'Why did I come here?'
He sat on the rooftop of Sakura's apartment building, legs dangling over the edge as he watched the city below.
People were like ants from up here, each with their own destination, their own purpose. In the bright neon lights, even at bustling intersections, they cast long shadows.
He often felt like a leaf in a stream, carried by a current he couldn't control.
He pondered a silent question.
He obtained no answer, of course, the skyline was just as vast and indifferent as it always was. Tokyo was a place that seemed to have no room for the powerless, no space for those without a loud voice or a bold vision.
THE WIZARD GREAT AND TERRIBLE
Nacchan stumbled and he fell.
Fleur did, as well, and they tangled ungracefully in the grass. Her forehead slammed into his sternum painfully. With a groan, Nacchan slowly pushed her away. He then helped her up, too.
Only then did the world swirl back into focus.
What greeted them was a place of darkness and tombstones.
Fleur frowned. "This…"
"Doesn't look like Hogwarts."
"…Where, then?" Fleur asked, eyeing the graves around them. "A graveyard?"
Before either could take stock of their surroundings, a cold voice hissed an incantation.
Fleur fell to the ground first, immobilized but conscious. Nacchan felt a brief, numbing paralysis, beginning from runes under his feet.
The Cup slipped from his hands and so did his wand. With a grunt, his knees gave out under him.
"…For real?" Nacchan asked no one, spitting dirt. Is this part of it?
The mist hung heavy in this secluded area, a murky atmosphere that seemed almost tangible.
Nacchan strained his eyes to see through the haze, apprehensive about what might emerge from it. Then he heard it — quiet footsteps, getting progressively louder as they approached.
"Lift your head." The command pierced the foggy air, unwavering and cold.
"I can't—"
Nacchan felt a spell wash over him. His Pouch, in which he had hidden several useful potions and elixirs, fell off and was seized.
That was kinda bad.
A gloved hand reached down and sized a handful of Nacchan's hair, jerking his head upward with a rough yank. He heard Fleur scream something.
It was a man, in spite of his luscious long hair.
"You are not the boy." The man said, and something in his expression turned almost fearful.
Nacchan squinted, recognizing the familiar features. He was likely related to the boy that Sarada had mentioned having talked some sense into.
"...No. You are not who the Dark Lord is after." The man said, his eyes darting between Nacchan and a cauldron in the distance.
"What are you talking about?" Nacchan mumbled back.
From far away, Nacchan heard a high, cold voice speak. "I have waited long enough, Lucius. Use the other ritual."
"Yes, my Lord." Lucius turned around and bowed awkwardly to the cauldron.
He then produced a small bag, and nearly dropped it from his clammy fingers. Were the entire situation not so terrifying, perhaps Nacchan would have found some amusement in it.
Lucius Malfoy then began drawing a ritual circle with runes, with what looked to be chalk, but that Nacchan knew to be powdered bone.
"I don't understand." Nacchan said. He didn't feel as though he had many options.
"Hush." Malfoy said.
"Why are you serving—"
Malfoy waved his wand, and no more words escaped Nacchan's lips.
'Ah, hell.'
The cold voice hissed again:
"They will witness me."
…
"You know, this is starting to take pretty long." Boruto muttered to Mitsuki.
Mitsuki nodded and smiled reassuringly. "I suppose that it is because Sarada decided not to murder these two other contestants. These things take more time."
"…I guess." Boruto said, sighing. "Aren't you concerned?"
Mitsuki tilted his head. "For her opponents?"
"…"
"You can always contact her if needed."
Boruto shrugged. "I didn't want to bother her during the competition."
Mitsuki nodded again. "I had no such qualms. She sent back 'I'm fine,' by the way."
"There's that, then." Boruto nodded. "I checked with my Byakugan, in case we needed to stop the fire or something, but…"
"You still can't use it properly." Mitsuki finished.
"…No. That's not it." Boruto sighed. "They're just not here."
Well, the Task probably wouldn't last for much longer, now, likely.
The maze had been on fire for a little while now, and there were still people screaming in the crowd.
But apparently, it had not been forbidden forbidden, so the Tournament went on.
…
Sarada had seen Nacchan and Fleur disappear, which was good.
From the trackers she had hidden on both of them, she realized they were not in the country anymore, which was bad.
They were hundreds of kilometers away, which was a problem.
Perhaps she was being paranoid, but she had the feeling that something wasn't right there.
