The vaulted hall of Kástro Mávros rang with spellfire.
Harry’s wand, twelve and a half inches of yew, shivered in his grip as he threw up another shield. The Horned Serpent feather within thrummed at his call, shimmering blue light coalescing just in time to deflect Cassiopeia’s lacero. The spell screeched against his ward, sparks scattering across the marble before it fractured apart.
“Too rigid,” Cassiopeia said, her tone clinical. Her wand slashed down, sending a bone-breaker hissing for his shin, behind which another spell soared, ready to carve limb from body.
Harry barely twisted aside, but the curse clipped him. His leg buckled, and agony seared through his mind, and he felt the sting of the wound on his side, the magic of the spell clawing at his skin and muscles like ants biting at his flesh.
Beside him, Persephone raised her elder wand quickly. He felt something erupt from her, something intangible yet palpable, and heat rose around them as her magic solidified into a whip of white fire. It lashed the length of the hall, so fierce that the residual water on the floor from a previous glacius vaporised within moments near where the whip passed through.
For a moment, it looked as if Persephone would succeed, her conjuration seeming to coil around their mentor-tormentor. The next second, Cassiopeia cut through it with a bored flick, then snapped her wand upward. A diffindo split the air—too fast for either of them to react to, Harry realised with dismay and fear, both—and it grazed Persephone’s shoulder. Cloth ripped, and blood welled as she stumbled mid-step, almost falling to the floor.
“Protego,” he growled, pointing his wand before his sister to erect a silvery-blue barrier, catching the bone-breaker that Casseiopeia had shot right on time, before switching aim towards his Grand-aunt, “Conteram Ossa!”
“Slow,” the older witch said, tone flat as she simply batted away his spell, dark eyes staring down at him with silent judgment, her robes pristine and untouched, as opposed to their torn adn bloodied ones. By Merlin’s wand, even her hair was as it had been ten minutes ago when they had begun, not a strand out of place, “As always.”
Arcturus’s cane cracked once against the marble, the third time since they had begun today, a single word spoken aloud by the Lord of Black.
“Stand.”
Harry dragged his feet as he straightened up from the slouch he had fallen into, jaw clenched—ignoring the fracture that made each step grind. Persephone shoved her bleeding arm higher, her wand vibrating with Thunderbird’s storm-blood as she prepared for another salvo of spells, her own body tilted to reduce the target she presented.
Cassiopeia did not wait. Confringo roared out from her wand, smashing Harry’s protego wide open without a contest. He was flung onto the marble, ribs screaming as if fire had chewed through them, while his cracked tibia protested with fierce agony. Persephone sharply flicked her wand in return, hurling a roaring bolt of flame so wide it spanned to the wards on the sides. However, Cassiopeia simply pointed her wand at them and drowned Persephone fire in a deluge of water—just enough to turn everything to steam and leave nothing but mist between them.
Before they could even take stock of anything else, a curse tore through Persephone’s thigh. She collapsed to one knee, her wand wavering as the half-formed shield before her collapsed and vanished away into nothingness, a hiss of pain tearing from her throat.
“Pathetic,” Cassiopeia said, lowering her wand at last as the mist between them was swept away into oblivion, revealing her unmoved from her spot, “You should have known that the cover would be used to strike at you. Especially such a direct attack.”
Arcturus stepped forward without hurry as the wards around them shimmered away into tiny sparks of blue light, his cane tapping against the marble flooring. As their grandfather and guardian neared them, Harry didn’t dare meet the man’s eyes. Not until the man stood before them, and his wand appeared in their view. The man slowly touched it to his ribs, and a cool, silver light flooded him, healing scrapes and cuts within seconds, while his shin swelled down within moments, healing on the spot. Then he turned to Persephone, steadying her leg with a hand as his spell sealed the torn muscle, before he did the same to the cut on her side. Still silent, he rose, eyes unblinking as both twins staggered upright, sweat soaking their hair, robes scorched and wet, torn and bloodied.
“You are fit again.”
Four words, that’s all he spoke to them as he gave them a flat stare, before turning on his heel and walking back to his spot.
