The air in the lavish, dimly lit room was thick with tension, the scent of aged whiskey and smoldering cigars clinging to the velvet curtains. The faint crackling of the fireplace was the only sound besides the measured, steady rhythm of your breath.

Harry stood across from you, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest. But he didn’t intimidate you. No one did.

You took a step forward, each movement deliberate—controlled. "If you hurt my boys… you will answer directly to me.” You paused, letting your words settle, watching the way his jaw tensed. “And whatever cr!mes I committed against you, remember this—” You tilted your head slightly, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of your lips. “I have diplomatic immunity in forty-six countries.”

A muscle in Harry’s cheek twitched, his grip on his wand tightening. He didn’t falter, not outwardly, but you caught it—the slight hesitation, the way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second.

Still, his voice remained steady. “You will find that the word fear is not in my vocabulary.”

You stopped mere inches from him, the dim firelight casting sharp angles across your face. Slowly, deliberately, you let your gaze roam over his features, watching—searching. Then, as if you’d found exactly what you were looking for, you let a slow, satisfied smirk creep across your lips.

"Perhaps… but it is in your eyes."

A flicker of something—anger, uncertainty, maybe both—flashed in Harry’s gaze, but you had already turned away, your coat sweeping behind you as you walked toward the grand double doors.

You didn’t need to look back.

Mattheo. Tom. Regulus. Lorenzo. Draco. Blaise. Theodore. Your boys. No one would touch them. Not while you stood. Not while you breathed. If the world wanted a war, you would give them one. And you would win.

Because if there was one thing the world should have learned by now—

It was never wise to thr3aten what was yours.