. Usually, he found himself in the small alcove near his bedroom window, transfixed by the swirl of frost creeping along the gss. In that stillness, he allowed memory fragments to surface—bits of the child he had been under the Dursleys, overshadowed by fear, and the child forcibly shaped by Dumbledore's meddling. The contrast to the boy he was becoming at Hellsing Manor felt as stark as winter to spring. Although the external world remained cold and unyielding, an internal thaw took shape inside him.

  Whenever a pang of uncertainty arose—recollections of the Dursleys' cupboard, or the horrifying realization that his entire being had been subject to magical tampering—Harry closed his eyes and breathed. He pictured the unwavering presence of Integra, or the surprisingly patient teachings of Marvolo, or the blunt encouragement from Alucard. He pictured himself forging illusions or practicing defensive spells in the manor's library. Slowly, a measure of calm repced the old fear. Freed from being a helpless victim, he now had a voice in his destiny.

  One frosty dawn, about a week after the cndestine gathering, Harry found himself once again in that alcove, gazing at the subdued winter sun cresting over the horizon. The gss felt cold under his fingertips. His breath fogged the window. Yet he sensed a warmth radiating in his chest—a new sense of belonging. With parted lips, he whispered, "I'm not who I was. I'm more than a pawn." The words emerged quietly, a statement to no one and everything at once.

  Later that same day, Marvolo guided Harry through rigorous magical lessons. In the snug library annex, the air thickened with the musk of old spellbooks. Shafts of watery sunlight spilled from a tall window behind them, illuminating floating dust motes. Marvolo's voice was even, tinged with a gravitas that made each lesson feel vital. They covered illusions that ranged from conjuring fleeting images to warping an enemy's visual field—skills that could confound adversaries. Though the spells were advanced for a child of nine, Harry embraced the challenge. His concentration was unwavering, his gaze flicking from the curling runes on a parchment to the intangible shapes forming under his hands.

  Whenever he hesitated, feeling the strain of shaping magic, he drew on the encouragement gleaned from Alucard's physical training. The vampire's lessons emphasized harnessing fear and channeling it into power. It manifested in small ways here: each time he felt panic or self-doubt coil in his belly, he recalled scrambling through dark obstacles in the basement, the voice of Alucard in the gloom: Get up. Push forward. Fear is the mind's tool. He harnessed that memory to steady his concentration, forging illusions that shimmered like soap bubbles in the air, each more refined than the st.

  Marvolo offered praise without condescension. "Well done, Harry," he remarked, stepping around the table to inspect the illusions. The wizard's eyes, still haunted by old regrets, shone with a quiet pride. "Your intent is strong. You have more raw magical aptitude than many grown wizards. Focus that will, and few illusions will be beyond you."

  A flush touched Harry's cheeks. He curled his fingers, letting the illusions fade. "It's easier... with everything that's happened, I guess. I know what I'm fighting for." His voice nearly cracked on that final word, but he lifted his chin, determined not to show uncertainty.

  Marvolo nodded slowly. "That crity of purpose is powerful. Just remember, illusions can be undone by confusion or a break in will. Keep your mind focused, even when reality tries to intrude."

  Observing from the library's threshold, Integra felt a flicker of reassurance. Each day, the boy became more sure of himself. Where once he might have cowered under her direct gaze, he now met her eyes with a quiet confidence. She wondered fleetingly about the forced transformations on his identity that still needed more unraveling, but for now, at least, he was forging a self beyond what Dumbledore had once intended.

  The synergy in the household grew as January bled into February. By unspoken consensus, they dedicated time each week to run "intruder drills"—bizarre amalgamations of wizard dueling, vampire stealth, and Muggle tactical discipline. Alucard coordinated the staff in near-silent maneuvers, teaching them to slip behind pilrs, to coordinate fnking positions, to respond to illusions with signals. Marvolo id wards that twisted the corridors into byrinths at a single incantation. Integra oversaw it all, her voice slicing through the tension with crisp orders, testing each scenario's outcome. The staff, initially unsure how to handle magical infiltration, embraced the learning curve, galvanized by the knowledge that they were protecting not just a manor or an organization, but a child who had suffered too long under others' maniputions.

