The ballroom of Greengrass Manor glowed like a heart of living light.
A hundred lanterns swayed along the arched ceiling—swaying globes of soft blue and warm gold—casting their shifting reflections across the pale marble floors and the off white curtains and drapes. Sculpted pillars rose like the trunks of ancient olive trees, their bronze roots curling along the baseboards. Enchanted tapestries shimmered in the background like islands rising from the wine-dark sea—with hippocampi leaping through foam, constellations shifting in the darkened ceiling above.
The Greek roots of the Greengrasses were clearly being displayed with pride.
Music began to drift through the air—soft strings at first, a courtly waltz woven with harps. Voices layered atop it gently, murmurs, polite laughter, the clink of crystal. Walking forwards along with his companions, Harry looked at it all with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
At the head of the ballroom, beneath the high fresco of Apollo steering his sun-chariot while flowers bloomed in the air under the warm light showering upon them, Lord Artemis Greengrass and Lady Ophelia stepped forward to open the night. Artemis raised his glass, posture effortless and commanding in his deep-wine robes, hair combed neatly with a few strands stylishly falling to the side. “Honoured guests,” he said, voice carrying like firm, yet with a warmth that seemed utterly alien to him after living with Arcturus for so long, “House Greengrass greets you on this Solstice Eve. May the longest night grant clarity to old shadows, And Dionysus bless our gathering with favour and fortune both.”
Ophelia followed, luminous in silver-blue silk. “And may joy find each of you this evening, as your hearths light with the warmth of Hestia.”
With a gesture, the orchestra swelled, and the crowd parted as the Lord and Lady of Greengrass took the floor. Arms linked, colors complementing each other, and steps in perfect sync, the couple looked like one of those about whom tales were penned. As the warm rays shone on their backs, they turned softly and clasped hands together, before beginning the celebration.
They shifted in tune with the instruments, somehow looking sharp and fast, yet graceful beyond measure. No wasted steps, no stumbles, no shakes in their posture. A toast rose towards the Lord and Lady of the house all around them, and the harps shifted to a higher note, the room began to move.
Couples glided to the floor, groups gathered near the periphery, and the lyres joined in on the symphony. Within moments, there were a dozen couples moving across the floor, moving in forms and styles they knew the best, but somehow matching the tempo of the music perfectly.
Daphne turned to Harry, eyes flicking briefly to his hand before she extended her own. “Well,” she murmured, tilting her head towards the floor, “Hope you are ready.”
He took her hand softly, feeling the softness of her palm against the calluses that were starting to build on his, and words slipped out before he could stop them, “To catch you?”
Surprise flew across Daphne’s face, and even Harry felt something weird about himself, that increasingly familiar warmth returning to his chest, but the moment passed, and they quickly walked to the floor. His eyes met Artemis’ and Phelia’s and Daphne took them to the center of the dance, and the man nodded at him with a smile as they took positions.
Instantly, whispers rippled along the perimeter like serpents in tall grass as the public realised just who had decided to come to the floor, that too with the Greengrass Heiress on his arm.
“Potter twins…”
“…with the Greengrass heiress?”
“…dangerous, that alliance…”
“…improper… look how close—”
“Let them talk,” Daphne whispered to him as she drew him into motion, swift and precise like everything she did.
“They always will,” he whispered back, emerald eyes meeting blue.
The words followed them onto the floor like a second music—soft, insidious, threaded beneath the violins with accusations and exclamations of disgust, but Daphne—and by extension Artemis and Phoelia—ignored them all like the world didn’t even exist, focused on the dance and the movements of their bodies.
Harry felt them before he properly heard them, the subtle shift in the room’s attention as heads turned, fans paused mid-flick, and eyes lingered a fraction too long. It was not hostility, not yet, but it was something jarringly familiar to how the students at Hogwarts had behaved for the most part after the Augusta Longbottom incident last year.
Daphne’s fingers tightened briefly around his, a small pressure that steadied more than it startled. She did not look away from him as they continued their pace among the other couples, her chin lifted, posture immaculate. If she felt the weight of the stares—and she had to—she gave no sign of it beyond that single, fleeting squeeze.
The music carried them forward, and somewhere, he too began to smile along with his partner, enjoying the moment unlike he had thought possible.
