CHAPTER EIGHT
❝ SKYFALL❞
TRIGGER WARNINGS || Language,, Violence,, Suspense,, Death,, ETC,, NOT EDITED

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THE COBBLED alley was silent save for the low, echoing drip of water from an overhead gutter. The mist clung low to the ground like a creeping hand, curling around bootsteps that broke the hush. Lantern light from a distant pub flickered, distorted by the grime-covered windows, casting long, warped shadows against the damp stone.

Three Death Eaters emerged from the darkness, their cloaks hissing as they moved, their masked faces hidden beneath hoods that seemed to swallow all light. They walked without hurry — this wasn't a job. This was a message.

The fourth figure was dragged between them — a high-ranking Ministry official, Deputy Arcturus Wren. Once a proud and vocal defender of justice and truth, his robes were torn and stained with blood, his wand snapped in half and shoved into the pocket of his ruined jacket. His eyes were wild with fear, lips trembling as he stumbled forward.

"I have— I've told you everything," he stammered, breath misting in the cold. "There's nothing more to say. Please—please, I have a family—"

One of the Death Eaters let out a slow, condescending chuckle — low and dry, like the crackling of parchment near flame.

"Your family is the reason you ran your mouth," the tallest Death Eater said, voice like gravel. "A name like yours, talking to the press about corruption, about... resistance. Tsk. You made a spectacle of yourself."

Arcturus sank to his knees, hands bound, the cold stone biting into his skin.

"I didn't tell them anything about you— I swear on—"

A wand rose. The tip glowed crimson, humming with suppressed violence.

"Do you think it matters?" the female Death Eater whispered, voice like a razor under silk. "Your name was printed next to that pathetic essay. That is betrayal."

A hush fell over the alley. Even the wind seemed to stop, the world holding its breath.

Then — CRACK — a stunning curse hit Arcturus in the chest. He gasped, arching back, eyes wide as he was thrown against the brick wall behind him, landing in a heap. Not unconscious. They didn't want this over too fast.

The third Death Eater stepped forward, slower, almost reverent. He removed his mask. Underneath, his face was young — no older than twenty — but his eyes were dead, filled with a gleam of twisted pride.

"Let me," he said softly.

The others nodded, stepping back. Arcturus tried to crawl, fingers slipping on the blood-soaked stone.

"No one will investigate what we've done," the young man continued. "You were supposed to be an example. But now, you'll be a warning."

Arcturus opened his mouth to beg again, but the green light was already forming.

"Avada Kedavra."

The spell hit like a thunderclap. His body crumpled with no sound — as if the soul had been torn cleanly from flesh. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The mist thickened. The Death Eaters stood over the corpse, silent.

"The Ministry is weak," the woman said softly. "That's why we will not stop. The public is beginning to suspect—this should remind them who's truly in control."

"And the students?" the young Death Eater asked. "The essays—Rhiannon Malfoy and the others?"

"They'll learn their place."

The leader turned toward the shadows, cloak swirling as he walked away. "The next time they speak out, we burn Hogwarts to the ground."

With a final rustle of their robes, the Death Eaters vanished into the darkness, leaving only the still, lifeless body of Deputy Wren in the alley — a brutal message, carved in silence and death.

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The sky hung heavy above the stone courtyard, clouds bloated with the threat of rain, casting a sullen gray light over the grounds. Students moved in distant clusters, but the stretch near the clocktower was quiet, isolated — a perfect place for uncomfortable conversations.

Clyde stood beneath the archway, his arms folded, shoulders tense. He'd been watching for nearly an hour now, waiting for Silas to cross through like he always did after class. But today, when Silas finally appeared, he walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, and something in his stride — a hesitance, a withdrawal — made Clyde's stomach turn.

"Silas."

The name cracked the silence. Silas paused but didn't look up.

"Can we talk?"

There was a long pause before Silas finally turned to face him. His expression was unreadable. Blank, but not indifferent — like someone who had made a decision and was bracing for the fallout.

"I don't think that's a good idea anymore," Silas said quietly.

Clyde stepped forward, confusion slipping into hurt. "What are you talking about? You've been avoiding me—ever since the paper came out, you've been—"

Silas cut him off. "Because I can't do this anymore."

Clyde stared at him. "Silas—"

"I'm out." Silas's voice was firmer now. "I'm done with this dark magic bullshit. I'm done covering for you. For Roman. For Zelda. For any of it."

Clyde's jaw clenched. "This isn't about you being scared, is it? This is about Atticus."

A flicker of something passed over Silas's face. He didn't deny it.

"I care about him. And I'm not going to be the reason he ends up like everyone else who crosses the Death Eaters." His voice cracked slightly, but he recovered fast. "You pulled me into this. You told me I was protecting you. And I believed you, Clyde. I really did."

"You were protecting us," Clyde snapped, a rare desperation showing behind his cold exterior. "You still are."

But Silas shook his head slowly. "No. You're just using me now. You say it's for Lola, or for Roman, or for some greater purpose, but all of this—every curse, every lie, every time you make me keep your secrets—it just leads to more blood. And I'm done being the one who cleans it up for you."

Silas turned to leave, but Clyde grabbed his arm.

"Don't walk away from me."

Silas looked down at Clyde's hand on his arm, then slowly pulled away. "We're not friends anymore, Clyde."

Clyde flinched.

"I'm sorry," Silas added softly. "But I'm choosing Atticus. I'm choosing something good. For once."

And with that, he walked off into the misty afternoon, leaving Clyde alone beneath the archway, the chill of the wind cutting deeper than any spell.

Clyde stormed down the pathway leading away from the courtyard, his boots crunching over gravel as his breath puffed in short, angry bursts. The confrontation with Silas had left a bitter taste in his mouth — not just because he'd been cut off, but because deep down, Silas was right. And Clyde couldn't stomach that.

His mind churned with all the things he could've said, should've said, wanted to say. But they were swallowed by the knot in his throat, the invisible weight of guilt pressing on his chest like a curse that never quite lifted.

He rounded the edge of the greenhouse, where the filtered golden light bathed the path. That's when he saw her.

Lola.

She was sitting cross-legged on the low stone wall outside Greenhouse Three, a bundle of wildflowers in her lap, fingers gently weaving their stems together. Her head lifted the second she sensed him — she always did, like she had a sixth sense for him — but her smile faltered almost instantly.

The world around her shifted.