  Walter, too, pyed his part, blending old Hellsing knowledge of protective rituals with the new arcane approach. On snowy afternoons, he could be found in the basement storerooms, rummaging through dusty crates of historical relics—silver chalices, relic shards, old diaries of Hellsing ancestors—searching for anything that might augment their defenses. The clink of these objects echoed off stone walls, and he'd hum quietly as he tested each for synergy with Marvolo's wards. Often, Harry joined him, curiosity piqued by the rich tapestry of Hellsing lore. The boy's eyes lit up at the antique swords, the faint inscriptions on their bdes, or the musty diaries that recounted hunts for unholy creatures centuries ago. Their pages spoke of valor and cunning, but also heartbreak—lost children, ruined families. In these somber tales, Harry recognized echoes of his own life. The realization that the Hellsing line had always stood between humanity and darkness gave him a small sense of pride that he had found a pce here.

  Winter's hold on Britain gradually softened as February advanced. The snows remained, but the days grew incrementally longer, the sunlight acquiring a slightly warmer hue. On a mid-February morning, Harry was awakened by a flurry of notes from wizarding correspondents that arrived for Marvolo. He had dashed to the entrance hall, rubbing sleep from his eyes, as an exhausted post owl hopped about impatiently. Walter gently collected the letters, scanning the wards for any hidden curses. After an anxious moment, the butler pronounced them safe, handing them to Marvolo, who waited in a doorway with an air of quiet expectancy.

  Gncing through them, Marvolo nodded, his expression taut. "More families have responded," he told Integra ter that day in a private discussion. "They confirm Dumbledore's heavy-handed approach in the Wizengamot. Some mention his secret visits to old pureblood estates, as if he's searching for an object or a person. We can assume that's reted to Harry."

  Integra's jaw set, a flicker of anger lighting her eyes. "Then we must be faster, more cunning." She scanned the letters, her lips thinning when she saw references to wards around old manors being probed. "He's determined, all right. But so are we."

  Throughout February, that sense of determination tightened like a bowstring ready to be loosed. Marvolo's communications grew bolder—carefully so, but bold in the sense that more wizards recognized his agenda and offered quiet colboration. Alucard, on the Muggle side, expanded the manor's security system with advanced sensors, blending them with illusions that would scramble a wizard's typical detection spells. Meetings happened in concealed rooms, or sometimes in hidden corners of wizarding inns that only Integra or Walter visited under gmour, wearing subtle illusions that masked their identities. The swirl of secrecy enveloped the household, forging a bond of trust they all clung to as they braced for a confrontation that felt inevitable.

  Meanwhile, Harry's personal journey continued. Some nights, when the mansion's corridors y dark and empty, he would slip from his bed, heart pounding, and wander the quieter wings of the manor—sometimes encountering a patrolling guard who'd offer a respectful nod. In those solitary walks, he allowed his thoughts to roam. He pictured the day he might stand face-to-face with Dumbledore, the wizard who had shaped him into a tool. In daydreams and nightmares alike, he had glimpsed such a confrontation: a bearded old man with twinkling eyes, stepping forth with paternal kindness that hid lethal cunning. The mental image made Harry's hands clench. He told himself, over and over, that he was no longer that child trembling under other people's designs.

  In early March, as hints of spring teased the edges of winter, the atmosphere at Hellsing Manor crackled with readiness. The staff's training had progressed. Marvolo had forged alliances with a number of disenchanted wizarding families. Integra possessed enough intelligence on Dumbledore's maniputions to tear holes in his public standing if she could present them properly. Alucard patrolled the grounds by night, a silent wraith among the frosted hedges, eyes glowing with faint amusement at how the wizarding world might soon realize it had underestimated Muggles—and this Muggle household in particur.