Cassiopeia’s gaze cut between them as the woman crossed her arms behind her back, her stance rigid and her tone such that it removed every bit of fog from their minds. “Yew with Horned Serpent. A wand of precision, depth, and craft. And yet you hesitate, Harry. You measure too much. You think even while your shield breaks. Serpent’s gift is clarity, not delay. When the moment comes, you act—instinct, not caution. Have you ever seen Scylla hesitate when a bird enters her range? Or when she sees a Hippogryph fly overhead? Your instinct is slower than the Ministry right now.”
Done with him, her eyes flicked to Persephone next. “Elder Wood with Thunderbird. Power enough to split towers in half like a storm. And what do you do? You waste it. Sloppy arcs. Wards stretched until they collapse—wasted movements and seconds which cost you with blood. Force without a channel is nothing but bleeding air. Discipline your magic, or it will be your blood on the ground before it is your foe’s.”
Persephone’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. The drops of blood trailing over her fingers and falling to the floor said everything.
Silently, they both nodded at once, together, taking Cassiopeia’s words to heart.
“Good,” Arcturus said, finally speaking again. “You will begin again.”
The siblings did not argue. They raised their wands, the small tremors in their bodies vanishing as Cassieopeia did the same, and spells once again flashed inside the hall.
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“I’m tired,” Harry groaned, staring up at the stars as he and Persephone sat by one of the benches in the meadows outside, the sun having set just a few minutes ago, allowing them to stare at the moon and the stars clearly, “The moon is beautiful tonight.”
“Tracey would have started to be more chipper by now,” she said after a moment, and Harry just stayed silent at that, realising that yes, the moon had waned by a quarter now, opposed to the full moon it had been when Tracey had been hospitalised. Truly, Waxing Plight was a despicable ailment, one that, despite all the advanced treatments that existed in the magical world, remained incurable.
“You were injured,” a very welcome voice commented as the slight rustle of scales shifting broke through the silence, and Harry looked to their left, finding slit, golden eyes starting at them as Scylla slowly raised her giant head, looking at them both, her tongue flicking out in the cool night before she looked at the Castle, “That woman has injured you.”
“It’s teaching,” he hissed back, feeling a strange sort of relief at speaking parseltongue so freely once again, raising a hand to tap her on her snout and bring her attention back to him, “She teaches us to hunt and stay safe so that we don’t get hurt outside.”
“Like those cats teaching their spawn how to hunt then,” Scylla’s voice took a decisive tone, and the great serpent slithered forwards slowly, draping herself over their laps and placing her head atop Persephone’s shoulder, tasting the winds once again, “We never have such things in our nest. Each spawn is expected to survive from birth.”
“Do you remember how many snakes were born with you?” Persephone asked, running her hand idly over Scylla’s coils.
“I do not,” she answered, and if she had possessed eyelids, Harry would have imagined her blinking at that moment. “I remember things from when I was surviving off rats and toads in a swamp.”
“Well, I am happy that you were taken to a cage, not worse,” his sister shook her head, “It would have been lonely loving alone without you, Scylla.” Persephone murmured, her hand tracing the curve of scales resting against her thigh. The serpent’s hide was warm despite the chill wind, the faint pulse of magic beneath each pattern thrumming steadily.
“Loneliness,” Scylla hissed, tongue flicking out, tasting the air between them, “It is a sickness of your kind. Snakes have no word for it. We survive. We hunt. We sleep. We wake again. What more is there?”
Harry smiled faintly. Exhaustion softened his tone, yet his words were derived from a year and a half of living freely. Of experiencing a safe home. Of knowing friendship—not at once, but bit by bit—through Daphne’s patient explanations, through Tracey’s cheerful laughs, and even through Neville’s quiet words, “If we only survived, we’d still be in that cupboard. Living means more than that.”
The serpent’s golden eyes shifted toward him, slit pupils narrowing, “You speak as if survival and living are separate.”
“They are,” Persephone said quietly. “Surviving is existing for the sake of breath. Living is breathing for the sake of something. For us, that something is freedom.”
Scylla was silent for a long time, her coils tightening and loosening as though thinking required motion. The fireflies hovering over the meadow dimmed briefly, scattered by her heat.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, “Then live. But do not forget that all things that live eventually hunt. Even those who pretend they do not. And those that do not, they are hunted anyway.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half agreement. “You sound like Arcturus now.”