Harry moved as he had been taught, steps precise, shoulders loose, awareness split between rhythm and proximity. Dancing with Daphne right now was not like practice in Castle Black’s resurrected ballroom. There was no teasing correction from Cassiopeia, no Persephone snorting behind them. This was something else entirely—older, heavier, layered with meaning he was only just beginning to grasp.
Something personal.
She fit against his hand naturally, as if the space between them had always been measured for this distance. Too close to be careless, yet he was beginning to realise that it wasn’t far enough to pretend indifference.
For a heartbeat, Harry was acutely aware of their proximity—how he could see the flecks of lighter sky blue in her irises, how she was exactly two inches shorter than him, and how her cheeks were dusted with pink. For a brief, indescribable second, he was aware of everything about her, from the slight warm breath escaping her mouth to the way she was trying to maintain distance between them—something that no longer troubled him. Harry was not stupid. He knew he was stunted in many matters, but this much he could recognise, especially with how his own heart was beating louder in his ears. She was a girl dancing at her family’s solstice ball, surrounded by eyes that judged not only her steps, but who she chose to take them with.
And he—he was not merely Harry, ward of House Black. He was Harry Potter. He was watched. Judged. Hated.
And yet she danced.
They turned with the music, skirts brushing marble, shoes whispering in time. Daphne’s gaze flicked briefly past his shoulder, and Harry followed it instinctively.
Draco Malfoy was approaching.
The Malfoy heir moved with practiced ease through the crowd, pale hair immaculate, expression composed into something that might have passed for pleasant. His eyes slid over Harry with open calculation before settling on Daphne, and he bowed with a smoothness that had been drilled into him since infancy.
“Daphne,” Draco said, voice pitched perfectly for public ears. “May I steal you for the next dance?”
The question was formal, but the claim beneath it was not. Especially with how Draco’s eyes flicked over to him, scorn naked in his gaze.
Daphne did not answer at once. Her hand lingered in Harry’s for a fraction longer than etiquette required, just long enough for him to feel it—and for Draco to notice. Then she withdrew with measured grace.
“Of course,” she said evenly.
As she turned away, Draco’s eyes flicked back to Harry, and for a brief, naked instant, the mask slipped. The look he cast him was sharp with triumph, possessive in a way that had nothing to do with affection.
Harry did not rise to it. Draco could have the dance, that did not change the fact that Arcturus had invited him and Persephone to live with him, not his supposed Heir.
He stepped back, blending into the edge of the floor as the couples shifted and the music swelled again. Smoothly exiting the shifting couples, Harry sighed and stuffed his hands in his robes. The space Daphne left behind felt oddly cold, though the ballroom was warm with light and motion. Mentally shaking his head, Harry reached the table where his family was sitting, and plucked up a blue flower from one of the vases. A moment later, the conversation between Arcturus and Persephone stopped, making him look up.
Lucius Malfoy had crossed the floor and was now standing before Cassiopeia, his bow deep, almost reverent, a hand extended. This was his first time seeing the Malfoy Lord, and in the privacy of his mind, Harry couldn’t help but think that other than his looks, the man looked entirely unrelated to Draco–at least from his bearing.
“Great-Aunt Cassiopeia, what a wonder to see you here tonight,” he greeted, a charming smile on his face as he met her amused eyes, his grey ones, mirth dancing in his expression, “Would you honor me with the magnanimity of a dance?”
Cassiopeia’s answering smile was all teeth and amusement as she accepted his hand, her posture languid, dangerous. “Eloquent as ever, Lord Malfoy,” she laughed lightly as Lucius too straightened up, “But yes, I do find you a suitable dance partner enough.”
Lucius guided Cassiopeia onto the floor with practiced ease, his hand light at her back, careful not to presume familiarity. The orchestra adjusted seamlessly, shifting into a deeper, more intricate piece—strings braided with low percussion, a slower, deeper tune compared to the energetic swell that it had been before.
They were watched immediately.
Cassiopeia moved like a woman unburdened by expectation, her laughter soft and genuine as she allowed Lucius to lead the first turn before reclaiming control with a subtle pressure of her fingers. Around them, conversations faltered for a moment, as everyone turned to look at the Valkyrie of Death dance like a woman who had not felled dozens of wizards for Grindelwald.