Two Ravenclaw girls whispered behind gloved hands near the greenhouse door. A Hufflepuff boy doing repotting glanced up, then quickly looked away.

Clyde slowed to a stop.

Lola stood, brushing pollen from her skirt. "Hi," she said softly, eyes searching his face.

"Hey," he muttered, voice hoarse. His gaze flicked toward the students still watching, the stares that pierced like needles. "You don't have to talk to me out here. People are already—"

"I don't care what they think," she said quickly, her voice firmer than he expected.

He studied her for a long moment. She looked so soft in the golden light, but there was a quiet steel behind her eyes. She'd been hurt. Devastated. But she was still here.

"I saw Silas earlier," she added after a pause, stepping closer. "He looked... upset."

Clyde scoffed lightly. "That's putting it mildly."

"I know everything's falling apart," she said, her hands curling slightly around the bundle of flowers. "But that doesn't mean you have to."

He looked away. "You should go. People already talk enough. You don't need more of that."

She reached out, slipping a daisy into the pocket of his coat before he could stop her. Her fingers lingered, just barely.

"I don't care what they say. I still believe there's good in you, Clyde Lestrange."

Clyde blinked hard, jaw tightening. But all he could do was nod — a flicker, a breath — before she turned back toward the greenhouses.

And once she was gone, he slid his hand into his pocket, brushing his thumb over the fragile daisy she'd left him like it was the last kind thing he'd ever deserve.

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The once-warm, sunlit Transfiguration classroom felt colder under the presence of the Ministry. The walls were lined with enchanted files, floating quills, and hard-eyed officers who looked like they hadn't smiled in years. A Ministry banner hung crookedly over the blackboard, an ill-fitting replacement for the house point hourglasses that had once stood proudly in the corridor.

Evander Lestrange sat in the middle of it all—alone, on a single chair conjured at the center of the room, while three officers stood before him. The light from the high windows stretched across the floor but didn't touch him. He looked up, jaw tight, eyes tired but defiant.

He'd been through this before.

One of the officers, a woman with sharp features and a Ministry pin that gleamed too much in the light, folded her arms.

"Tell us again—why were you in your brother's dormitory the morning after the anonymous exposé was released?"

"I already told you," Evander said, voice level. "I live there."

"Yet you seemed... distressed," another officer added. "Multiple witnesses said you were acting unusually agitated. Was there something in his belongings you were worried we'd find?"

Evander's fists clenched beneath the table.

"No."

Silence stretched. The third officer, older and quieter, stepped forward and opened a file.

"You're a Lestrange," he said, not unkindly—but not without weight. "Do you understand the sort of suspicion that carries?"

Evander flinched, just slightly.

"I'm not my brother."

"Maybe not," the sharp-featured officer said, circling slowly. "But the name carries legacy. History. One we're still cleaning the blood off of."

That stung. He felt it in his ribs.

Evander swallowed and looked up, meeting her gaze directly. "If I changed my name, would that suddenly make me trustworthy? If I burned my family tree and buried it in the Forbidden Forest, would that undo the history?"

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite irritation. Just... movement.

"We're not here to judge your family, Mr. Lestrange," the quieter officer said, scribbling something down. "We're here to understand what role you're playing in all of this. You're close with Orpheus Carter and Atticus Weasley. You've been seen speaking privately with known affiliates of both your brother and Roman Scamander."

"I'm trying to keep people safe," Evander said, more to himself than them. "I'm trying to stop things before they get worse."

The sharp-featured officer narrowed her eyes. "Then prove it. Give us something. Anything."

He hesitated. Not because he didn't know things. But because every word felt like betrayal of someone, in some direction. If he talked, he'd doom his brother. If he stayed silent, people might die.

His voice was quiet when he finally said, "You won't find anything. I already looked."

The officers exchanged glances.

The older one closed the file with a soft click and said, "That'll be all—for now."

Evander stood, stiff, pulse pounding.

And as he stepped back out into the hallway, leaving their judgment behind, he swore the weight of his last name had never felt heavier.

The hallway was quiet save for the faint echo of footsteps in the distance and the slight hum of enchanted torches clinging to the stone walls. The questioning had left a sour taste in his mouth—like shame and anger had mixed too long in his chest.

He didn't see anyone at first.

Then—

"Hey."

Evander turned so fast it startled him.

Ophie stood leaning casually against the wall across from him, one hand tucked into their trouser pocket, the other holding a half-eaten chocolate frog. Their jacket was half-zipped, hair windswept like they'd just come in from outside. They didn't look nosy or pitying—just... present. And warm, somehow, in that way Ophie always was when Evander didn't realize he needed it.

"What're you doing here?" Evander asked, trying to sound cool. It came out more frayed than intended.

Ophie raised a brow. "I always lurk outside Ministry interrogation rooms. It's kind of my hobby."

Evander snorted, despite himself. "Weird hobby."

"Thanks. It's exclusive."

They walked toward him slowly, their boots tapping soft against the stone. "How bad was it?"

Evander hesitated. "They basically called me guilty for having a last name."

Ophie didn't smile this time. Their jaw tensed slightly.

"Of course they did."

There was a beat of silence.

"I didn't say anything," Evander added quickly, eyes flicking to meet theirs. "About anyone."

"I know," Ophie said. "You wouldn't."

Something loosened in his chest at that. A small breath, maybe. A tether pulling him back from the edge.

He looked down at the floor, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. "I hate this. I hate feeling like no matter what I do, people are just... waiting for me to snap. To be like them."

"You're not," Ophie said firmly, stepping in close. "Evander, you're the least like them of anyone I know."

He blinked at them. Their faces were close now—closer than before.

"You're not your brother," Ophie murmured, voice softer now. "You're not your name."

Evander's mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something back—maybe something clever, or maybe something honest for once. But nothing came.

And then Ophie reached out, gently tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear like it meant nothing—like it meant everything.

Evander froze. A flush rushed to his cheeks. "You, uh—"

"You looked like you needed that," Ophie smirked. "Or maybe I needed that. You'll never know."

He laughed—actually laughed—and leaned back against the wall next to them, heart thudding fast.

"Wanna ditch whatever doom's waiting for us next and sneak into the kitchens?" Ophie offered, nudging him.

Evander smiled, really smiled, the kind that felt stolen and sacred.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go."

And just like that, they disappeared down the corridor together—two shadows against the flickering light, finding warmth in the dark.