“He is a predator who learned patience,” Scylla replied, almost approvingly, ”You should learn that too.”
“What do you think the blood you smelt on us meant?” he asked, stretching out his arms as he felt the stiffness in his muscles, staring up at the sky, “what have you been doing in the forest, Scylla? It’s been months since you decided to roam that place.”
Her tongue flicked again, once, twice. The serpent’s body stiffened, subtle but unmistakable. The movement rippled up her spine until the twin could feel tension radiating through the coils in their laps. Through the barebones of the mental link that existed between them, Harry felt the first smidgens of an emotion from his pet.
It was something so foreign, so alien from her that his eyes instantly snapped down to hers, finding the golden eyes looking up at him.
Fear.
“What is it?” Persephone asked.
Scylla lifted her head higher, nostrils flaring as if scenting something far away, ”The air is wrong in that forest.”
Harry frowned, “Wrong how?”
“The ground breathes differently,” she hissed, her voice shifting ever so little. Yet, having been with her for so long, Harry and Persephone knew that Scylla’s voice never changed. “The stones carry echoes that should not be here. When I crossed the forest to return, I smelled something that does not belong to this age. Magic, deep and foul. Older than the trees, older than the half-men that walk the forest on their four legs. It scares everything, leaving a stench so cold that nothing even dares whisper about it. The spiders in the forest are the most scared, for none even dare crawl out of their nest ever since the creature’s appearance. Whatever it is, the whole forest fears it.”
The siblings exchanged a glance. ‘Slytherin’s monster’, they both thought at once in concert.
“Do you know what it is?” Persephone’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Tracey’s frozen body flashed before his eyes. If Scylla could tell them what it was, mayb-
Scylla’s reply came with the weight of certainty, “No common creature. It is something greater than even the flying-fire-tongued ones that dwell in the mountains. I have hunted many things in that forest…but I can tell. This is not prey. It is hunger given form, something that drains everything around it of life and magic both. The forest lays silent in its wake, and everything flees before it. I felt it move once, days ago—slow, heavy, like the earth itself was dragging a corpse behind it.”
Harry’s skin prickled, “It must be when Tracey was struck, or before it.”
“Can you identify the creature?” Persephone asked the python, and Scylla’s tongue flicked out once more, tasting the name in the air. Her head lowered slightly, as though listening to something that only she could hear.
“Not yet,” she whispered, lowering her head, “I can feel its power. I can feel the fear it creates just by raising its head, and I know it is something large and old. Its venom is unmatched, for the scent in the air it leaves behind reeks of death and rot…but I cannot tell you what it is—only that it must be avoided.”
The night wind carried her words into silence and Harry leaned back on the bench, eyes tracing the moonlit towers of Kástro Mávros. For a moment, neither he nor Persephone spoke. There was nothing left to say.
Scylla remained between them, coiled like a living sentinel, her golden eyes unblinking as they watched the dark horizon.
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The next morning came with cold sunlight for the residents of Castle Black, seeping through the narrow windows and illuminating the hall as they started to leave the dining hall. The air smelled faintly of oil and char—remnants of the fireplaces that burnt throughout the night, warming the hall and rooms beyond.
It was then that one of Arcturus’ personal elves appeared, bowing and telling of the Greengrass Lady and ‘Small Greengrass’ appearing at the gates of the estate.
“The Ball,” he whispered to his sister, and Persephone nodded, her eyes turning towards the main entrance to the castle. Barely a couple of minutes later, they both were standing in the entrance hall, alone and waiting to greet Ophelia and Daphne.
“Five Galleons she doesn’t smile until her mother turns her back to us.”
“That is a fool’s bet,” Persephone snorted, smoothing down her robes as Harry arranged her hair, carefully placing a few strands behind her ear.
“Then you should take it,” he smirked, creating a shield before his front right as she tried to strike at him with her elbow, and as she hissed at the pain of hitting the barrier, Harry laughed and swiftly moved away, “or you could do that.”
“You li-”
The opening of the doors cut her off, and Persephone instantly straightened to forwards, the morning light streaming inside the hall and revealing Ophelia standing along with Daphne. For a moment, Harry was stunned by the older Greengrass. He had known she was a beautiful woman, probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But until now, it had just been a random thing about Daphne’s mother.
