A huge thanks to Taliesin19, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid who read and beta'd the chapter before its release.

Stay safe and enjoy!

The sun's melting embrace had set the world alight in shades of gold, crowning his lament in luminous hues of fire and flaxen as he crested the dock to gaze into the water's surface.

He pondered in the off moments if, perhaps, this had all been his fault.

Had there, at some point, been a sole divergence where the blame could be lain at his feet, wrought by his own, old hands?

Albus Dumbledore supposed there'd been a hundred such occasions where something had gone amiss. He had lived a life built on the backs of errors and mistakes, and, in times like these, it seemed as though the end was no better for having ached through the journey.

It was a thought that lived, breathed and died in the span of seconds and eternities as he surmounted his tournament vow and peered desperately downwards.

They were alive, and although not healthy, perhaps the ink had not yet dried as they'd thought it so—perhaps his mistake was not yet cemented.

Though the lament of the past was a vice of old men, past their prime and done with the whims of the world.

And the future seemed to hold so much more.

Elder wood was firm in his grip, practised elegant arcs turned sharp and malformed in pain and anguish, whip a downwards whip that threatened to tear his shoulder from his socket, the water parted. From within, the pair rose above, bloodied and battered, a trail of crimson followed them to the wood of the docks. Their bodies were threaded together in crude fashion, clutched in the hands at their final moments as the spear skewered them both.

It was a mortal wound—he'd seen such half a hundred times, and yet, their chests rose and fell as though nothing had happened at all. The situation called for words greater than he could give as he towered above them, small in what should've been their death.

The silence of the crowd was loud and cacophonous, rebounding in his hollow mind. Advancing in subtle, sullen waves to try and glimpse what they too assumed was a tragedy. It was the rush of Madame Pomfrey who pushed past him that broke him from his revere of the impossible.

She seemed to abandon her magic, whether out of practicality or desperation he was unsure, and reached a finger against their throats to feel their pulse. She too came away shocked, but active.

Her voice was the only words that he could hear, rising from her throat in some sort of imitation at an order. "Albus," she croaked. "We need to move them, quickly."

And then her own wand was in her hand, tracing patterns across their bodies. Little runes burnt themselves into their flesh in an effort to stave off worse, flesh exposed progressively only to become a canvas to magic's brand.

Then, in an instant, the pair were hoisted up by magic. The ascent was gentle, sliding slightly on the spear as little rivulets of blood broke through the coagulated barrier that Pomfrey must've achieved amidst her frantic casting.

Soon enough, experience pushed the shock, kicking and screaming, from his mind.

And then they were running.

Albus heard the riotous calls of what he assumed to be friends trailing behind him, teachers and students trying to form some crude phalanx around them as they rushed towards the castle. But whether by realisation of the gravity of the situation or being forced away, he didn't bother to spare a glance, they bled off.

Suddenly, their advance towards the castle was clear, trailing behind a thin wisp of mixed ichor as the earth met cobble and their footsteps rebounded with the sort of dull, hard noise only tragedy could muster.

Suits of armour seemed mournful, even in their fixed, empty glares they seemed to spur him on, and even though old bones warred in protest, their cries were snuffed by urgency.

The next problem to be surmounted was the Hospital Wing doors, great behemoths wrought from oak and iron that usually took some force to open. A hurried flick of his wand practically blew them off their hinges. Had the castle been made of matter lesser than magic and strong stone, perhaps the cobbles would have flown from the wall in retaliation.

Next, a thrust of his wand jerked out from his body with an answering flash of magic, morphing two beds together, forming something large enough for Pomfrey to levitate the pair onto. And so they were, landing on the pristine white sheet with a soft thud.

Crimson pooled and began to saturate the sheets beneath, Pomfrey spared but a breath before she delved back into the fray, desperate to undo such butcher's work.

First came the wards, heavy things that made the air feel scalding against his wrinkled skin. It melded against his skin like gelatine as he stepped against them, formed to stop the backlash from any harmful magic. He cared not, however, and lingered by their sides.

Their connecting thread became red hot, the spear melting away into vapour under her wand as her arm vibrated with careful concentration. The blood that spewed from the vacuum left by the weapon of war cauterising the wounds with its heat in the hopes they'd be damaged rather than dead.

There was a shuddering gasp that came quickly and without warning as the spear left them.

With a heaving gasp, as their backs arched in unison in an attempt to ward off death, they fell lifeless back to the bed.

