Under the pale morning sky, two figures stood amidst the smoldering remains of what was once a peaceful neighborhood. Smoke curled into the air as the acrid smell of destruction lingered. Alastor Moody, his magical eye swiveling in every direction, inspected the scene with his characteristic vigilance. Beside him, Barty Crouch Jr., dressed in formal Auror robes, crossed his arms, his expression grim and tight.
The two Aurors were an imposing sight. Moody's grizzled demeanor and scarred face spoke of countless battles, while Crouch's sharp eyes and clipped tone betrayed his relentless ambition.
Moody broke the silence first. "Another one," he growled, his voice low and gravelly.
"This," Barty Crouch said, gesturing at the wreckage, "is supposed to be the last. The war's over, and yet here we are, cleaning up after these damned Death Eaters."
Moody nodded grimly. "Doesn't feel over, does it?"
Their conversation paused as they noticed a group of Aurors investigating the destruction. The duo made their way to a man overseeing the team.
Crouch stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the gathered group. "What do we know? What happened here?"
The Auror in charge turned to them, straightening. "Sir, it looks like this house belonged to muggle operatives in the special services. An attack by Death Eaters, but…" He hesitated.
"But what?" Crouch snapped.
"The residents put up a hell of a fight."
Crouch ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Bloody hell. This opens up another mess we'll need to sort. Tell me everything."
As the Aurors combed through the area, Barty Crouch spotted an elderly woman standing apart, a child cradled in her arms. Her stance was stiff, her expression steely. Around her, operatives from the special services rushed about, some glancing her way for instructions. She was clearly in charge.
Crouch approached cautiously. "Madam M, I presume?"
The woman turned, her sharp gaze locking onto him. "What do you want?"
"I'm here to express our condolences for what's happened," Crouch began. "I'm deeply sorry—"
M cut him off sharply. "Sorry?" Her voice was cold as ice. "What does your sorry mean when you can't even control your own people? These terrorists have been wreaking havoc for years under your nose, and you failed to stop them."
Crouch took a deep breath, his tone steady but weary. "I understand your frustration, Madam. But you must know—the leader of this group, is dead. The war is over."
"Over?" M barked a bitter laugh. "Tell that to the agents I just lost. My best man—gone. Your so-called war has left us to clean up the mess."
Crouch hesitated before speaking again, his gaze falling on the sleeping child in her arms. "That child… does he belong to the people who lived here?"
M's gaze softened slightly as she looked down at the baby, whose face was streaked with dried tears, now peaceful in sleep. "Yes. Their son."
Crouch frowned, studying the child. "He appears to belong to our world—the magical side."
M blinked, surprised. She glanced back at the baby, her sharp features briefly softening. "Well, I'll be."
Crouch continued. "If you'd like, we can place him in a magical orphanage. He'll be cared for there."
M's voice was firm. "No. We'll raise him ourselves."
Crouch inclined his head. "Understood. I do hope, however, that he attends Hogwarts when the time comes."
M's lips thinned. "We'll see." She fixed him with a hard stare. "Barty, ensure that the people responsible for this are punished. That man—his father—was my best agent."
Crouch straightened. "The ones directly responsible are dead. As for the remnants… they will be dealt with."
Crouch rejoined Moody near the wreckage. Moody's magical eye darted as he returned from the crime scene, his expression dark.
"What's the verdict?" Crouch asked.
Moody grunted. "Four Death Eaters. Two died instantly—bullets to the head. The other two put up a fight but didn't last long. Decent combat skills, but they were outmatched. Still…" He paused, his face grim. "I don't know how she managed to kill the wizards. Those two were tough."
Crouch nodded slowly. "Apparently, the father was their best operative and she ?"
Moody raised an eyebrow. " the mother got two . Oh? What was his name?"
Crouch exhaled. "James Bond."