Now? With the light mist remaining from the morning’s fog behind her, and the golden, warm glow of the sun striking her silky, golden blonde hair…Harry couldn’t really articulate, neither gauge what caused his cheeks to suddenly feel warm. Her robes, a pristine, beautiful shade of royal blue flowed down to her heels without a wrinkle in sight, and burgundy heels adorned her feet, complementing the amethyst pendant on her neck. As her warm, blue-green eyes looked at them both, Harry was somehow aware of everything. From the slight wind in the hall to the amount of heat on his skin, to the way Ophelia smiled and walked towards them, her hand on her daughter-
“Greetings, Lady Greengrass,” Persephone spoke up, breaking him out of his thoughts—and his weird thoughts stuttered to a halt as he realised his mistake.
As the older one between them, he should have been the one to welcome the guests first, not Persephone. Merlin’s balls, what was he daydreaming about?!
“Welcome to Kástro Mávros,” he continued smoothly, and they both bowed in welcome at the same time, bending exactly like how Daphne, and later Cassieopeia, had taught them. Straightening up and meeting her eyes, Harry said, “Your presence brightens our Hall, Lady Greengrass.”
“Charming as ever, Heir Potter,” she smiled, nodding at him, before looking at Persephone, “and you look beautiful in that color, dear Persephone. Lady Black’s choices are as impeccable as ever.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Lady Greengrass,” she nodded, before looking at Daphne, who had been looking at them silently for the past minute, “Welcome to Kástro Mávros, Heiress Greengrass. We hope our hospitality lives up to your expectations.”
“I am honored to be inside the famed Castle Black,” Daphne smiled…and yet, both Harry and Persephone realised right away that it was faker than anything they had seen from the Greengrass Heiress. Even their hesitant first meetings had been more genuine than this, which had been under the pretext of exchanging favors.
“Lord Black awaits us in his solar, Lady Greengrass,” Harry instantly looked back at the older witch, smiling like he had a thousand times before, flourishing a hand in the direction of the staircase, “Shall I guide you?”
“Absolutely,” Ophelia nodded, and somewhere, Harry had an inkling that she knew that they knew how much Daphne was faking with that smile.
Tracey’s condition had clearly hit the blond harder than any of them had expected.
A couple of minutes and some small talk later, they were entering Arcturus’ solar, Cassieppeia seated to the side near the fireplace, while their grandfather sat in his classy, rather simple chair behind the desk, his cane leaning against the arm of his seat.
“Lord Black, Lady Black,” Ophelia began with a deep nod, every syllable cultured as she looked at them both, nodding deeper than she had for them. “My husband sends greetings and a formal invitation for the Winter Solstice Ball. The Greengrass family would be honoured by the presence of House Black and your wards.”
Arcturus rose. His movements were measured, economical as he accepted the envelope, placing it right before him as he waved at the seats before the desk, “House Black acknowledges the invitation. Attendance will be confirmed once my schedule allows. Please be seated, my vineyards have just recently produced a rather fine consignment of wines. It will be a shame if a famed connoisseur like yourself leaves our hospitality without enjoying them.”
Ophelia’s smile was polite and hollow in the way all political smiles were. “I wouldn’t want to stress Lord Black’s time.”
Cassiopeia, seated near the hearth, tapped her wand once against the armrest. “Nonsense, and a ball, is it? Then perhaps your daughter can assist me. My students,” her gaze drifted to the twins, “have no grace beyond the efficiency of their wand arms and dueling stances.”
Harry glanced at Persephone. Her answering glare said, don’t you dare agree.
But Arcturus merely inclined his head. “A sound idea. Lord Greengrass will find it a display of civility if his heir ensures her peers do not humiliate themselves on his floor.”
Ophelia chuckled softly. “Of course. Daphne will assist however Lady Black sees fit.”
“Perfect,” Cassiopeia said smoothly, rising. “Shall we leave them to their wines then, Heiress Greengrass?”
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The ballroom had slept for years.
Heavy curtains draped like funeral cloth over tall windows, and dust dulled the marble’s gleam. Cassiopeia raised her wand once, and the room woke with a sigh. Curtains tore open; chandeliers bloomed to life; the runes beneath the floor shimmered awake. The Black rose that spread across the centre caught the light like a watchful eye—beautiful and deadly, just like the Blacks themselves.