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The wind was sharp this high up, biting at the edges of cloaks and pulling hair loose from even the tightest knots. Zelda stood by the railing, her fingers curled around the cool stone, her eyes tracing constellations she didn't really care to name. She'd asked Roman to meet her here—like old times—like when everything was simpler and she didn't feel like she was carrying a ticking bomb in her chest.

He arrived late.

Roman moved like a shadow, silent and sharp. His posture was tense, the usual lazy swagger in his step replaced by something stiff and distant. The way he looked at her—it wasn't how he used to. There was no softness, no quiet fondness hidden beneath sarcasm. Only walls. Unclimbable.

"You're late," Zelda teased lightly, turning to face him.

"I wasn't sure I was coming," he replied flatly.

Zelda blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "...Oh."

A beat passed. The wind howled between them.

"You've been weird lately," she tried again. "Did something happen?"

Roman leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the sky, jaw tight. "You ask too many questions."

She frowned. "Since when do you not talk to me?"

"I don't owe you anything, Zelda."

The words hit like a slap.

She took a step closer. "Roman—what's going on with you? If I did something, you have to tell me—"

"You didn't do anything," he said quickly—too quickly. "This isn't about you."

It was a lie, but one he clung to like a lifeline.

Zelda studied him. "You're pushing me away."

Roman's mouth curled into a bitter smile. "Maybe that's for the best."

Silence fell again, longer this time. Colder.

She tried one last time. "You said you cared about me."

"I never said that," he replied, and this time his voice was ice.

Zelda recoiled slightly, hurt flashing across her face.

Roman refused to meet her eyes. Because if he did—if he saw that flicker of heartbreak in her—he might lose his grip on the distance he'd forced between them. And he couldn't afford that. Not when the truth—her betrayal—hung in the back of his mind like a knife waiting to fall. Not when the Death Eaters would kill her if they ever found out what she'd done.

"I should go," he said.

She didn't stop him. Just watched him walk away, heart thrumming like thunder against her ribs.

And Roman—once alone—paused halfway down the spiral stairs, pressing a hand to the stone wall to breathe. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white.

He didn't say a word.
Didn't cry.
Didn't scream.

But somewhere, deep inside, he mourned her like she was already gone.

The castle was dim and echoing, most of the students still filtering into the Great Hall for dinner, their laughter and chatter drifting faintly through the stone corridors. Roman moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate, his steps barely making a sound as he climbed the winding staircases of Ravenclaw Tower.

He'd waited for the right moment.

Zelda had gone to dinner with the others—he made sure of it, watching from the end of the corridor until she disappeared around the corner, her laughter echoing behind her like a ghost.

He said nothing. Just slipped into the Ravenclaw common room

The dormitory was quiet. Blue silk drapes swayed gently in the breeze from an open window, and moonlight poured across the hardwood floors. He stepped carefully, glancing at the carved nameplates on the ends of the beds until he found hers.

Zelda's.

Roman stared at it for a long moment, heart pounding louder than he liked. Part of him still didn't believe what she'd done—what she was—but the piece of the astrolabe hidden in his bed said otherwise.

He crouched near her trunk, pulling out a few books, spare robes, loose parchment... and then there it was.

A small velvet pouch tucked beneath a pile of old exam scrolls.

He opened it.

The missing astrolabe piece glinted up at him like it knew what it was doing. His jaw tightened, and he pocketed it.

He could've left then.

He should've.

But his eyes landed on the leather-bound book half-hidden under her pillow—her journal. He knew what it was. She always wrote in it late at night, scribbling secrets she never said aloud. And if she'd betrayed him once—he needed to know what else she was hiding.

Roman took it.

For a long moment, he stood in the middle of her dorm, holding both her betrayal and her vulnerability in his hands.

Then he left.

No one saw him slip back out.
No one heard the heavy guilt dragging behind each step.
No one knew how Roman Scamander, always calm, always composed, was quietly drowning.

He didn't look back.
He couldn't.

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The earthy scent of soil and crushed mandrake leaves clung to the air as Lola Scamander and Tilly Langely wiped their hands on their aprons, dirt smudged across their forearms and noses. The sun was starting to dip behind the towers of Hogwarts, casting golden light through the stained glass windows of the greenhouse.

Professor Longbottom was pruning a Flitterbloom when Tilly piped up, casual but loud as always.

"Professor, do you think prank calls are a thing wizards do?" she asked, dropping a potted Dittany onto the table with a thud. "Like, weird voice, kinda creepy but also, like, funny?"

Neville looked up from his plant, blinking. "Prank calls?"

Lola fidgeted, brushing her braid back behind her ear. "Yeah. We got a weird one. Well—kind of? Someone answered our prank call at the sleepover. Just whispered something strange and made noises. It didn't sound... normal."

"It said something like," Tilly scrunched her face, lowering her voice into a dramatic whisper, "'yada-yada-grr.'" She gave a small chuckle, like she was trying to downplay it, but her glance to Lola betrayed a little unease.

Neville straightened immediately, setting the Flitterbloom down with care.

"What exactly did they say?" he asked, tone sharpening.

"That was it," Lola said softly. "And then it cut out with noises and screams. We thought maybe it was a prank or someone being stupid."

Neville's jaw worked, his fingers tightening slightly around his wand. "Odd, being able to make calls outside the contract is not possible."

Lola's eyes widened. Tilly's smile dropped.

"Are you sure?" Lola asked.

Neville nodded grimly. "Positive."

There was a pause. The greenhouse, once warm and safe, suddenly felt chillier.

Neville sighed, trying to keep his voice even. "Thank you both for telling me. I'll look into it. And please—if anything strange happens again, you come to me straight away, alright?"

Tilly gave him a quick, uncertain salute. "Aye, aye, Captain Herb."

Lola gave a faint smile, worry still flickering behind her eyes. "We will."

"Go on then," Neville added gently, forcing a more relaxed expression. "Go get some dinner before it's all gone."

The girls grabbed their bags, murmured a goodbye, and headed out into the fading evening light, their footsteps fading down the cobbled path.

Neville stayed behind, staring at the dormant fireplace with a deep frown forming on his face.

The roots are already poisoned.
He didn't like that one bit.

The chatter of the Great Hall surrounded them as the students of Hogwarts enjoyed their meals, with candlelight flickering above and the soft hum of conversation filling the air. Tilly and Lola were at the Hufflepuff table, sharing a laugh over something trivial when a familiar voice interrupted their chatter.