Harry did not miss how Lucius leaned in just enough to speak privately, nor how Cassiopeia’s smile sharpened in response. Mentally remembering the time when he had seen Narcissa at the castle, with an elf’s head on the table before them, Harry couldn’t help but think if Lucius was plotting to have Arcturus killed. It wouldn’t surprise him, but the man didn’t appear so foolish, and neither did any of his past actions support that theory.
“You danced well,” Arcturus suddenly said, breaking him out of his thoughts, and Harry nodded at the praise even as he tried his best not to let his emotions show on his face. He must have failed, for Arcturus shook his head with a smile and raised his wine glass, “Fret not child. I am harsh, yes, but I do not begrudge you your happiness. It is a celebration today, enjoy the eve all you can.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, before looking at his sister, “you aren’t dancing?”
“I am enjoying my drink,” she sighed, raising the glass of some transparent liquid—which for all he knew, could be alcohol with how Arcturus too was nursing the same thing. Rolling her eyes, Persephone tilted her head in Arcturus’ direction, “And I think everyone is too scared of him to come ask me for a dance—not that I would dance with any of them.”
His eyes flicked to their grandfather, and the man smiled sharply, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. Yeah, she was definitely on something if she was speaking like that, Harry nodded to himself.
“I thought that was not allowed until we were fifteen.”
“As I said, it's a celebration,” Arcturus replied, clearly amused at Persephone’s words, “and I said that is the legal age, not that I would restrict you. Besides, this is barely better than distilled water in my opinion.”
“It’s ceremonial,” she said, voice dry with that customary eyeroll, “More tradition than drink. I am not having cognacs or whiskeys here.”
“You could if you wish to, Persephone,” Arcturus said, nodding his head in the direction of the bar, where servers were mixing cocktails and spirits together in a dazzling display of colors, flames and precision. “However, not more than two.”
“Thank you Grandfather,” she smiled, and raised her glass, “but I’d rather stick with this for now.”
Tapping on the menu, Harry quietly summoned a plate of snacks to their table, a combination of flatbreads, cheeses and spiced olives. A couple of minutes passes like that, with Arcturus and Persephone quietly drinking their beverage, while he munched on the fluffed but crispy bread, watching the couples on the floor dance—and just why was this song going on for so lon-
Astoria appeared at his elbow like a sunrise given form, jarring him out of his spiralling thoughts. She was still flushed from earlier, cheeks warm and eyes bright, her gown a pale wash of dawn-gold that caught the lanternlight and scattered it in soft reflections. She hesitated for half a heartbeat—just long enough to be polite—before lifting her chin and offering him a small, hopeful smile.
“Harry,” she said, voice careful in the way of someone who had rehearsed the courage for it. “Would you… would you dance with me?”
The request was simple, unguarded, and something inside him melted.
He blinked once, surprised, then smiled back at her, not even considering her words before acceptance, “Of course,” he said, and offered his hand.
Astoria’s relief was immediate and unfiltered. She took it with both of hers for a moment before remembering herself and adjusting to proper form, laughing quietly under her breath as they stepped onto the floor together, while Persephone quietly waved at them both from her seat.
The music had shifted by then—lighter, quicker, a piece meant for movement rather than display. Around them, couples flowed and parted like tides, silk and velvet brushing past in measured patterns. Harry guided Astoria gently, mindful of her height, of the way her steps were eager but a fraction too fast. To their left, he could see Daphne again, this time partnering with an unknown wizard, who looked to be older than them.
“You’re very tall,” she informed him solemnly as they turned, and Harry focused back on his partner for the moment.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied indulgingly, smiling at her like he remembered Persephone smiling for him many times, “Am I dancing well enough, my lady?”
She giggled, the sound bright enough to cut through the low murmur of the hall as they turned yet again with the beat, this time ending near Amelia Bones and a blond wizard, “Daphne says you learn fast.”
Harry raised a brow. “She does?”
Astoria nodded, utterly oblivious to the weight that sentence carried. “She watches everyone. But she watches you more.”
He felt the faintest heat creep up his neck and chose not to comment, focusing instead on keeping Astoria’s steps steady as they spun. She followed easily, trusting, her grip firm but relaxed, knowing every step he was going to take before he did.
“You are good,” he muttered after a couple of minutes as she corrected him mid-step, taking the lead for just a moment before letting him move.
“I like dancing,” She beamed, “Mother says it’s because I can’t stay still.”