“No wands. No spells. No excuses,” Cassiopeia said, her tone carrying that teasing note that always seemed to edge her voice. “You’ll learn by repetition and humiliation—the way every proper witch and wizard survives their first ball.”
Persephone groaned. “This is torture.”
“Then perfect practice for society,” Cassiopeia replied smoothly. “Both demand pain tolerance.”
Daphne stepped forward, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips at the byplay, before turning toward Harry. “Come, Harry. I’ll lead for now.”
He blinked. “Shouldn’t I—?”
“Only if you want a limp,” she said lightly, nodding at his feet before pointing to her right hip. “Left hand here—no, here—and the other… dear gods, you’ve never done this before, have you?”
Persephone laughed outright. Cassiopeia’s gaze slid toward her, one brow arching—an expression that shut her up instantly.
“Keep talking,” Cassiopeia said sweetly, “and I’ll find you a partner from the family portraits. Some of them haven’t danced since the last Goblin Rebellion. I’m sure they’re desperate—and I assure you, I can animate them into physical bodies.”
Persephone’s eyes widened at the threat, and Harry gave her a victorious smirk as Daphne adjusted his stance. The phonograph croaked to life, the needle catching on a slow waltz from Cassiopeia’s youth. The melody was elegant, precise—exactly the sort of thing Harry imagined Arcturus approved of while sipping brandy and judging the world.
Daphne moved with poise born of endless repetition, though her smile dimmed back to that polite, practiced mask. Harry followed awkwardly at first, counting beats under his breath, searching for a way—any way—to coax something genuine from her. Slowly, he began to find the rhythm, guided by the same focus that steadied his wand arm under pressure.
“You learn quickly,” Daphne murmured after a short silence.
He smiled faintly, shoulders easing. “I’m used to learning under fire.”
“Then this is practically peaceful.”
“Until Lady Black throws something,” he muttered.
Across the room Cassiopeia’s amused voice carried. “Don’t tempt me, Heir Potter. The nearest vase is enchanted to return to my hand.”
Daphne nearly laughed aloud. As it was, her shoulders shook, her lips twitching despite herself. Unfortunately, Harry’s attempt at humour distracted him enough that their feet tangled; her eyes widened as she lost balance.
He caught her before she fell, one arm circling her waist. For a fleeting instant, the world narrowed to the music’s slow pulse and the heat of her body against his. Her breath brushed his collarbone before she straightened, cheeks flushed.
“Thank you,” she murmured, voice low.
He nodded, shifting his hand back, aware of the phantom warmth that lingered against his palm.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly.
It should have ended there, another awkward recovery in a long line of lessons. But as she met his eyes—blue like morning frost catching sunlight—something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Harry didn’t know what it was, only that it shouldn’t have felt as warm as it did.
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Across the floor, Persephone moved beneath Cassiopeia’s sharp gaze. The older witch glided like smoke, her movements precise and impossibly smooth; Persephone’s were pure force—clean, strong, and unrestrained.
“You’re thinking about steps,” Cassiopeia said, circling her like a cat around prey. “Stop that. Feel the measure. It’s a duel with prettier music.”
“I’m trying,” Persephone muttered.
Cassiopeia’s smile deepened, all teeth and amusement. “Trying is for Gryffindors. Do it again.”
She caught Persephone’s hand and drew her into motion, sudden enough to startle. Their skirts brushed the marble, a flash of black and silver against lavender. Cassiopeia’s laughter, low and unguarded, filled the hall as Persephone stumbled once more.
“Grace, not aggression,” she murmured. “You can’t conquer rhythm by glare alone.”
Persephone exhaled through her nose, jaw set, and this time when she turned, her body followed instinct instead of resistance. The motion clicked — less storm, more lightning’s edge.
Cassiopeia released her hand, satisfied. “There. See? Even a thunderbird can learn to fly in circles.”
Persephone almost smiled before catching herself, and the dance continued.
On the other side of the hall, Daphne and Harry continued to move, their circle widening unconsciously as they gained confidence. The music wound higher; the chandeliers’ reflections slid over them like liquid gold.