"Alright, I give up. What is it this time?" Zelda's voice was dry, but there was an unmistakable, playful edge to it as she slid into the seat next to Lola. Her posture was casual, and she had a small, knowing smirk on her lips.

Tilly grinned, clearly delighted by Zelda's sudden appearance. "Oh, nothing. Just Lola pretending she isn't stressed out about everything." She threw a wink at Lola, who rolled her eyes.

"Please, you're the one stressing over some ghost prank calls," Lola shot back, but there was no malice in her tone. She was clearly used to Tilly's dramatics.

Zelda raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. "Ghost prank calls? Really? What next? You two going to start telling me the poltergeist is plotting against you?"

Tilly grinned sheepishly. "Well, it's kind of suspicious when you get a call in the middle of the night, and the voice on the other end is... well, ghost-like." She shuddered a little for effect.

Zelda let out a huff of a laugh, clearly amused but also not having it. "I'm sure you're just imagining things, Tilly. Maybe it was just Peeves again. But sure, let's make it into a dramatic ghost story." She crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat with a bemused expression. "And Lola, please tell me you aren't buying into this nonsense."

Lola smiled wryly, rolling her eyes. "I swear, Zelda, you always make everything sound so ridiculous."

"Someone has to be the grown-up here," Zelda quipped, leaning in just enough to make it clear she was in on the joke, but not entirely letting them off the hook. Her voice softened just a little. "If you're going to be scared of a voice on the other end of a phone call, I'm going to have to start teaching you two how to actually survive a haunted castle."

Tilly laughed, putting a hand over her heart as if offended. "Are you saying we're incapable of handling spooky things?"

"Yes, Tilly. Yes, I am," Zelda teased, but there was a warmth in her voice as she glanced between them. "I'm just saying, if you're going to get all worked up, at least do it over something with real danger."

Lola snorted, her smile widening. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Zelda shrugged nonchalantly, poking her finger in her mashed potatoes. "Oh, I don't know, real threats like homework deadlines or whatever trouble you two are probably planning next."

Tilly put a hand to her heart dramatically. "Well, I'm definitely not about to start doing my homework for fun. That's terrifying in its own right."

"Yeah, we're not that bad," Lola added with a grin. "I think we've got this."

Zelda smirked, but her expression softened just enough to show she cared. "Of course, you do. Just... try not to get too caught up in things that aren't important, alright? This place is full of distractions."

Her tone dropped slightly as she added, "And try to stay out of trouble. Someone has to keep you two grounded."

Tilly nodded, putting on an exaggerated look of seriousness. "Yes, ma'am."

Lola looked over at Zelda, appreciating her more than she let on. "We'll try, but you know us... we like to get into trouble."

Zelda's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, well, I'll try not to be too disappointed in you when you do. But, for now, just don't make my life harder, alright?"

Tilly gave a playful salute, clearly enjoying the banter. "We'll keep it under control... until the next ghost prank."

Zelda chuckled, though her smile didn't fully reach her eyes as she looked at the two of them. "Just make sure it's not an actual ghost, and you'll be fine."

Lola raised an eyebrow. "You sure you don't want to take some of that advice yourself?"

Zelda met her gaze for a moment before speaking with a softer edge to her tone, "You know, you're lucky I'm here. You could get into far more trouble without me."

"True," Lola said with a grin, nudging Tilly. "Lucky for us."

Zelda gave a final shake of her head with a small, affectionate sigh. "I swear, if you two ever managed to get yourselves out of a jam without me, I'd be suspicious. But alright, no more ghost talk. Let's just finish dinner before you two drive me mad."

As Zelda leaned back in her seat, her eyes flickered briefly over the room, always scanning, always watching. She might've been teasing them, but there was a deeper protective streak in her that no one could deny. The girls settled back into their conversation, but there was a subtle warmth between them all, knowing that no matter what was to come, Zelda would always have their backs.

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The fireplace crackled in the dimly lit office, casting warm light against the ancient stone walls. Bookshelves towered, scrolls and magical instruments lined every surface, and the somber air was only deepened by the silence between the two professors standing at the center of the room.

Professor Neville Longbottom shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his expression etched with quiet concern as he faced Professor McGonagall. The Headmistress sat behind her desk, her sharp eyes trained on him, though the slight tremble in her hand as she sipped her tea betrayed her weariness.

"I wouldn't have come to you unless I thought it was serious," Neville said softly, his voice low, weighed down. "It's not just a few students pulling pranks. Lola Scamander and Tilly Langely—two of my most attentive Herbology students—mentioned getting strange, anonymous calls. Charmed messages. Nonsense at first glance, but... off."

McGonagall's brows drew together. "Anonymous magic? Inside the school?"

"I double-checked the Floo logs and communication wards. Whatever it was, it bypassed every protective layer. That's not student mischief—that's someone with knowledge."

She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the cup. "And you believe it could be connected to... the Death Eaters?"

Neville nodded. "Or at the very least, someone trying to unnerve the students. Stir fear. Distract us."

McGonagall's face remained still, but her eyes flickered with unease. "Hogwarts has always had its shadows... but this feels different."

"It is." Neville leaned forward, resting his hands on her desk. "Minerva, I know what it feels like when something is brewing—something wrong. I felt it during the war. I feel it now. We've got divided loyalties in the castle, secret allegiances, unexplained behaviors. Students slipping away. And now strange magical intrusions?" His voice dropped. "We're being tested again."

For a moment, McGonagall looked very old—older than Neville had ever seen her. The strength in her posture faltered, just slightly, as the weight of it all fell heavy in her chest.

"I swore I would never let this school fall into chaos again," she whispered. "Not after all we rebuilt. Not after the blood already spilled."

"We still have time," Neville said gently. "But we need to act. Quietly. Smartly. We can't rely on the Ministry. Not this time."

McGonagall's eyes, fierce and full of fire once more, met his. "Then we must rely on ourselves. And protect the children... no matter what it takes."

A long pause stretched between them before she finally stood. "We'll increase the wards, double the patrols, and start watching for any sign of magic being cast from outside. I want a record of every unauthorized spell in the castle."

"And the students?" Neville asked.

Her gaze softened just a touch. "We shield them from as much as we can. But if war is at our doorstep again... they deserve to know how to fight."

They both nodded. The war may have ended years ago—but something darker was waking again. And Hogwarts, once more, stood at the center of it all.