“That might be a skill,” he said, nodding a particularly heavy wizard to their back, “Most people here could use it.”
They laughed together, the sound briefly shared and private despite the crowd, and the dance continued.
Time passed, along with two more songs. He was enjoying himself immensely, idly chatting with the younger girl, learning some gossip about Daphne, and then—
‘Harry.’
The voice slid into his mind without warning, precise and unmistakable. Arcturus.
His smile did not falter, but his attention sharpened instantly as his eyes flicked to the man sitting on the opposite edge of the dance floor.
‘Persephone stepped away several minutes ago,’ the voice continued, calm but edged. ‘She has not returned. I have searched discreetly. Something is amiss.’
The world narrowed.
‘Where?’ Harry thought back, keeping his steps smooth, his expression unchanged, even though he could feel his heart begin to thunder, temperature rising in his body and mind both.
‘A guest corridor near the eastern washrooms. I will not alarm the hall without cause. You will investigate.’
Astoria was still talking, unaware. “…and then Daphne said the flowers meant—Harry?”
He looked down at her, already easing them toward the edge of the floor. “Astoria, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I need to step away.”
Her disappointment flickered naked on her face, but she recovered quickly, nodding with the earnest seriousness she always carried. “It’s alright. Is something wrong?”
“Maybe,” he said honestly, looking at the exit, “Can you tell me where the nearest guest washrooms are?”
She pointed without hesitation. “Down that corridor, past the mosaic of Artemis. There’s a side hall—staff don’t usually go there. There is a sign just outside it to point guests towards the chambers.”
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hand once before releasing it. “I’ll come find you later.”
“I’ll be here,” she said, her eyes wide as she nodded, but Harry had already turned around, moving sharply towards the grand doors. The music swelled behind him, laughter rising and falling in practised rhythms. Lanternlight glimmered on marble and bronze, on silk and jewels, on faces carefully arranged into masks of delight.
None of it touched him now. The sounds and laughter all melted away as he passed by Arcturus, his eyes meeting the old wizard’s, a shared understanding between them.
Persephone better be unharmed.
His pace was measured, unhurried to any watching eye, but inside his thoughts were razor-sharp. Persephone did not wander. She did not fail to return. Not without reason. Briskly walking past the walls and the paintings, Harry passed beneath the mosaic Astoria had mentioned—Artemis in silver tesserae, bow drawn, eyes fixed on a distant horizon—and slipped into the quieter corridor beyond.
The sounds of the ballroom dulled behind him, replaced by the soft echo of his steps and the faint scent of water and stone. With a thought, his wand appeared in his hand, magic surging through the magical conduit, yew and horned serpent sparking with worry and rage.
Something was wrong.
And he was done dancing.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Persephone sighed for the second time in as many minutes as she adjusted the shoulder of her apparel, feeling the cool wind strike her skin. Humming as she reached a mosaic dedicated to Artemis, she continued onwards towards the ballroom. Maybe she could dance with Harry after she got back, if he was done with Daphne and Astoria that is. Rolling her eyes as she remembered the way the little Greengrass had asked her brother, Persephone chuckled to herself mentally and wondered whether she should tease Astoria about it.
A few seconds passed like that, as Persephone thought about things other than training and the Chamber and ancient history, when something caught her attention. She realised it without panic at first, only with that quiet prickle at the base of her spine that came when something failed to align the way it should. The corridor beyond the ballroom was calm—too calm, perhaps—but nothing in it screamed danger. The music ahead of her was duller than it had been before, laughter folding into muffled echoes as her heels whispered over pale stone.
She passed beneath the mosaic again.
Artemis, wrought in silver and lapis, bow drawn, eyes fixed upon a distant horizon. Except, she was certain—absolutely certain—that she had crossed it earlier, and when she had crossed beneath it earlier, the bow had been angled the other way.
She turned, just slightly.
The window she had passed moments ago was now behind her shoulder, moonlight spilling inward from the opposite direction than before. The breeze followed it—cool, faintly damp, brushing the nape of her neck from the wrong side.
Her steps faltered.
That was when she understood.
The space had been tampered with. The corridor was now inverted.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said gently, and Persephone spun.
Three figures stood where the corridor should have been empty. Two men flanked the woman at their centre, both broad-shouldered, wands already out, their stances alert but not aggressive. The woman herself looked unremarkable at first glance—dark hair bound back, robes travel-worn rather than ceremonial, without any of the pomp the women at the ball had come with—but her eyes were sharp, assessing. It reminded her of Quirrell’s gaze rather eerily.