Dead.

Albus's breath caught in his throat, the Matron beside him gave a shuddering gasp in response to their own.

And then, Poppy Pomfrey danced.

It was a grim thing of beauty, this dance to restore breath. She nursed the ember of life in her breast and in her palm, twisting in intricate movements with sweat beading at her brow. A spark at the end of her wand as she tried desperately to collect the tinder of their existence and restore their heart's flame.

Breathe, Albus begged.

Lips already blue from the cold and loss of blood refused his call, Madame Pomfrey thrust her wand and they convulsed for a moment.

And fell still again.

Breathe, Albus tried again, his hand reaching forward for the edge of the bed, grappling with the rails as he peered downwards to their faces.

Her spell landed again and history repeated itself—they remained still.

Breathe, and this time, he sought out Harry's hand to clutch within his own.

When the next spell came, they convulsed as they had the previous two times and within the half-second it took for them to fall still, Albus was sure days could have passed them by. If not for the sun that shone through the windows and painted the scene in the same gold hues, he'd have assumed it night.

And then, they gave a shallow breath that almost went unnoticed to the both of them.

Their first breath had been akin to the last—identical. Had it been a concern, perhaps he might've taken greater notice of such an occurrence. For now, however, he simply released Harry's hand and stepped away as the matron did her work.

Had there been any brief reprieve present in the hospital wing, it would've been shattered in the next moment. Albus turned on his feet and looked towards the open door, the sharp footsteps of Snape, McGonagall and Sprout making their way in, trailed by Olympe Maxime.

The strides of the half-giantess were far vaster than anything the others could muster and within seconds, she headed their ranks and rushed towards the bed.

"Are they alive?" Maxime asked in a horrified, small whisper. The eloquence she'd once displayed in the Great Hall seemed to have been left there.

Pomfrey seemed to be in no rush to answer, the responsibility fell to him as it always somehow did.

There was a brief battle within on how to approach such; should his words be a salve to heal her worry or would she rather the blunt gravity of the situation rest on her shoulders as well as his?

"For the moment," he eventually settled for. "Though I can't say for certain."

A shuddering breath born from the depths of her lungs left her lips, "How?" She asked, "You know as well as I that wound is mortal—" Her large eyes darted to the bed, "was mortal."

Snape pushed between the pair and through the heavy barrier, a vial of some deep crimson liquid in hand. Albus would've recognised it had he taken the time to give it anything beyond the shortest of glances. Instead, he simply watched as their heads were tilted back and the potion forced down their throats before he rushed back to his cauldron he hadn't noticed he'd set up.

Albus didn't respond, though not out of choice. When she received nothing but quiet rumination, Maxime pushed.

"The tournament's magic?" She theorised in a ghost of a whisper. "The flames, whatever they were, seemed to be of similar making to those of the goblet—old."

He allowed the thought to pass for a moment, "I suppose we cannot ignore the possibility that perhaps something was overlooked along the way, though I don't imagine either of us could speak of the tournament's enchantments doing this before."

It took barely a moment for her horror to turn to rage, white-hot and spitting, "Of course something had to have been overlooked!" She snapped, "two of our students lay dying, how many contingencies had to be overlooked to get us here? How many common sense concerns were rushed behind closed doors all in the name of cooperation?"

He had already known it was his fault and yet, knowing a truth and having it hurled at your form, arms spread and chest bared, were two vastly different things.

"I'm sorry, Olympe," was Albus's meagre offering. "I cared for him, just as you cared for her and it pains me just as much. But if you're searching for answers or a remedy within me I'm afraid you'll come away empty-handed with both."

It was an answer that didn't placate her rising wrath, not that he expected it to. "If you had truly cared for the boy you wouldn't have allowed this, this competing in a tournament with those with thrice as much knowledge as he," Maxime bit back.

"You know as well as I had any other option presented itself I'd have chosen it, rather than subject him to danger." Albus replied, "or I supposed I thought you once knew, now I am unsure."

But there, the seed long since planted was watered in the hope it sprouted. His words, the solemn mantra of If I had any other choice, was a bitter thing in his mouth—the sort that made him want to spit it to the floor. Perhaps, amongst this all, there had been another choice.

Perhaps, it truly was all his fault.