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Golden light shimmered across the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, the soft twilight above casting long shadows across the four House tables. Laughter and idle chatter buzzed among the students, and platters of steaming food floated their way into reach. Yet, the tension in the room lingered just beneath the surface—subtle, but undeniably present.

Clyde Lestrange entered quietly, his robes a little rumpled, dark circles haunting the edges of his eyes. He scanned the tables and spotted his brother before anyone else.

Evander sat with a certain brooding elegance, hunched slightly forward, a fork idly turning food on his plate rather than eating. Beside him, Orpheus "Ophie" Carter leaned into his own space, saying something with a crooked grin—teasing, probably—but Evander didn't seem annoyed. If anything, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Clyde hesitated for a breath before walking over. He dropped down next to Evander without a word, causing Ophie to shoot him a sidelong glance before returning to his soup with a dramatic, exaggerated slurp.

Evander said nothing.

But Clyde's eyes had already drifted elsewhere.

Across the Great Hall, sitting at the very edge of the Hufflepuff table, Silas Thorne was laughing. Genuinely laughing, in a way Clyde hadn't seen in months.

Next to him sat Atticus Weasley—brilliant, red-haired, sharp-eyed—and their shoulders brushed with every shared whisper, their heads ducked close in some private joke. Clyde felt the smile slip from his face, slow and heavy.

It wasn't the jealousy that made his chest ache.

It was the certainty.

Silas had chosen. And it wasn't him.

Evander finally spoke, voice flat. "Don't look like that. It's pathetic."

Clyde glanced at him, bristling. "I'm not—"

"You are," Ophie cut in, not even looking up from his food. "You're sulking. It's a bad color on you."

Clyde opened his mouth but thought better of it. His gaze drifted back toward Silas and Atticus.

They were leaning into each other now, sharing a quiet moment of affection so soft it felt like a betrayal.

Evander's tone, quiet but cutting, came again: "He's happy. Let him be."

Clyde didn't answer. The warmth of the Hall felt suddenly too bright, too loud. He looked down at his plate and picked at the food, but everything tasted like ash.

Across the room, Silas didn't even glance his way.

The early morning light crept into the empty classroom like a whisper, slanting across the cluttered desks where Atticus, Silas, Rhiannon, and Freya sat hunched over parchment and quills. The air was tense, not just with the urgency of what they were doing—but with something heavier. An unspoken knowing that what they were pushing toward could not be undone.

Stacks of ink-smudged essays littered the table. Freya, brow furrowed, was meticulously rewriting a section on the Ministry's complicity. Rhiannon stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the light climb the stone walls, her lips pressed into a thin line. Atticus sat close to Silas, the side of his hand brushing Silas's knuckles occasionally as he scribbled, almost as if drawing strength from his presence. Silas glanced at him from time to time, quiet, but unwavering.

They were nearly done.

Rhiannon exhaled sharply. "That's the last one," she said, voice steady. "We deliver these, and there's no going back."

Freya slid the parchment into her bag, nodding. "Let's hope it's enough to make people listen."

The four of them moved as one—bags shouldered, essays clutched tight—as they slipped through the halls of Hogwarts and out into the morning mist. It was quiet. Still. Almost too still. Even the birdsong seemed muted beneath the weight of what they were about to do.

The road to the Ministry was always a bit of a trek. They'd chosen to Apparate a short distance from the entrance—safer, they had thought, to avoid direct arrival just in case someone was watching.

They walked in twos: Atticus and Silas leading, fingers occasionally brushing, and Freya and Rhiannon behind, heads bowed in quiet conversation. The air was cool but heavy with tension.

Then it happened.

A blast of green light tore through the trees lining the path—so sudden and sharp it silenced everything.

"Get down!" Rhiannon shouted, yanking Freya to the ground as masked figures began to Apparate into view—six, maybe seven, Death Eaters, their wands already raised, spells crackling like lightning in their palms.

Atticus pulled Silas behind a tree, panting. "They knew—we were coming—how?"

A jet of purple shot past them, searing the bark inches from Silas's head. He flinched, eyes wide. "We need cover!"

"Split!" Rhiannon yelled, sending a stunning spell flying toward one of the masked attackers, knocking him back into the underbrush.

Freya cast a defensive shield, spinning toward Atticus. "Go! I'll hold them!"

"We're not leaving you!" he screamed, even as he ducked another hex.

Chaos broke loose.

Wandfire lit the trees in flashes of gold and green and red. Silas fired hexes with shaking hands, still holding tight to Atticus's arm. Rhiannon moved like a warrior—sharp and fast, her spells ruthless. Freya fought with precision, a quiet storm of defiance.

But they were outnumbered.

A Death Eater got close enough to throw Rhiannon off balance—she hit the ground hard, breath punched from her lungs. Another closed in on Silas and Atticus, snarling something venomous before Silas shoved Atticus aside and blocked the hex with a hurried shield.

The essays flew from their bag and scattered into the mud.

"No—no, no, no!" Freya gasped, crawling to gather them, even as another spell narrowly missed her shoulder.

"We need to get out!" Atticus shouted. "Now!"

Freya got the last scroll, tucking it into her jacket as she cast a blinding light spell. It disoriented the Death Eaters just enough. Rhiannon scrambled back to her feet, blood on her temple, and launched another stunning curse.

They turned, bolting for cover—panting, hearts racing, hands clutching whatever they could.

When they finally managed to Apparate—hands gripped tight, spells still humming in the air around them—they landed hard in an alley near the Ministry. Shaken. Dirty. But alive.

Freya looked down at her coat. The essays were still there.

Atticus bent forward, heaving, as Silas grabbed his shoulders. "You're okay," he murmured. "You're okay."

Rhiannon's hand trembled as she wiped the blood from her forehead. Her voice was a rasp. "They knew we were coming."

Freya looked up, eyes steely.

"They're scared of what we have to say."

They didn't dare speak for the first few seconds after landing. Their breath misted in the cool morning air, shallow and rapid. The narrow alley behind the Ministry was damp and cold, its stone walls blotched with moss and age. The four of them huddled there, behind a pile of discarded crates and rotting burlap sacks, hearts pounding like thunderclaps in their chests.

Atticus pressed his back to the stone wall and clenched his jaw, eyes flicking up toward the sky as though trying to keep his emotions from spilling over. Freya crouched beside him, clutching the front of her coat where the essays were folded tight, as though protecting a newborn. Her hands were trembling.