  And Harry—now practiced in illusions, basic defensive spells, and the subtle art of controlling his fear—found himself stepping into a role once denied him: an active participant in shaping his destiny. He noticed how staff he passed in corridors offered him small smiles or encouraging nods, how Walter asked his opinion on how best to store certain magical relics, how Marvolo quietly commended him for mastering a new incantation. He was no longer the passive beneficiary of Hellsing's guardianship. He was a part of their defense. That realization set a spark of pride in his chest.

  On the morning of March 8, 1989, a hush bnketed the manor as heavy clouds rolled overhead. The winter's grip persisted in the form of icy winds that coursed across the estate. Icicles clung to the eaves, and patches of hardened snow crunched underfoot. Yet the faint drip of melting ice hinted that a seasonal shift was near. At the front gates, guards occasionally stamped their feet or blew on chilled fingers, scanning the horizon for any sign of unwanted arrivals.

  Inside, Harry stirred early. The sconce lights in the hallway flickered as he padded barefoot toward a window at the far end of the corridor. Morning had barely begun to break. A soft illumination painted the horizon, blending with the dull grey of receding night. He pressed a palm to the gss, feeling its cold bite, exhaling a slow breath that misted the surface. The sky beyond looked both ominous and cleansing—a paradox of threatening storms and potential renewal.

  In his free hand, he csped the ceremonial dagger Alucard had given him months prior. Not to brandish, but as a symbol of how far he'd come. The bde, with its etched silver designs, glinted faintly in the half-light. He tightened his grip on the hilt, recalling the vow that had crystallized inside him: I will never let anyone control me again. Today, that vow felt as integral to him as breathing.

  Behind him, the corridor remained silent, his footsteps muffled by a long rug. He allowed himself a moment to simply be, to recognize how drastically his life had changed. Two years ago, he was an abused child locked in a cupboard, unloved and uncelebrated. Now, within Hellsing Manor, he had found acceptance, training, knowledge, and, most importantly, autonomy. The quiet hum of wards around him, the knowledge that adults here respected his input, the memory of the illusions he created in the library—these were the sum of a life he had fought to cim.

  He turned from the window, letting the final swirl of his breath fade on the gss. The dagger's weight felt steady in his palm. Though physically small, it symbolized his readiness to defend himself, to carve out a future unshackled by the maniputions of Albus Dumbledore. The hush in the corridor no longer seemed intimidating; it resonated with the tent energy of a fortress prepared for battle. If Dumbledore came, or if some agent tried to drag him back to a forced destiny, Harry would stand with Integra, Alucard, Walter, and Marvolo, unbowed.

  Spurred by that conviction, he slid the dagger into its sheath—nestled along a belt Integra had adjusted for him—and moved toward the main wing, where he suspected the day's preparations were already underway. Soon, he would join Alucard for another training exercise, or meet Marvolo for a session of advanced illusions. Perhaps Integra would reveal new intelligence about the Ministry or the factions that had aligned with them. It all coalesced into a sense of unstoppable momentum.

  On his way, he paused at a tall window overlooking the courtyard. The snow there had formed drifts around the stonework, but signs of a thaw were creeping in—the edges of cobblestones peeked through, and water droplets glistened where icicles were starting to dissolve. The entire scene felt like a metaphor: winter receding in the face of new growth. He let out a breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, private smile. We're ready, he thought. Whatever comes, we'll stand together.

  In an echoing corridor beyond, footsteps signaled someone's approach. He recognized Walter's measured tread. The butler appeared, carrying a tray of papers, typical stoicism overshadowed by a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He bowed slightly upon seeing Harry. "Master Harry," he said softly, "Sir Integra requested we gather in her study soon. It seems we have new developments from Mr. Marvolo's contacts. I believe you'll be needed."

  Harry nodded, pressing aside the swirl of emotion. "I'll be there." He cast one st gnce at the silent courtyard, then followed Walter's purposeful stride. His heart pounded with anticipation, a sense that the final alignment of pieces was drawing near. Yet, for all the tension swirling in the winter air, he felt no dread—only a clear, calm readiness. The illusions he had shaped, the wards around the manor, the alliances forming in hushed corners of wizarding society, the unwavering vow shared by this unconventional family at Hellsing Manor—these would be enough. Dumbledore might scheme and brood, but they would not bend to him again.