Daphne’s fingers tightened slightly over his shoulder. “You’re improving fast.”
Harry’s answer was quiet, breath even. “You make it look easy.”
“It isn’t.”
He looked down at her; for a heartbeat, she held his gaze, the practiced mask faltering just enough for warmth to break through.
Persephone’s steps faltered again as she caught the sight from the corner of her eye — the tiny, almost imperceptible smile between them — and her chest tightened with something she didn’t understand.
Cassiopeia noticed, of course. She always did. Her finger tapped her shoulder, and as their gazes met, she rolled her eyes, “Eyes on me, not on them,” she said mildly, laughter glinting in her voice. “Jealousy ruins posture.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“No,” Cassiopeia agreed, a teasing hum beneath the word. “You’re possessive. It’s different.”
Persephone’s heel slipped, and Cassiopeia’s laughter followed like the chime of glass.
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High above, on the marble gallery that overlooked the ballroom, Arcturus Black stood beside Ophelia Greengrass, both with crystal glasses in hand. The deep-red wine caught the light from below, glowing like garnet.
“They’ve improved since I last saw them,” Ophelia said, eyes on the dancers. “Your sister has a gift for extracting excellence—or terror.”
Arcturus’s smile barely curved. “She believes the two are interchangeable.”
“She might be right.” Ophelia took a slow sip. “Daphne looks at ease. That’s rare after the attack on Tracey. I had hoped she might feel good with the company of her friends.”
“The Greengrass child is adaptable,” Arcturus said. “Your blood breeds diplomacy.”
“And yours breeds command.”
He inclined his head slightly, accepting both compliment and warning.
Below them, Daphne spun; Harry caught her by the waist, steady, sure. The pair moved through the final turn, their synchrony unplanned but natural.
“And yet,” Arcturus softly muttered as he took a sip of the wine, savoring its aroma and taste equally as he looked at the children, aware of the Greengrass matriarch’s eyes sliding over to him, “One does not personally deliver just a mere invitation…not even for—pardon my words—seeing their children smile. Your daughter could have come for the day just like Harry and Persephone went the last time”
“You are not someone from whom a 'mere invitation’ would suffice,” Ophelia countered with grace, “You are the Lord of Black. The Scourge of Brittany and the last of the Lords who had fought against Grindelwald.”
“I acknowledge the respect, but that bears no weight with House Greengrass. It does not explain your presence.” he inclined his head, and for the first time since her arrival, he saw Ophelia’s mask crack. Her eyes, which had been warm and soft until now, bled with grief and something raw for just a moment, before it vanished and she turned her face towards the children below.
“House Greengrass…nay. Artemis and I…we formally, humbly beg for any assistance you can provide us with,” she muttered after a moment, and out of the corner of his eyes, Arcturus saw her hand tighten against her robes for a second as she continued, “Tracey Davis, our ward—daughter in all but name has been struck by whatever curse or creature that plagues Hogwarts. We are aware of the magic-draining effects that the petrification is having on the students, and Tracey is already in a delicate situation due her Waxing Plight.”
“Ah yes, she was struck on the full moon, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” she nodded, “her magic was already at the peak of volatility, and the condition was not helped by that stupid prank pulled by the Weasleys. I fear for her life, Lord Black.”
“Dumbledore is growing mandragoras in that Herbarium,” Arcturus said, before looking at the younger woman directly, “but you fear the girl might not last until then.”
Ophelia’s agreement was silent, and Arcturus hummed as he lightly swirled the wine in the glass, his eyes taking in Harry and Daphne as they danced together, the Greengrass girl smiling a little more than she had when she had walked in.
“Does this ‘Tracey’ mean much to you?”
“She means enough.”
“Then…what assistance do you seek with me and mine, Lady Greengrass?”
“Anything you can tell us about these incidents, about Slytherin, about the person who may be behind this...and what we can do to help Tracey.” she answered instantly, and despite her previous poise, Ophelia couldn’t hide her urgency from him.
He smiled, looking at her over the rim of the glass as he took another sip, and rested it down on the platter that floated between them. “You shall have my help then, Lady Greengrass.”
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The castle slept uneasily that night.