Dumbledore returned back to looking at the pair, rather than paying the conversation any heed. Pomfrey laid them on their sides and again, as if driven by some invisible force, they moved in unison. Their hands coming to clutch tightly between them.

Curious, was the only thought he could muster.

He could see the taller woman nod from the corner of his eye, her height lorded over him as she turned to him to peer down. It was as if her gaze added gravity to his shoulders, doing their best to push him to the floor.

"Perhaps I did know, once upon a time," Maxime replied in a softer voice. "But I also believed the songs the world sang of you were true, that the man who halted Grindelwald's pestilence from spreading across the continent was perhaps made of stronger stuff than this."

There was a sharp laugh that rang from his mouth, the sort that stung his throat as it left. "I'm sorry to have to disavow you of that delusion. I am a man, Olympe. No more—no less and, I have erred."

"You have no need to disavow me of that foolish idea, Dumbledore, the world has seen fit to do that for you."

"And I apologise for my assistance in that."

"That'll do little," Maxime said. "Platitudes won't give warmth to the cold or breath to the choking—they're just words."

A gusty breath left his lungs, deflating him, "I'm afraid you're right, but words, even the wrong ones, are all I have left to give I'm afraid."

It didn't placate her—far from it, but his words halted her unrelenting barrage for which he was thankful. Instead, her gaze moved from trying to force him from the floor and back to the bed. Now, it was a solemn affair, the sort that didn't see people or objects, but possibilities. It saw all the things destined to go wrong or right, all the things that had happened and all the things that would.

And, much like him, the air left her lungs and as if she'd been popped, the half-giant seemed far smaller than she had any right to be.

"Do you think they'll survive?" She whispered, her voice saturated with a hope he didn't have it in him to break.

"Like I said—" Dumbledore began, though she was quick to cut him off.

Maxime shook her head, "No, not like you said," she refused. "I don't want your uncertainties, I want to know what you think."

What do I think?

It was the easiest of questions and yet, the hardest.

"I…" His hand came up to stroke his beard as her gaze never wavered from the bed. "If magic intervened in their death, perhaps it will ensure their survival. A single miracle emboldens the idea that more could follow."

She nodded and chewed on his words as if it was her last meal, leaving them in silence for long moments that passed with dread slowness as they observed the Matron weave her wand, the Potions Master run to and fro with another vial to be shoved down their open throats. The herbologist rub herbs on their skin and the Transfiguration Mistress help oversee them all.

Had it been another time, another place, perhaps he would've taken pride as the cogs turned seamlessly in this desperate machine.

Instead, he was beckoned back to reality by Maxime beside him. "The parents will arrive soon, and they'll be wanting answers." She said, "And while I might've taken your words for now—the wrong ones, they won't."

Dumbledore offered her a thankful little smile, "I'll prepare for them as much as I can, I promise you that."

He fought the urge to cringe at the choice of words—she'd made it abundantly clear how much his promises were worth.

"And it won't just be the parents—the whole nation will look towards this school and ask how we could allow a boy and girl to enter, and die, at the order of an artefact. I suspect there's many that would relish at finding a chink in your armour," her hand made a short gesture at the bed, "and they've found it."

"They're not dead, Olympe." Dumbledore felt obliged to say, though she didn't seem to heed his message.

"Is that what you'll tell them?" She ground out, "you'll find little love offering only that."

"I'll tell them what they need to hear, I suppose," he said.

She narrowed her brow, "and you truly think that's wise?"

"Had any other option presented itself, I'd have taken it," Dumbledore explained gently. "But the truth is beyond our grasp for now. Now is a time to be together, rather than at each other's throats."

Maxime scoffed, "at your throat, and within right."

He allowed a short laugh to leave his lips, "I do suppose you're right."

"I'd be wary," Maxime warned, her tone was one that garnered no further argument. "There is a difference, perhaps subtle, between telling them you haven't the answers and telling them your own answers. Each lie we tell incurs a debt and, eventually, we're all forced to pay that toll when the time comes."

"Oh?" Dumbledore prompted her onwards.

"Indeed," she offered as she took a step closer. "And I have a feeling the truth is catching up to you, Albus Dumbledore."

He spared the prone couple a short glance.

Perhaps it is.

He had found that, in all his years of being an educator and warfighter, conversations like these never got any easier.

Fanned out before him were the families of the pair, worry etched so deep in the lines and features of their faces he feared they'd already come to a conclusion. Though, he had little doubt the children and spectators were quick to inform them of what they saw transpire on the short and hurried journey to his office.