----
Well, well, welcome to my inner thoughts. Or as I occasionally shout for dramatic flair, "Yokoso, watashi no soul society!" Yes, we've reached the final stage of madness—the kind where a person starts believing they're living in a simulation. And mark my words, two decades from now, everyone's going to be doing it. I'm just ahead of the curve.
M interrupts my musings, her stern voice slicing through my monologue like a hot knife through butter.
M: "You're losing control of yourself."
Jason: "Or… have I finally gained it?"
M groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Bloody hell, you've decided to be cryptic today, haven't you?"
Jason: "No, no. Not cryptic. Enlightened. Madness has embraced me, and I've embraced it back. It's quite a lovely hug, really."
M: "What are you on?"
Jason: "May chaos take the world!" I declare, raising my hands dramatically as though addressing a royal court.
M, unimpressed, takes a slow breath. "I can't deal with this today. Maybe I should've sent you to an orphanage after all."
Feigning a mortal wound, I clutch my chest, collapse onto the floor, and perform an Oscar-worthy sobbing act. "How could you, Grandma?! The betrayal! The audacity!"
M doesn't even blink. "It's going to be a long day," she mutters before retreating to her sanctuary—the liquor cabinet.
Let's rewind for a moment while M enjoys her daily scotch. My family? Killed in cold blood. Handling that took a toll, let me tell you. Now, as a textbook reincarnator, this should've been the perfect setup for a revenge arc. But no. My badass mum and dad took care of the Death Eaters themselves, going out in a blaze of glory like true legends.
Still, I know why they came after me. Voldemort and his world domination nonsense—it's like watching someone try to win Britain's Got Talent year after year and failing spectacularly every time. But instead of Simon Cowell rolling his eyes, it was my family who paid the price.
So now? One of my life goals is to ensure those Death Eater remnants pay for what they did. Slowly. Painfully. And with a touch of flair, of course.
After the dust settled, M adopted me. Lovely lady, really. A bit terrifying at times, but lovely. She's the kind of woman who could sip tea, disarm a bomb, and scold you for putting the milk in first—all in one breath.
Seeing my intelligence and rapid growth, M decided to train me. But instead of baking cookies or teaching me how to knit, she went straight for the James Bond curriculum.
Who teaches a 10-year-old how to disable security systems, rappel down buildings, and order a martini—shaken, not stirred?
While other kids were mastering the art of tying shoelaces or spelling 'elephant,' I was scaling fences and cracking safes .
Do you have any idea how hard it is to memorize code names and secret handshakes when you're still losing your baby teeth?
not for me
And don't get me started on the playground. I've got kids asking why I'm wearing a tuxedo during recess. "It's called fashion, darling," I'd reply, channeling Barney Stinson. After all, as he so wisely said, a man's one true love is suits.
M never spoke much about my parents. She told me enough to keep my questions at bay but kept the real details locked up tighter than Fort Knox. According to her, my parents were special forces operatives taken down by "the enemy." What enemy, exactly? She wouldn't say.
But I knew. have to play the part of curious looking for his parent .
I could see it in her eyes whenever the topic came up. The way her voice tightened, the way she avoided certain words—it was all there. Of course, she didn't expect me to notice. I mean, who would? I'm just a kid, right? Except… I'm me.
Over time, I earned her trust—or wore her down with my relentless curiosity. Either way, she finally admitted that my parents were taken by Death Eaters and tell me about the magical society .
So here we are, ten years later. A boy trained in espionage, fueled by tragedy, and armed with a biting wit sharper than M's scolding tongue. Some might call this the perfect setup for a spy thriller. Me? I call it Tuesday.
M's voice breaks through my thoughts again. "Jason, if you're done standing there looking dramatic, maybe you could help me instead of reciting your inner monologue like a bloody Shakespearean actor."
"Of course, dear M," I reply with an exaggerated bow. "Shall I fetch you your spyglass and monocle, or are we skipping straight to world domination today?"
She glares, and I swear she's considering throwing the scotch bottle at me.