…
Things weren't right for Fleur Delacour, either.
The cloaked man had conjured tight ropes around her, and tied her to a headstone, before proceeding to ignore her, as though she wasn't worth any more attention. He had done the same to Namikaze, on top of the runes, for good measure.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, and dread flooded her veins. She was going to have a front-row seat to this ritual that, already, chilled her to her core.
And so would Namikaze Naruto.
The atmosphere was saturated with dark magic, a palpable force that felt like invisible hands gripping her soul. The man named Lucius, who could only be a Malfoy, moved with unsettling grace, arranging obsidian stones in a circle with meticulous care.
There was a reverence, or perhaps a devotion, in his actions, that made Fleur's skin crawl.
Then came a live snake, a hissing creature that looked as malevolent as the magic surrounding them. Malfoy handled it deftly, and he extracted venom from the snake's fangs with a familiarity that was somehow more disconcerting than the act itself.
Then he sliced his palm open, and let his blood mix with the venom.
It felt… intimate, and that notion made Fleur's stomach turn. Blood magic, an offering to a ritual steeped in evil. Namikaze was struggling, but his bonds only seemed to get tighter as he did.
Malfoy unfurled a parchment.
He began chanting. In sibilant, low hisses — the syllables sounded rehearsed, as though foreign to him.
The snake responded by coiling around the cup of venom and blood, as though accepting an offering, and the cup's contents evaporated in a puff of malevolent mist.
Fleur felt a wave of despair wash over her.
Malfoy then shattered the obsidian circle with a vicious stomp, and the snake hissed — a sound so vile it felt like a violation of nature itself.
The thing in the cauldron began cackling, in dark glee.
And then no more sound came from it, and the snake underwent a grotesque metamorphosis.
Swelling and contorting, as limbs sprouted from its elongated form.
It slowly took the shape of a man. Or a monster in the shape of one, perhaps.
Not everyone had a knack for this.
As Nacchan leaned against the cool glass of the boutique café, he watched his mother mingle effortlessly among the patrons, her laughter weaving through the air like a bright red ribbon.
She moved with an ease that seemed as natural as breathing, a vibrant contrast to his father's reserved nature — a trait that lay heavily in Nacchan's bones, it felt.
He felt like the observer, the quiet presence barely noticed, more a fly on the wall than a real participant.
His mother's world was the sort of dance whose steps he could never not fumble, and her openness a language he couldn't speak.
And he wasn't sure whether his father's world was one he could find a place in, either.
'Why did I come here?'
The Dark Lord Voldemort laughed, high and clear.
That was who Nacchan thought he was, at least, as he stared at the tall, gaunt man who rose from the ashes of the snake. A skull-like face, a flat nose, and scarlet eyes.
All of these fit the description of the most terrible Dark Lord this country had known in the last decades.
Malfoy robed him, and Voldemort stared at his spider-like hands, in something that could pass for wonder. One of these creepy hands dug into a deep pocket and pulled out a wand.
Malfoy bowed even lower.
Voldemort still pointed his wand at him, almost lazily. Malfoy fell to the floor, and crumpled in a ball; only small whimpers escaped him. He was in pain, apparently.
'Good.' Nacchan thought viciously, before chiding himself for it. But a man willing to serve such a master deserved nothing more than this.
"My… Lord…" Malfoy choked out. "Mercy… Mercy, please… please…"
Voldemort let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. "Did I allow you to speak, Lucius…?"
Malfoy quieted down, silently wracked in pain as he was. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes toward Nacchan.
This was starting to be pretty bad, even by his new standards.
"Now, now…" He murmured. "Are you trying to escape our little celebration, by any chance?"
"…"
Voldemort sighed. "Ah, silenced, of course."
He waved his wand.
"I suppose you want to escape back to Hogwarts, don't you?" Voldemort asked warmly. "Even though you are a student from the East. I understand, of course… It feels like a home, doesn't it…?" He stared at him intently. "Muggle, are you…? A new world, even for one with blood as tainted as yours. And especially then. A better world, better than the one you have left behind. But… of course, soon you will realize that—"
"I don't care for this castle." Nacchan finally bit out and Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "It has brought me nothing but trouble."
"Trouble, you say…?" His lips curled into a friendly grin. "Most would give anything to be within these hallowed walls."
Nacchan simply stayed silent. He then averted his eyes.
"Look at me."
Nacchan's face whipped around, and red eyes peered into him.