Silas sat on the cold ground, one knee pulled to his chest, his wand still out but limp at his side. He stared at the ground, pale, eyes wide with something between fear and disbelief.

Rhiannon was the only one moving. Pacing. One hand running through her tangled hair, the other gripping her wand so tightly her knuckles were white.

"We should've known," she muttered under her breath. "Of course they'd track us. The Ministry's probably crawling with spies."

"Why didn't they kill us?" Silas asked suddenly, his voice distant. "They had the chance. I saw one of them hesitate."

"They were sending a message," Freya said grimly. "This wasn't about killing us. This was about warning us not to try again."

Atticus exhaled harshly. "Well, it didn't work."

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city slowly trickling back in—distant footsteps, the rustle of newspaper pages in the wind, a bell ringing from some far-off shop. It all felt impossibly normal compared to what they had just escaped.

Rhiannon finally stopped pacing. "We need to stay here until it's clear. Don't move. Don't even breathe loud."

"We should burn the papers," Silas whispered, eyes darting. "If they find us—"

"No," Freya interrupted, her voice firm. "They're still intact. We made it this far. We finish what we started."

Atticus reached over and took Silas's hand, squeezing it. "They won't stop us. Not after this."

Above them, the morning sun had started to rise over the rooftops, casting long, pale rays down into the alley—but none of them looked up. They stayed in the shadows, pressed together, quiet and watchful, as though the slightest sound might summon Death Eaters once again.

They would wait.

And then they would try again.

________________________________

It started with the envelope.

Ophie sat alone at the end of the Hufflepuff table, poking at his breakfast with a fork, barely paying attention to the morning chatter around him. He was used to solitude—even when surrounded by classmates—and this morning, he welcomed it.

That was when the owl dropped the letter.

It didn't flutter down like usual or swoop in dramatically. It just landed, a pale envelope sliding across his plate. No return name. No crest. No handwriting except one word, inked in jagged black;

CARTER

He hesitated. Something about the parchment was wrong. It was yellowed, the edges soft with moisture. When he opened it, the scent of mildew hit first—then the words.

Muggle filth doesn't belong at Hogwarts. Your blood will cleanse the halls. Soon.

This is your last year. Make it count.

Ophie sat frozen, the letter trembling in his hand. His heart slammed against his chest, but his face didn't move. Not yet. He read it again. Then folded it slowly, like something sacred and deadly, and stood without a word.

The scrape of the bench echoed far too loudly in his ears as he left the Great Hall.

He didn't know where he was going. Just that he had to move. His boots echoed through the corridor, the letter burning in his pocket. His steps carried him toward the western corridor—deserted during meal hours, cold and dim even in daylight.

That's when he heard it: hushed voices, gasps, the sound of someone running.

He turned the corner—and stopped.

A small group of students stood gathered, staring in stunned silence at the stone wall across from the long windows. Someone whimpered. Another whispered, "Is this real?"

Ophie stepped closer, shoving through the crowd. His breath caught.

Scrawled across the wall in something thick and dark, like blood that had dried and cracked;

"BLOOD TRAITORS WILL BLEED FIRST."

And beneath it, as though etched in with a trembling, purposeful hand:

"Your Muggle won't last long."

His stomach dropped.

The crowd didn't look at him, not yet. But the writing felt personal. Felt aimed. And deep down, he knew it was.

Ophie backed away slowly, his fists clenched. He could hear their whispers now.

"Did you see this?"

"Is that—Carter?"

He turned and walked off, stiff and fast, the corridor blurring at the edges of his vision.

He didn't cry.

He didn't panic.

But as he slipped the letter from his pocket and stared at it once more, he felt something colder than fear settle in his chest.

This was a threat.

This was a warning.

And someone wanted him gone.

________________________________

The wind that day in Hogsmeade was crisp and gentle, the kind that played with the edge of your scarf and tugged at the corners of parchment signs in the shop windows. It was just cold enough to warrant gloves, just warm enough to make the cobblestone streets feel alive with the early spring buzz. Students moved in groups down the lanes, wrapped in cloaks and scarves, laughing as they ducked in and out of Honeydukes or held cups of steaming butterbeer.

Lola Scamander stood just outside the gates, her hair tucked into a chunky knit beanie and cheeks flushed pink with excitement. She glanced around, teeth sunk slightly into her bottom lip as she bounced on her toes, fingers laced in front of her. When she saw Clyde Lestrange approaching, something in her posture eased.

Clyde had a natural kind of quiet to him. The kind of silence that made you unsure if he was always thinking or just always holding back. But when he reached her, something softened in his eyes.

"You waited," he said with a faint smile.

"Of course I did," Lola beamed, then tugged at his sleeve, "Come on, I want to go to the Three Broomsticks before it gets too crowded."

They started down the path together, Clyde's hands shoved into the pockets of his coat while Lola talked animatedly beside him. She told him about the prank someone pulled in Herbology, about how Tilly had tried to sneak her a whole jar of Flobberworms as a joke, and how Neville didn't even bat an eye.

Clyde listened, and he laughed in that low, almost reluctant way he had, but there was warmth in it.

When they reached the Three Broomsticks, it was already bustling, but a small table in the corner freed up just as they entered. Clyde let her lead the way, his hand at the small of her back. He ordered for both of them—two butterbeers and a slice of warm treacle tart to share—and Lola rested her chin on her palm as she watched him.

"You know," she said, poking at the whipped foam in her mug, "I used to think you were... scary."

Clyde raised a brow. "Used to?"

Lola smirked. "Okay, still do a little. But like... not in a bad way. Just in that brooding, 'I keep dark secrets' kind of way."

He gave a short laugh under his breath, eyes flickering toward the window. "Maybe I do."

She reached out, hand brushing over his. "You're not scary to me."

His fingers curled instinctively around hers. "Good."

The light filtered golden through the windows, dust dancing in it like snowflakes. The warmth of the butterbeer, the subtle touch of her hand, the quiet thrum of other conversations around them—it all made the world feel a little slower. Softer.

After a long pause, Clyde spoke, his voice quieter now. "You sure you're okay? After everything... the paper, the whispers?"

Lola looked down at their hands, then up at him again. "It's hard. But I know what's real. I know you, Clyde."

Something flickered behind his eyes—shame, maybe, or fear—but he said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.