Persephone’s wand was in her hand before thought caught up.
The first spell tore free on instinct as her hand snapped up, a silent confringo shattering through the barely formed shield with flash of fire, and slamming the surprised man back into the wall with a crack like splitting stone. He slid down, groaning as blood painted the white behind him.
For a small moment, stillness enveloped the corridor as they all looked at the half-unconscious man.
The next, Persephone twisted aside, magic flaring up in front of her in a half-formed shield that rang like struck glass as the curse splashed against it. The force knocked her back a step, breath tearing from her lungs, but she planted her feet and moved with the force, pirouetting on the spot with a Conteram Ossa.
It was blocked deftly, and the corridor screamed as spells crossed, marble spalling, mosaics cracking, dust choking the air. Within moments, more than a dozen spells were exchanged. Persephone transfigured everything around her into makeshift obstacles, Cassieopeia’s words echoing in her brain amidst the flashes of magic and the flaring of her shield. The woman barked a sharp command—too fast to parse—and the remaining man moved instantly, flanking to the right, disappearing in a wave of shimmering air.
Cursing, Persephone ducked underneath an orange spell and sent forth a wave of fire with an ignis, watching out for where the flames disappeared. As the man’s position was revealed, a deluge of spells shot at her, a mixture of stunners and disarmers. Wondering just why they were holding back on the spells, she nonetheless heard the man curse as he removed his disillusionment, and joined the woman in wearing down her shields.
Persephone held on barely, and thinking an apology to Daphne, she dropped the chandeliers on the ceiling, before sending the broken shrapnel around her shooting at the wizards. A dim blue shield erupted before them that caught the stone, while the man banished the chandeliers away. The woman whipped her wand across the air, and twin blasting curses broke the stone before her. Persephone reinforced her protego, but it wasn’t enough.
A shield breaker shattered the final defence she had, and a curse clipped her shoulder, heat ripping across her skin like liquid fire. She hissed, staggered, felt the world tilt violently—and then the woman was there, closer than she should have been, her wand moving in a tight, brutal arc.
Something slammed into Persephone’s chest.
Not pain, but weight.
Invisible force crushed the air from her lungs and drove her back into the wall hard enough to rattle her teeth. Stone cracked beneath her spine as bands of magic snapped around her wrists, her ankles, her throat—tightening, pinning, suffocating. She was pinned against the wall, and before she knew it, her wand was floating away from her hands into the woman’s. Behind her, the man renervated their comrade and gave him a potion, groans of pain reaching her despite the blood pounding in her ears.
A smirk of victory came over the unknown witch’s dusty face, and Persephone glared at her fiercely as she fought anyway.
Magic surged through her without direction, raw and burning, flaring against the bindings until sparks danced across her skin. The pressure increased in response, deliberate and merciless as she felt the bindings dig into her wrists and ankles all the more.
The woman stepped closer, eyeing her critically.
“You weren’t meant to fight like that,” she said, not unkindly, but with irritation threading her voice as she looked around at the mostly destroyed corridor “This was supposed to be clean. Fish, get Bear ready. We have made too much noise.”
Nodding, the man patted his teammate on his back and moved towards her, one of his sleeves torn with a patch of angry red skin showing. Glaring at her, he shoved his wand in his holster and moved to lift Persephone as the woman floated her off the wall.
As soon as his arms closed around her hips and she was slung over his shoulder, Persephone struck without thinking.
The magic she tore free was not elegant. It was not shaped. It was the same thing she had unleashed once before, back in Little Whinging, when fear and rage had fused into something terrible and absolute. The fear that had once flooded her when she and Harry had been face to face with those muggles, it reared its head again. Only this time, it was cold murder as it flooded outward.
The man screamed.
Flesh greyed beneath the spell, collapsing inward as though decay had been accelerated a hundredfold in a single heartbeat. Skin cracked. Bone showed through as the curse devoured everything it touched, chewing through muscle and sinew with obscene patience. No, calling it a spell was too delicate. For it was nought but primal magic, her power reducing his arm to bones within moments.
He staggered back, howling, clutching at what had been his arm as it came apart in his grasp, chunks of dried, ashy remains falling to the ground—as white bones gleamed in the torchlight.