The Eye did something. And whatever set of imaginary memories Voldemort peered into, they definitely weren't Nacchan's. He felt as though his heart was about to explode.
Voldemort pulled back, satisfied by what he had found — and disappointed, too.
"Truly unremarkable, you are." He said. "Here I thought that a Champion might prove to be of some interest. Why, I even had intended to extend—"
"Master…" Malfoy begged again. "Please, master."
Voldemort's eyes tightened. He gave his wand a sharp twist and Malfoy was dragged to his feet through the dirt. "What did I say about interrupting, Lucius…?"
"My Lord…"
Voldemort's lips peeled back into a horrifying smile, which looked nothing like the practiced, quick grin Nacchan had seen on his face before. That was the real man underneath, if it could be called that.
"Your arm, Lucius." He ordered.
A trembling Malfoy didn't manage to extend the arm in question toward his Lord.
Voldemort's pale wand flashed through the air again, and as Malfoy's arm was severed at the shoulder, the wound was seared shut. He let out a terrible scream, and the arm was held frozen in the air.
Nacchan saw a tattoo of a snake, protruding from a skull's mouth. And as Malfoy fell, his bindings loosened some.
The Dark Lord pressed his wand to the flesh.
And Nacchan heard the first quiet snaps and pops, barely a minute later.
"Ah… Look." Voldemort said quietly, red eyes darting around. "My true family returns."
There was the sound of swishing cloaks. Between graves, behind the trees, in every shadowy space, wizards appeared. All of them, hooded and masked. Slowly, they moved forward, one after the other.
All of them were in disbelief.
Voldemort stood there silently.
Then they fell to their knees, crawled toward him, and kissed the hem of his black robes.
"Master, Master…"
They murmured, one after the other. It was the most revolting spectacle Nacchan had seen in a while. Almost as terrible as the Chūnin Exams, but not quite there yet.
"Thirteen years." Voldemort said quietly. "Thirteen years since we last met. And I smell guilt. That is the stench that fills the air tonight."
Nacchan thought guilt smelled pretty much like piss and sweat, too. It came from a rotund man nearby.
"As it should be. You have betrayed me. Abandoned me, the oaths you have sworn—"
One of them began to speak. "Master—"
There was a flash of green light and he fell.
"Silence!" Voldemort shouted, in his high voice. "You were content to live in opulence, have your fun. Never searching for me. The ones who did are in Azkaban… or dead. I find myself disappointed. Disappointed greatly, even."
The Dark Lord was monologuing, and Nacchan was not paying much attention to it. He was thinking.
The situation was dire.
He was bound, and so was Fleur. Traditional spells and magics were beyond their reach — if they even had a chance against adult wizards in the first place.
Nacchan's mind raced as he internally cataloged his options. Each one appeared and vanished in his thoughts like fleeting shadows.
If there was a moment to act, now was it.
His eyes darted through the graveyard, seizing on details he might exploit. Fleur, still bound but alert, met his gaze for a moment. There was an unspoken agreement there; they had to act, and fast.
Neither of them had missed the few looks the cloaked man had thrown her.
Option one: physical force. Nacchan considered the possibility of forcefully breaking free and rushing toward Fleur. Together, perhaps…?
No. The idea was full of holes, not least of which was the distance between him and Fleur.
Option two: distraction. The Dark Lord was wrapped up in his own world, intoxicated by the sound of his voice as it spilled dark intent. The arrogance was a flaw, but it didn't seem like one he could exploit.
Option three: use of the environment — …There were nothing but old graves here. Good for cover or transfiguration, but not much else that he could think of.
Option four: psychological manipulation. That would mean catching the Dark Lord off guard. Stun him into momentary inaction.
Option five: wait it out. It was an almost sure way to die.
And Nacchan was starting to feel as though this was slowly becoming the most likely option.
Think again.
What restrained him…?
Nacchan's eyes darted to the runes that Malfoy, who had finally stopped spasming and was now whimpering, had probably drawn before they had grabbed the Cup.
Ancient, intricate, and tinged with a foreboding glow.
Gallic, undoubtedly. Malfoy — son — was enough of a pompous ass to brag about his distant french ancestors. It would only make sense. And they definitely were not norse, nor egyptian.
He had unfortunately not studied either at depth.
He counted four components to the trap. If they were structured in the same way that a modern runic binding trap was, it meant that there were an equal number of primary elements. Binding, Magic Dampening, Paralysis, Dread.