  And so the morning of March 8 unfolded with a subdued certainty. The household stirred to life, each occupant stepping into their role with the precision of a well-rehearsed ensemble. Alucard proffered a wry grin when Harry joined him in a corridor, ruffling the boy's hair with an unspoken acknowledgment of how far he had come. Marvolo, glimpsed fleetingly in the library, offered a nod that conveyed both apology for his past deeds and confidence in their shared future. Integra stood at the center of it all, her presence commanding, forging strategies that would steer them through the storms on the horizon.

  The hush within those walls was a lull before a tempest. Though they continued to refine wards, train, and exchange coded letters, a collective awareness saturated each conversation: conflict with Dumbledore's forces seemed not just possible, but imminent. Still, none flinched from that prospect. They had prepared for weeks, forging alliances, expanding knowledge, welding trust between them. In that synergy, they found courage to face the uncertain tomorrow.

  Later that day, as the clouds overhead parted just enough to admit a muted gleam of sunlight, Harry lingered in a small second-floor corridor, gazing at the world outside. The winter's final vestiges gleamed on the trees, though the promise of spring danced in the breeze. That fleeting moment captured the essence of the entire household's spirit: steadfast in their convictions, forging an unstoppable network of cunning and solidarity. With a quiet, resolute smile, Harry turned from the window, the dagger at his side a reassuring weight. The future beckoned, and he would meet it standing upright, free from the chains of puppet strings.

  Thus ended that reflective hush, bridging the weeks from early January to early March—a tapestry of alliances built, wards fortified, training expanded, and hearts steeled. Where Dumbledore brooded and plotted in secret, the Hellsing household advanced unwaveringly, weaving threads of loyalty and defiance that set the stage for the battles yet to come. In that final hush of the winter morning, Harry walked away from the window, feet carrying him to the study where his guardians waited. The vow in his heart resonated with every step: I will never be a pawn again. I am my own, and I stand with those who refuse to let the world be ruled by fear or deceit.

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  Harry Potter and Toon Force: Harry Potter/Looney Tunes Crossover (Up to 9 chapters avaible now)

  Shinigami's Vacation: Naruto/Bleach Crossover (Up to 9 chapters avaible now)

  Harry Potter and BBPS Reborn: Harry Potter/ LitRPG (Up to 9 chapters avaible now)

  Lonely Ruler and Her Sunshine: Harry Potter/One Piece Crossover (Up to 9 chapters avaible now)

  Raised by Mew Reborn: Harry Potter/Pokemon Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Fragile Hope: Harry Potter/Saw series Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Symphony of Machines: Harry Potter/FNIA Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Despair's Unexpected: Savior Harry Potter/Danganronpa Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  The Silent Lulbies of Forgotten Factory: Harry Potter/Poppy Pytime Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Threads Woven Between Two Souls: Harry Potter/Coraline Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Queen Of Forbidden Forest: Harry Potter (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Worlds Unbound Magic: Modern Harry Potter(events are 20 years so instead of 1981 it is in 2001) (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  Moonlight and Mist: Harry Potter/Percy Jackson Crossover (Up to 8 Chapters avaible now)

  You can read any of my fanfictions which are published here with 2 weeks of early access before everyone on my Patreon

  Beyond Boundaries of Time: Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 [Last Chapter] already avaible on my Patreon

  Neon Shadows of Fate: Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 already avaible on my Patreon

  Bound by Shadows and Sorrow: Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 already avaible on my Patreon

  Harry Potter and the Crimson Shadows: Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 already avaible on my Patreon

  Harry and the Wolf: Chapter 13 and Chapter 14 are already avaible on my Patreon

  Naruto and Secret of Aperture Science: Chapter 13 and Chapter 14 are already avaible on my Patreon