Albus placed his hands before him and massaged wrinkled knuckles while the final few shuffled into conjured seats, the entire Weasley contingent still present at the school, alongside their parents, and the parents of Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour. Fawkes, upon seeing the last few find their place gave a mournful trill and flashed from existence, leaving him to their scrutiny and ire.

It was with his own mournful noise—a tired sigh, that he began. "I'm sure you're fully aware of what has taken place today," he said, "I don't seek to deny what you saw nor stifle your anger at our failure. I will simply answer the questions you need to ask."

Assuming the parents would go first, Dumbledore looked to them. Surprisingly, however, it was Ronald who came forth, likely not weighed down by the thoughts of what might be as much as the older members.

"What happened to him?" Ron asked and, at a sharp look from his mother, quickly amended the wording to "What happened to them?"

Meeting the young boy's eyes, before turning to the rest of them, "The details are murky and, likely, we won't have the full knowledge of what transpired until they awaken and we can gather the Merpeople's version of events." Faces seemed to brighten at the thought of their awakening and a twinge of guilt passed for perhaps giving them false hope. "However, what we can gather is that Mister Potter, upon noticing a hostage and fellow competitor went without rescue, sought to recover them under the pain of 'losing them', as the tournament stated."

"And then the Mermen attacked them?" Mister Delacour asked, his features that were perhaps aristocratic generations ago were marred with fear and lined with stress. "What purpose did attempting to kill them serve?"

He grappled for the correct words, "Merpeople are… maladapted to life above the waves, though not for lack of trying," Dumbledore tried to explain. "The Ministry approached them with an offer to assist in the tournament—by all rights one of the biggest events in recent history and within that, they saw a chance to be viewed as something more."

Pausing for a moment to take in the room as he watched Minerva shuffle in quietly through the spiral stairs. "They are looked down upon and sought to play their part in the hopes it might ease the stigma of their people, that the Ministry might hope to trade with them, perhaps give them new bodies of water to inhabit and such. But the wording of the tournament and their orders were very specific. Anything left beyond an hour will be lost permanently, and to stop any champion from trying to help another."

This time, it was Madame Delacour, her voice soft and coarse, grating over his skin as he heard it.

"They thought they were owed a life."

"Indeed," Dumbledore whispered in return. "In compliance with what they thought were our wishes, a Merman warrior sent his spear through them both in order to halt their escape, killing them."

A brief wave of whimpering and wet eyes went through the assembled peoples, even Minerva in the rear of the room dabbed at her eyes. Children clutched at their parents, who reached back, the whole experience driving the lance of guilt deeper.

Part of him, perhaps small and hidden, wished they'd react as Olympe did.

Anger, terrible as it was to say, was refreshing. They told him he was wrong, that it was his fault and he was to blame for it all. It killed the doubt, the constant grapple with the notion that he was the one that had likely killed two children. When they were angry, his mistakes were clear.

But they were sullen, silent and withdrawn, mouths fell silent in reverence of what they had lost, and what they might hope to lose, and it was a thousand times worse than any anger they could muster.

"But they're alive, aren't they?" Arthur interjected desperately after long moments of tears had subsided somewhat. "You said 'when they awaken', but they were dead. The dead don't wake up."

He wished to rub the weariness from his face though he imagined the gesture might convey thoughts best left unthought.

"Something…" Albus struggled again, "something saved them in the water, the wound was a death blow, there is no way they could survive."

"Then the flash of light happened," one of the children interjected though his attention was on his thoughts as opposed to putting a voice to a name.

Albus nodded, "magic, in one form or another, intervened," he said. "Though we're unsure of what, how or why. Our research into the matter will begin promptly but for the moment, they are alive."

This time it was Molly who spoke up, a voice held in a vice-grip of sorrow that came out soft and strangled.

"Will they stay that way?"

And, in this moment, he chose the lesser evil.

"We have no way of knowing," he offered gently as if a louder voice might scare them even further. "But their survival was a miracle in of itself and a single miracle, no matter large or small, powerful or insignificant, emboldens the idea that more might follow."

If they had more questions his last words killed them in their infancy. Instead, they huddled together in unison, united in sorrow and pain.

He sought to give them the room, silently pushing himself away from the desk and gently gliding towards Minerva.