Amidst his horrified scream, Persephone too fell to the ground, almost splitting her head on the marble spread over the floor. A terrible drain of magic hit her at once, far more astronomical than anything she had experienced before. Blackness danced across her vision, and she felt any and all strength leave her body as even breathing became difficult. Breaths came in gasps as she somehow turned over onto her back, only to find the woman kneeling above her. Through her blurred, almost teary eyes she saw the woman kneel over her partner and wave her wand over him.
“Fuc-this wasn’t me—this difficul-”
“-tra pay for this! Get Fish up and mak-”
A muted flash of light broke through the darkness drowning her, and Persephone was somehow able to make out the spellfire ringing above her.
‘Harry’ , a part of her recognised as the woman and ‘Bear’ were taken by surprise. Something warm landed on her face as the Bear screamed, and the woman cursed loudly. ‘Blood’ she thought, almost unconscious now, and twisted her head towards the ballroom.
She could see her brother there, advancing towards them, his wand continuously moving as something strange, but warmly familiar drifted across her skin. Delirious, Persephone smiled as the world dimmed more and more, until all she could make was her brother, and his glowing, emerald eyes.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry was no stranger to anger.
To fear.
To the pressure that builds when you decide not to break.
Dust burned in his lungs as he skid around the corner, and Harry realised he had not really known any of them. Rage was too small a word, fear was too thin a sensation to define what he felt as his eyes found the far end of the corridor. Amidst the chunks and pieces of marble littering the floor…was Persephone.
Lying on the ground, shivering and gasping as three unknown people stood over her.
“Fuck, this wasn’t meant to be this difficult!” the man spoke first, as he grabbed onto the other one, who was screaming and shouting—bone white and gleaming where flesh should have been. He took that all in, raised his wand. The thunderbird feather inside sparked with the deathly stillness of a storm about to be unleashed as his magic surged, hotter and lethal than anytime before.
“We will get extra pay for this!” the woman answered as she fished for something in her robes, “Get Fish up and make for the exit, I ha-”
“Fulmen” he whispered, and an arc of bright silver lightning instantly shot towards the enemy. He had missed, he saw as the woman scrambled upright, while the man shouted and ducked underneath the shattered armor suit that had caught the spell.
“Bombarda, Confringo, Lacero, Stupefy!” spells left his wand non-stop, anger driving his speed to unseen levels as he chained one after another, pressurising them both into backpedalling. His spells were shielded by the woman, but Harry was relentless in his pursuit. His eyes flicked towards the man as he tried to stand upright, wand rising with flames coalescing on its tip.
“Die, you brat!” he shouted as a massive gout of flames enveloped the corridor’s width, swarming towards him in a flash of orange death. Harry answered in equal measure, slashing down his wand, a controlled burst of energy scything through the flames and leaving the centre bare for him to walk through. Stopping the flames from scorching him with an aegis, he emerged on the other side unscathed, eyes meeting the Bear’s with a promise of vengeance.
“Expulso! Bombarda!” he chanted in quick succession, throwing the chandelier by his feet at the wizards, before shattering it midair. As the man erected a shield before them to stop the shards, Harry grabbed hold of Persephone and summoned her to his side.
“Uh uh uh,” the woman smirked, raising her wand and stopping his spell mid-way, causing his sister to float between them, “Not so fast, Mr. Potter. The contract didn’t ask for you, so I may let you go unscathed, if you run back to that ballroom.”
“You can’t escape,” he said back, eyes on his sister as he felt the woman’s magic take control of the levitation, breaking his hold inch by inch.
“You will find us sufficiently prepared for that old man and these flimsy wards,” she smirked as Persephone floated back towards them, while the man raised his wand once more. Thoughts stilling for a small second, Harry met eyes with the witch, seeing the triumph in them, before his gaze slid to the small fountain behind her.
He let his hold on Persephone go, enough that she floated out of harm's way, and the woman recoiled with the sudden loss of force opposing her. Lightning surged through the corridor once again as the thunderbird feather sang with power, detonating against the hastily raised shield with a sound like splitting iron. The impact shook the floor beneath their feet, dust raining from the ceiling as Harry seized the fountain behind them, wrenching the water free and flash-freezing it into jagged spears.