They walked together through the village afterward. She tugged him into Honeydukes and forced him to try a Fizzing Whizzbee. He nearly choked. They laughed until their stomachs hurt. Then to the small second-hand bookshop near the end of the lane, where she picked up an old, worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard and made him read her a line right there in the aisle. He did, quietly, cheeks flushed.

They stopped outside a small, cozy shop that sold enchanted trinkets and strange magical gadgets. Lola peered through the window, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Clyde, look! A self-stirring cauldron! That would be perfect for when I'm busy with my assignments," she exclaimed, pressing her face against the glass.

Clyde leaned in next to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. "You really think you need one of those? You're a natural with your wand," he teased.

"I do need it," Lola said, pouting playfully. "It would save me time. Besides, I'm terrible at multitasking."

She shot him a grin, and Clyde couldn't help but smile back, his expression softening.

They continued down the street, weaving through the crowd of students. Clyde watched her as she walked beside him, the way her hair bounced in the wind, the way she laughed at silly jokes, the way she made everything feel lighter. His thoughts turned inward, a faint gnawing feeling of guilt tugging at the edges of his mind. He had a way of keeping people at a distance, keeping them in the dark—but with Lola, it was different. She was... different. And it scared him.

"I was thinking," Lola said suddenly, breaking through his thoughts. "Maybe after exams, we could go to Diagon Alley? Just the two of us? I hear there's a new shop that sells enchanted plants. I think it'd be fun."

Clyde gave her a quick, surprised glance. "You... want to spend more time with me?" His voice came out a little rougher than he intended.

Lola shot him a playful smirk. "Of course. You don't think I enjoy spending time with you?" She nudged his arm with her shoulder, causing him to flinch lightly, not expecting the contact.

Clyde swallowed, his heart racing slightly. "I—yeah, of course I do." His voice was a little too defensive, a little too tense.

Lola frowned slightly, turning to him more seriously. "What's wrong? You've been distant lately, Clyde. Did I do something?"

Clyde stiffened, his gaze flicking away for a moment before locking back onto her, his brows furrowing. "No. It's... it's nothing." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like a weight had suddenly been placed on his shoulders.

Lola didn't seem convinced. She stopped walking, turning fully to face him. "Clyde, you know you can talk to me, right?"

He paused. He wanted to tell her everything—about the Death Eaters, about the pressure, about the lies—but he couldn't. Not now, not when everything between them felt like it was so fragile. So he looked away again, his jaw tightening.

"I... just don't want to mess things up," he said quietly. The words felt strange coming out of his mouth. He wasn't sure if he was talking about her, about them, or about everything else in his life.

Lola's expression softened. She reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. "You won't mess things up, Clyde. But you've got to be honest with me, okay?"

Clyde swallowed again, fighting the urge to pull away from her touch. But the warmth in her eyes made it hard to move.

"Just..." Lola continued, her voice low, "don't push me away. If something's wrong, tell me."

Clyde looked at her for a long moment, a war raging in his chest. She was offering him something he wasn't sure he deserved—trust, honesty, a chance. But how could he give her that when he knew he was already walking a dangerous line, caught in a world of darkness he couldn't escape?

"I'm just... trying to figure things out," he finally said, voice low.

Lola smiled faintly, her hand still resting on his arm. "Well, take your time. But don't think you're alone in this."

The air between them felt different now, lighter in a way, but still heavy with unspoken things. Clyde felt both relieved and frustrated by how easily she understood. She made it so easy to want to let his guard down, and yet...

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

They walked in comfortable silence after that, both of them lost in their thoughts but somehow at ease in each other's presence. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the village, and Clyde felt something inside him crack, just a little, under the weight of her kindness.

When they reached the small bench by the village square, Lola took a seat and patted the space beside her. "Come on, sit down. I think we need a break from walking."

Clyde sat beside her, shoulders still tense, but he was beginning to feel the unease ebbing away, just slightly. Lola turned to him, tilting her head, her eyes searching his face. "You know, we're allowed to have fun, right? Even with everything going on."

Clyde nodded, albeit with a touch of reluctance. "I know. It's just... hard to forget sometimes."

Lola grinned and nudged his shoulder. "Well, don't think about it now. Let's just enjoy the day. No dark magic, no Death Eaters, no secrets." She paused, then added with a sly grin, "Just a couple of students trying to survive Hogwarts."

For a moment, Clyde couldn't help but chuckle, a genuine sound that felt foreign but welcomed. "You're impossible," he said, his tone softer than before.

"And you're a mystery," she teased back. "But I like it that way."

By the time they left, the sky was painted in the soft purples and golds of evening.

They paused on a hill just before the path back to Hogwarts. From there, the castle looked almost mythical, lit up in soft amber light against the looming mountains.

Lola turned toward him, eyes shimmering. "Thank you," she said softly. "For today."

Clyde brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You deserve good days."

She kissed him then. Gentle, warm, filled with something deeper than either of them could name.

And for just that moment—beneath the fading light, wrapped in quiet laughter and butterbeer memories—nothing else existed. Not the whispers. Not the threats. Not the weight of secrets.

Just them.

________________________________

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees as the sky blushed with orange and pink, casting long shadows across the edge of the Black Lake. Roman and Zelda stood in the tall grass, just beyond the castle grounds, tension crackling between them like static. The lake rippled gently, but the air between them was anything but calm.

"You're changing," Zelda said, her arms crossed tight, voice low but edged with emotion. "You're not the same person I started all this with."

Roman's brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means," she snapped. "You used to talk about how you hated greedy people —the Death Eaters, the control, the fear. But lately? You've been...cold. Obsessed. Like you want the power just as badly as they do."

He scoffed, turning slightly to hide the flicker of guilt. "Don't twist this, Zelda. You think I like working with them? I'm trying to survive."

"There's a difference between surviving and becoming them." Her voice broke slightly on the last word.

Roman stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tightening. "You think I haven't noticed how close you've gotten to sabotaging everything?" he asked, the edge creeping into his voice. "You're reckless. You want to burn it all down and expect no one to get caught in the flames."

"I'm trying to stop you from dying!" Zelda shouted, stepping toward him. "You're the one who's closing himself off. I used to know you, Roman. Now it's like I'm looking at a stranger."

Roman didn't respond. The silence between them grew taut. He couldn't say what he was really thinking—that he did know she was sabotaging them, and he was too afraid of what might happen if he called her out. Instead, he said nothing. Just looked at her. And for the first time in days, he saw how exhausted she looked—how hard she was trying to stay strong.