"They're stable," she whispered in his ear as he lent down. "For how long Poppy can't know, she needs to speak with you—she was quite confused by something."

That made him cock his head, "Oh?"

Minerva shrugged in response, "She wouldn't say, she whispered to Severus but whatever befell seemed beyond her, and I've never known her to be stumped on the matter of health at least, not in recent memory."

"I'll see to it immediately," he promised before his eyes flashed back to the other inhabitants, "find them accommodation somewhere unused, I imagine they'll want to stay for some time."

And with that, he left his mistake behind to go confront another.

The Matron was poised over the pair, her wand away as she peered down upon them intently as he entered. His footsteps not rousing her from what was likely quite an important thought—he waited for her to finish.

Eventually, she broke free from her thoughts but didn't turn to him.

"They're bound."

"Pardon?"

This time she did look to him, her voice wavering, "Whatever happened to them, it bound their lives together.'

He took a large step towards them and looked at the pair, a hand clutched between them. "You'll have to be a tad more specific than that."

She continued as if she paid his question no heed, "Severus agreed with me, said he'd seen curses like these, ones that sap the life from another to replenish. It's terrible, I ca—"

"Poppy," Dumbledore demanded and though it did not break her fully from whatever had entranced her so, she did pause.

"They died in unison, they breathe in unison, their hearts beat in unison," she added but fell silent for a moment. "Whatever happened to them, that magic, it bound them. Their very souls latched onto the other to survive."

His own heart sank to his gut and he stepped a half step forward, searching their faces for signs of life.

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, even Severus had no clue what it could be and, despite my distaste for it, I've never known him to lack knowledge of the Dark Arts, he could talk of ones similar but none so…"

She never finished.

"The act of souls being bound is not so esoteric," Dumbledore commented. "Those who followed the old ways bound husband and wife for centuries."

Pomfrey shook her head vigorously, "Marriage bonds are of another breed entirely. They rely on two people willingly promising their life to another, until the end of days. This—" she gestured to them, "is something lesser, something worse. I cannot even begin to fathom its inner workings, they sap the life from one another to restore and every time, they lose a little in the process. They're in a constant state of trying to heal something that I cannot figure out and rather than heal, they hurt."

Dumbledore breathed a harsh breath that ruffled errant strands of his beard.

"You believe they'll perish?"

Pomfrey swallowed.

"Within a few months."

His garish robes always drew some sort of eyes, be it mirth or distaste, his rapid entrance into the St. Mungo's was no different. Usually, he might've flashed them smiles or taken his time in his journey, instead, long legs saw rapid use and took him under into Ward Two, the sign above him flashed in large, silver lettering.

WARD TWO - Gray's Ward for the Soul

With directions already given, he navigated rushing healers and patients and through corridors. A few muttered recognitions and hellos greeted him though he hadn't the time to answer them, dashing as fast as old age would allow until he found his door.

Small and flanked by pristine white walls and the sterilised smell of healing magic was his target, an office door.

Carlysle George

Head Healer

With a two-fingered knock on the glass panel of the door, Dumbledore twisted the door handle and invited himself in. The man inside was older, though nowhere near as old as he. His hair had lost its colour though likely as much due to the magic practised within the ward as it was age.

The man looked up from the missive held gently between his fingers and lowered his reading glasses, "Professor Dumbledore," he said. "It's been quite a while."

"Healer George," Albus returned, "Class of '52, couldn't quite master the conjuration of metal though a good student."

Carlysle smiled, "that was Cooper," he said, "my feathers always came out too blocky. Missed out on an 'O' for it."

Dumbledore inclined his head, "Apologies, they all blend together after you live long enough though clearly your career didn't suffer too much."

"It's no trouble, I can barely remember dinner most days," the man offered with a short laugh. "I take it you're here for the reasons Healer Pomfrey discussed?"

He nodded, "She led me to believe you were in possession of a particular tome that might hold some relevance to our situation. If possible, I'd like to read it."

"Nasty business, but yes," Carlysle nodded. "Though she led me to believe it was something of a parasitic relationship, I can't imagine it would be the cause," he said. "In my experience, those usually form as a result of curses or artefacts. I can't say I've experienced one so… spontaneous. Though I've speculated enough with Poppy."

The man lent down to rifle through his desk draws, presumably to find the book in question.

Albus shrugged though the man couldn't see it, "I cannot imagine it would be the root cause, though I lack the knowledge to say anything further. Though it'd be foolish to rule it out as a contributor."