Wind clawed at its spires and whispered through the high windows, a chilling moan that rattled the suits of armour along the Grand Staircase. Neville pressed himself against the cold stone, a thin line of sweat beading on his temple, his breath held tight as the beam of a lantern swept past the landing below. The faint, acrid scent of smoke and the sickly-sweet smell of candle wax clung to the still air. Aurora Sinistra’s shadow glided across the steps, her heels clicking faintly against the marble, a slow, methodical rhythm that set Neville’s nerves on edge.
Two flights below, Ron came tearing up, shoes in his hand, his socks whispering against the stone stairs. “You’re bloody mad,” he hissed, his voice a frantic puff of air. “She’s still patrolling!”
Neville didn’t answer. The faint scrape of her lantern hook shifted closer, the light spilling over the rail in thin, sickly gold ribbons. With no time to think, he seized Ron by the wrist, the bone feeling like a bird’s under his grip, and threw the cloak over them both. The fabric poured like water, and the world dimmed instantly, dissolving into a suffocating shroud of silence and shadow.
Sinistra stopped two steps from their feet, her lantern lifted high, eyes scanning the corridor with the cold, sharp efficiency of a blade. Through the shimmer of the cloak, Neville watched her face—calm, a mask of stone, her eyes impossibly alert. He could feel Ron trembling beside him, his breath hot and ragged on Neville’s sleeve. After a long, agonizing moment, she turned, her light falling away, and the sound of her boots faded toward the Astronomy Tower, swallowed by the wind.
Only when silence returned, deep and complete, did Neville lower the hood, exhaling a soft, shuddering breath.
“She nearly saw us,” Ron whispered, his voice thin with relief.
“She didn’t,” Neville said, his own voice still a little shaky. “Let’s move before she does another round.”
They slipped through the Entrance Hall doors, closing them with slow, deliberate pressure. The hinges groaned like a dying thing, the sound lost to the storm outside. The air beyond hit them cold and damp, filled with the smell of pine and rain. The forest loomed ahead, a black, impenetrable wall, its trees like a thousand jagged teeth.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Ron muttered, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
“Hagrid’s in Azkaban because of whatever’s in that forest,” Neville said quietly, his gaze fixed on the darkness. “If we can find whatever he was talking about, maybe we can get a hint about saving Hermione before her magic drains out of her body. He did say to follow the spiders, did he not?”
“You do know I am scared of spiders, right?”
“Then stay close, and shut up.”
He pulled the Invisibility Cloak fully around them. The world blurred, their shapes vanishing. Their footsteps softened to nothing as they crossed the sodden grass and reached the treeline, and the forest swallowed them whole.
The air closed around their faces, thick and moist. Every branch, every root felt alive underfoot, as if they were walking on the bones of a great beast. Neville dimmed his wand to a faint, blue glow. The light barely reached their hands, casting long, dancing shadows that mocked them from the corners of his vision.
It smelled of rot and iron and wet earth. A mist hung low, curling between the trunks, glowing faintly when the moon broke through the clouds. Something scuttled past their boots—a quick, brittle sound—and then vanished into the deep dark.
“Brilliant idea,” Ron muttered under his breath, his voice laced with venom, “Insects, darkness, and a creature hunt for a man who thought a dragon chewing on his fingers was cute.”
“Stop talking.”
Neville crouched, touched the ground. Mud. Wheel marks, half-washed by the rain, but still visible in the dim light. “Hagrid came this way,” he whispered.
“Or something dragged his cart back,” Ron said grimly.
They pressed deeper into the dark. The webs began as threads no thicker than hair, glittering in the wandlight like morbid constellations, and grew into thick, sticky ropes stretched between trees. A strange hush settled around them—no birds, no frogs, not even the wind. The silence itself felt wrong, a premonition of death. With each feet, Ron’s whimpers grew as more and more spiders were revealed, dangling from trees in intricate webs, ranging from thumb sized critters to thick, long legged ones the size of his face.
Neville brushed one thread with the back of his wand as the white-yellow spider before his face raised its forelegs threateningly, and he just floated it away gently. The web thrummed faintly, alive with a cold, alien magic. “Warning line,” he muttered.
“Warning for what?”
He didn’t answer, and they both continued.