Zelda stepped closer, her voice softer now. "Whatever you're doing...don't lose yourself. I'm still here. With you. Even if we're standing on opposite sides of everything."

Roman's expression cracked just slightly, his guard slipping for half a second. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Zel..."

It should have been a kiss. It was going to be a kiss—until her breath hitched, and her knees buckled beneath her.

"Zelda?" Roman caught her before she hit the ground, panic surging in his chest. "Zelda, hey—hey, look at me—"

Her body jerked violently in his arms, her limbs trembling as her eyes rolled back. Roman froze for a heartbeat, then lowered her gently to the ground, his voice shaking. "Zelda, it's okay. I've got you. I've got you—"

She didn't respond, her body wracked with uncontrollable seizures. Roman dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her head carefully, whispering her name over and over like a prayer. His heart thundered, useless thoughts racing through his mind—he didn't know what to do, didn't know how long it would last, didn't even know this could happen to her.

She hadn't told him.

Minutes passed like hours before the spasms began to fade, and her breathing steadied. Her eyelids fluttered, and she slowly came back to herself, dazed and exhausted.

Roman held her gently, his voice barely audible. "You didn't tell me..."

Zelda blinked up at him, tears prickling in her eyes. "I didn't want you to see me like that."

Roman swallowed hard, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "I wish you had."

They sat in silence for a while, the argument forgotten, the world holding still for them both.

The world felt strangely quiet around them, the soft hush of the Black Lake lapping against the shore as the light drained from the sky. Zelda leaned against Roman's chest, her body weak and trembling from the seizure, his arms still around her protectively. The silence between them wasn't awkward, but heavy—like the weight of something unsaid, pushing down on them both.

Her voice came out hoarse, barely louder than the breeze. "Roman..."

He didn't say anything, just gently ran a hand up and down her back, grounding her.

"I have to tell you something," she whispered, not looking up.

His hand paused.

Zelda closed her eyes, steadying herself. "I sabotaged it. The astrolabe... the plan... everything."

His breath hitched, but he didn't pull away.

"I've been working against them," she went on, voice thick. "The Death Eaters. You. Clyde. All of it. From the very beginning. I'm not who you think I am."

Roman's arms tensed slightly around her. She felt it—his whole body going still, like steel tightening under silk.

"I lied," she said, shaking now. "I lied to you. Again and again. And I hated it. Every second. But I couldn't let them win, Roman. I couldn't let this happen to Hogwarts—to the kids here—to you."

Finally, he spoke. His voice was quiet, but sharp. "Why now?"

"Because you were there," she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Because when I woke up in your arms, I thought—what if I never got the chance to tell you? What if I died and you never knew?"

Roman stared at her, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. "You think I didn't know?"

Zelda blinked. "What?"

He let out a bitter laugh, standing up suddenly and pacing a few steps away, dragging a hand through his hair. "I knew, Zelda. I knew weeks ago. You slipped up—said things you couldn't have known. You were always disappearing. The missing pieces, the map, the wand—I'm not stupid."

She looked up at him, stunned silent.

"I told myself I didn't care," he went on, voice rising, raw with frustration. "I told myself it didn't matter because it was you. But it does matter. You lied to me. You chose everyone else over us."

Zelda stood slowly, swaying slightly from the aftermath, but firm in her stance. "I chose what's right."

"And what am I then?" Roman snapped. "Wrong?"

"No," she said gently, taking a step toward him. "You're the reason I stayed this long. You're the reason I kept fighting."

He stared at her, breathing hard. "You made me care. You made me think—maybe I wasn't beyond saving. Maybe you saw something in me. And all this time, you were pulling the strings behind my back."

Zelda's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I did see something in you. I still do. I never stopped."

Roman shook his head, looking away as emotion cracked through the mask he always wore. "You've ruined everything."

She reached for him, brushing her fingers against his. "But I never stopped loving you."

His hand didn't move. His mouth was a line of fury and heartbreak—but he didn't pull away.

He couldn't.

Because he loved her too. And it destroyed him.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, Roman whispered, "You should've told me sooner."

Zelda swallowed, voice shaking. "Would it have changed anything?"

Roman looked at her—really looked at her—and every wall he'd built inside himself trembled. "I don't know," he said. "But maybe I wouldn't have felt so alone."

She stepped forward again and this time, he let her wrap her arms around him. He stood stiffly for a moment, then folded into her, burying his face in her neck.

They stood like that, together in the fading light, tangled in lies, in love, in too many truths far too late.

________________________________

The wind howled through the brittle trees, stripping branches bare, and moonlight spilled across the crumbling road leading to a small, isolated cottage nestled in the hills. The house was modest. A garden sat untended in the front, toys left scattered on the porch. Inside, a fire flickered low in the hearth as a mother quietly folded laundry, her husband reading on the worn sofa beside her. Their young daughter was asleep upstairs, her small lamp casting golden light on the pages of her picture book.

A knock came at the door.

The mother looked up, brows pinched. "Who on earth would be out here at this hour?"

The knock came again—louder, heavier, but not rushed.

The father rose. "Probably someone with a flat tire," he muttered, pulling on his coat. He opened the door—

And was blasted backward, slammed against the wall with a thud that shook the picture frames.

He crumpled. Blood streaked down the wallpaper.

The mother screamed, backing away, trembling as three cloaked figures stepped into the cottage without a word. Their faces were hidden behind masks—bone-white, skull-like, eyes empty and dark.

"Please—please don't hurt my family," she begged, her voice breaking.

One of them tilted their head, almost curiously. A wand was raised.

"Avada Kedavra."

Green light split the room. She collapsed mid-sob, eyes wide, the laundry basket tumbling from her arms.

Upstairs, the sound of hurried footsteps. A creak of a door.

The child.

One Death Eater began to move toward the staircase, but another stopped him with a simple raise of the hand.

"She's small," the lead one said, voice chillingly calm. "Let her run. Let them see."

And with that, they turned the house into an inferno with a flick of a wand. Curtains curled with flame. Wood cracked. Smoke devoured the ceiling.

As they stepped outside, the little girl appeared in the upper window, framed by fire, her face a ghost behind the glass.

The masked figures Disapparated into the night—leaving behind only silence, the scream of burning wood, and the acrid stench of smoke curling into the sky.

A message.

One the wizarding world would hear soon enough.

And one the Muggle world would never understand.

________________________________

AUTHOR'S NOTE
final chapter of act two is coming up next!!