A muffled voice came from behind the desk, "I suppose you're right there," a drawer shut audibly and another opened.

"The key to any puzzle is in the pieces," Dumbledore said, "and she, just as much as him, could have a hand in how this bond formed."

"Ah!" The Healer proclaimed and fished the small book from his desk, its cover was a deep purple, likely the closest imitation of twilight that one could get though he shielded the cover from his eyes. "I'm beholden as a medical professional that, despite your knowledge, immense as it is, that the knowledge within this carries danger and shouldn't be attempted. The ICW proscribed it for a reason but, way I see it, I'm sure the Supreme Mugwump could get around it anyways."

"I'm quite aware, but I thank you for the warning all the same, I shall heed it to the best of my ability."

The man quirked his lips in a gesture of idle thought, "If you do have a problem, I'd be more than happy to consult on the nature of it."

Carlysle seemed a tad too eager, he noted. Though he supposed that was the terrible beauty of his work—finding research and fascination in the maladies of the soul.

"And…" the other man still clutched the book. "Please do forgive me for being blunt, but these bonds? They don't usually end well for anyone. If you don't want my assistance, I'll respect that. You may find answers in this book, Merlin, I hope you do. Just don't think of it as a saviour, some thoughts in here are best left unthought."

Then the man placed the book on the table and pushed it over, the twilight shimmered on the cover as it caught the white light, little stars flickering over the painted leather. Ornate silver inlay crossed and weaved with an artisan's hand, forming the title in an elegant, swooping hand.

Vila.

Finally, night fell on a day full of sorrow and regret. Without any knowledge of the day's events, stars ushered the purple sunset away and left Albus Dumbledore in his office under the watchful eyes of candle and torchlight.

Languid footsteps dragged him across the floor of his office until he passed his pensive to come face-to-face with one of the walls unadorned by any pictures or keepsakes. He reached an old hand down to procure his wand, the elderberries adorning the length strengthing his grip as he waved it at the wall.

Luctus.

A little sprinkle of light left the tip and the unassuming, mundane cobblestones twisted and morphed to reveal a little alcove behind it.

And the smiling faces behind it.

There were smiling faces and waves, hugs and kisses, cheers. His eyes dragged across every face with agonising slowness. Every feature, even if it had been decades, was burned into his mind so strongly it was as if he closed his eyes, they'd be there again.

These were the ones he'd lost—his students.

The first had been Barclay and Ansley Barcroft, twins they had been. They'd rushed off after him in the forties when they'd seen him go and fight Grindelwald. Now they were buried somewhere in France, where the grass had overgrown their unmarked graves and the world forgot.

But he hadn't, couldn't.

Isla Smith, a mild face girl that cheered happily as she passed her N.E. twirled at him. She had been one of the first casualties in the first war with Voldemort. She'd barely begun her life before, at his direction, he'd inadvertently ended it.

There were tens of faces, those who followed him to France and Germany after Grindelwald, those who died trying to prevent Voldemort's rise, those who died after he failed, the Bones Family, the McKinnons, the Longbottoms and on and on.

Yet, they all waved at him and smiled as if they forgave.

But he hadn't, couldn't.

Then he met the eyes of James and Lily Potter.

They danced in the snow, bundled in large coats that threatened to obscure their whole face. But he could tell they were happy, though he was sure they wouldn't be happy with him. Not for anything he'd done.

"Again?" A soft voice broke him from his reverence of the dead.

"I suppose it's a habit, Minerva."

"A dangerous one," McGonagall returned.

He gave her critique no heed, "are they sleeping soundly?"

She took a step closer, "For the moment, they haven't stopped touching one another but they're safe for the moment."

Dumbledore nodded and thought back to their clasped hands but didn't follow up with any further words, his students demanded his full attention again.

"Promise me," Professor McGonagall said from behind him, he spared her the shortest of glances.

"I'll need to know the promise first."

"Promise me this won't happen again," she whispered. "Not just him and her, promise me we stop losing students."

He had no power to stop that, not truly. Death came for all in the end eventually, he'd have more smiles until he found his way into the earth himself.

But, he chose to lie to her. He could stomach it if it gave them a few seconds of reprieve. It was a truly wicked thing for an educator to lose their student.

"I promise."

And he promised himself something.

They won't have a space here, not today.

And then he closed the cobbles.