“GAH!” the Bear screamed as his knee was speared through from back to front, and the man fell to the ground beside his comrade, crippled as blood pooled below his leg. Harry paid the man no heed though, walking forwards as he traded spells with the woman—shields formed and collapsed in an instant and his breath started to shorten with each second.The toll was catching up—his arms burned, vision blurring at the edges—but he didn’t stop.
It seemed as if the woman too knew this, because despite losing two comrades to Persephone and him within minutes, she was still smirking, fending him off with one arm as she expertly handled him. Then she moved faster than he expected. A sharp twist of her wrist caught him off-guard with a snapping, crimson curse—and Harry’s wand was ripped from his grasp, skidding across the floor out of reach towards the witch. Pain lanced through his arm as another spell struck before the moment was over, driving him down hard.
He tried to rise, but his legs buckled under the sudden exhaustion and pain. Magic snarled inside his chest, misfiring, uncontrolled.
The woman stepped closer, studying him now with curious dark eyes.
“Still standing?” she asked. “Most children are in a coma by now, you know? Damn, you guys are freaks.”
Her wand lifted, and something inside Harry broke.
His fingers dug into the marble, nails splitting as he breached past a barrier he had not known to exist inside him. Magic rose within him, far more than he had expected, raw and burning, tearing along his nerves like lightning through exposed wire. He screamed and slashed his hand sideways.
The air answered.
A razor-thin lash of pressure ripped free from his fingers, invisible until it struck, carving across the woman’s forearm and spraying blood across the wall. She stumbled back, genuine shock flashing across her face as her flesh was rent like a butcher’s cleaver cutting her.
“Wandless—?”
Another lash tore free—shorter, weaker—but enough to force her shield up on instinct. The backlash hit Harry immediately, pain detonating in his skull as the magic rebounded without a focus. But he did not stop. Grabbing the loose stones around him, he bombarded the woman, almost falling on his face from the strain.
But he was grinning.
“Touch her,” he rasped, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes glowing an unnatural emerald, “and I’ll keep tearing pieces off you until I can’t move anymore.”
She stared at him for a long second from behind her shield, then laughed—sharp and edged.
“Still a child,” she said. “Dangerous. But a child.”
Her wand rose again—
—and the corridor buckled.
Pressure slammed down on them, and the woman stiffened, eyes flicking sideways just as the space behind her folded inward.
Arcturus Black stepped out of nothing.
Magic rolled off him in a wave that bent light and sound alike, the wards of the manor screaming in protest as his presence asserted itself. His eyes were glacial, fixed not on the woman’s face, but on the position of her wand.
Beside him, Artemis Greengrass emerged in the same breath, expression carved from marble, hand already raised as ancient, sun-warm magic threaded the corridor, sealing exits and anchoring space with ruthless precision.
The woman recoiled a step, instincts finally screaming.
“Well,” she breathed, genuine irritation breaking through at last. “That complicates things.”
Arcturus did not speak.
He lifted his hand.
Power crashed into the woman, slamming her back against the far wall, tearing her wand from her grip and pinning her there as easily as Persephone had been moments before.
Artemis moved in tandem, wards snapping shut like iron jaws, light flaring along the corridor’s length as every exit was locked down.
Harry sagged, the bindings on his body shattering as Arcturus’ magic washed past him. He barely registered Artemis at his side, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, eyes already scanning Persephone’s condition.
The woman laughed once, sharp and breathless, even as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“Bind me if you like,” she said, eyes never leaving Arcturus’. “It won’t change the game.”
Arcturus’ gaze flicked to her then, slow and lethal, the whites of his eyes disappearing into pools of shadows.
“Oh,” he said softly, voice carrying the promise of inevitability. “It changes everything.”
Her smile faltered—just for a heartbeat.
And then the air screamed again as she crushed something in her palm, dark magic tearing a hole through space with brute force. Arcturus’ curse lashed out, striking her shoulder in a flare of searing blue—
—and she vanished.
Silence crashed down on them all, the walls where the woman had been now nothing but a smoking crater of runes and burning stone. Arcturus stared at the spot for a moment, before moving towards the wizards left behind, stunning them both as he walked towards them.
Harry barely noticed.
He was already dragging himself toward Persephone, hands shaking. His whole body shook from how much magic he had expended, as well as the curse the witch had hit him with, but Harry sighed with relief nonetheless.
She was alive. And she was here.
That was enough.