In the back of his mind, Neville was thankful to Ron. he knew that the ginger wizard was scared to death of arachnids…but still, he was soldiering on with him. It was rather heartening for him, especially after the revelation of his pars-
The trees thinned, revealing a wide, open space, and Neville’s thoughts sharpened. The moon broke through the clouds and lit the hollow below, the ground gleaming white and slick. Everything was covered—roots, stones, trunks—all drowned in a sickeningly thick, white silk. Shapes hung from the canopy in twisted bundles. Animal. Centaur. Human.
Ron froze, the colour draining from his face. “Bloody hell.”
Neville pulled him closer under the cloak just as a tremor ran through the web. The sound followed—soft, dry clicks that multiplied until the forest itself seemed to move and breathe. Dozens of eyes glimmered in the dark, hundreds more behind them, spreading up the trees. Massive, jointed legs moved soundlessly across the silk, a horrifying procession of darkness.
Ron’s grip crushed Neville’s sleeve. “We’re dead.”
“Not yet.”
A single spider scuttled close, its mandibles clicking with a sound that Neville would never forget. He flicked his wand. “Muffliato.” The world folded in on itself, sound dropping away into a muffled, distant echo. The creature hesitated, tasting the air, and crawled past them, a silent monster in a silent world.
Only when it vanished did Neville lift the spell.
“We go around,” he whispered.
Ron nodded, pale and sweating.
The web thickened underfoot, sticky and damp. Every step sank, each movement groaning softly through the strands. A pit opened ahead, wide and black, its edges packed with layers of silk and bone. From its depths came a slow vibration, steady and heavy, as though the very earth had begun to breathe.
Ron swallowed hard. “Neville, we need to leave.”
“We came for proof.” He raised his wand. The faint light swelled. Silver reflections rippled across the nest. The silence that followed felt wrong—poised. A predatory quiet.
A spider lunged from the right, a black blur. Neville reacted before thinking, his wand a blur in his hand. “Confringo!” The blast tore it apart mid-air, sending flame and gore across the web.
The forest exploded into sound. Hundreds of bodies rushed from the pit and the trees, a wave of movement and black limbs. The air filled with chittering shrieks that tore at their minds.
“Aegis!” Ron shouted, his shield flaring to life just as the first spider struck it. The barrier trembled under the impact, bending inward with each blow. Acid hissed against its surface, sizzling white.
Neville moved with a frightening precision. “Reducto! Lacero! Bombarda!” Every word struck like a hammer. Spells cut, burst, burned. Limbs scattered. The webs caught fire and died with a hiss, and unholy screeches echoed through the night as the spiders jumped backwards.
The next moment, a spider the size of a horse leapt the dome, its mandibles scraping through the barrier. Neville’s countercurse detonated point-blank, splitting it apart. Ichor splashed over the shield, steaming. Ron gagged, but held the barrier.
Another wave came. Neville’s wand twisted sharply, driving downward. “Detonare Terra.” The ground convulsed, a focused quake that shattered the webbed floor. Dozens of spiders fell screaming into the dark pit below.
Ron stared at him in shock. “Bloody hell, Neville—what was that?”
“An old charm,” Neville said curtly, his breath ragged. “I’ve been studying.”
“I noticed!”
The tremors faded. The swarm stopped. Not one creature moved. Even the trees seemed to hold still, frozen in terror.
Ron frowned, still panting. “Why’d they—”
The ground pulsed again. Deeper. Heavier. A noise like wet leather tearing filled the air. The pit began to rise.
Eight barbed legs emerged first, black and shining in the faint light, each thicker than a man’s chest. Then the body, bloated and massive, its hair slick with dew. Eight eyes opened, catching the light in dull gold. The stench hit a moment later—rot, venom, decay—a miasma of death.
Ron’s wand wavered. “Please tell me that’s not—”
Neville’s voice was a whisper, dry and low. “It is.”
The creature spoke. Its voice was a grinding rasp that rolled through the hollow like thunder, a sound that shook their bones.
“You dare tread my web, little wizards?”
Neville raised his wand, his arm steady even as the shadows of a thousand smaller bodies gathered behind the giant.
“He is what Hagrid had been hiding,” he said quietly, his voice a low, steady murmur.
The forest fell silent, and not even wind moved as his eyes met eight dark, cold ones…and the large spider clicked its mandibles once.