…If.
His mind began to race as he weighed his options.
Could he disrupt the runes' harmony without killing himself? Redirect the flow of magic so that it spiraled into a harmless current? Or would he just kill himself in a gory way…?
Did he truly care? And as for the ropes that bound him…
The Dark Lord put another of his minions under the torture spell.
Nacchan met the eyes of another of his servants. Something passed through them. They seemed eerily familiar.
Dark eyes, dark eyes, dark eyes…
'…Oh.'
He remembered that particular tint. Not a dark wizard, huh…?
It was Severus Snape.
Bastard. And he wouldn't even teach him any dark magic, of course.
The Dark Lord was rambling. Ah, no. Voldemort ceased his verbal meandering and turned his scarlet eyes back to Nacchan. His voice dripped with venomous charm as he spoke.
"Ah, I see you've made a new friend among my followers." Voldemort's amused gaze flicked momentarily to Snape before returning to Nacchan. "A connection, perhaps? Do you believe you have something in common with Severus?"
Nacchan didn't bother trying to answer him.
"An interest in the darker aspects of magic, perhaps?" Voldemort said quietly. "No answer, then? I will answer myself, then. He did not teach you. Dear Severus would not, of course."
The men surrounding him — Death Eaters, they were called — let out a few hesitant laughs.
'It wasn't for a lack of trying.'
"Why are you laughing, Avery?" Voldemort asked softly.
He raised his wand, casting another curse on a whimpering servant who convulsed in agony. The smile never left his face. Nacchan was truly starting to wonder if this was a common occurrence.
"You may now laugh." Voldemort concluded, raising his wand, and the sobbing stopped. "May you never stop smiling again, in fact."
"No, my Lord… never. My Lord." The answer came.
"Yes. Lucius." Voldemort called. "My slippery friend. You have helped me return to my body. Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers."
Malfoy slowly rose to his feet. "…My Lord."
"You may take the lead in the next round of Muggle torture, I suppose." Voldemort offered graciously.
"…Thank you, my Lord." Malfoy said, bowing slowly. The effect was ruined by the minute twitch that still went through his body, and his lack of balance from being an arm shorter.
"Do not fret, I will restore your arm, in time. Never let it be said that Lord Voldemort is an unfair master." The snake-faced man said, almost amusedly. "Or… perhaps…"
He trailed off.
Nacchan did not want to look into these red eyes. He wanted to scream, to howl. Or to cry, perhaps.
"Yes." Voldemort said. "I suppose these two will make for fine entertainment."
Nacchan closed his eyes.
And the first thing he noticed when he opened them again was the quick looks the men were giving Fleur; the terrified look she sent his way. He knew what was coming.
His sodden shirt clung to him, likely from sweat. He had to get free. He clenched his teeth, and tried to move again. Failed.
Fuck.
His lips moved before he could even think of what to do next.
"Are you looking for amusement, you cowards?!"
There was only silence in the graveyard.
And then Lord Voldemort's amused laughter.
Nacchan continued, in spite of the ice in his gut. "Try me. Or is that too risky for people like you, who hide behind masks, crawl before another?"
He saw a few pairs of eyes, full of fury. The men who turned toward him said nothing.
The first unseen blow struck him in the sternum, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. Then behind his head. Third, his back. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was falling away from the gravestone.
Fire seemed to lash his back, and his world soon began and ended with pain. There were lights he could hardly see, and the clenching of his teeth, the taste of blood in his mouth.
An awful laugh escaped him. What was he supposed to do? What would that man do…? No. He shivered. He knew very well what that man would do. He could almost imagine his hand, reaching out with his… to grasp reality.
Gingerly, Nacchan reached out to the runes, felt along their soft curves, and drew from within. Where 'within' was, he didn't know. The Eye, something else. Some of the cold receded, replaced with heat. It felt nearly searing. With what felt like flames burning at the tip of his fingers, he slowly untangled the rune's shapes.
The Death Eaters rained more spells upon him, but they didn't seem to be reaching fully. The pain was distant, remote. And still, they thought him gone, too weak to do anything.
He had thought the same. Nacchan realized that he was laughing, and found that he could not stop. He could not stop breaking the runes apart, could not stop the warm sensation from spreading through his body.
Nacchan watched Sakura with a sense of wonder.
She was a contradiction: her soft cherry-blossom hair and piercing jade eyes belying the brashness of her demeanor.
She navigated the world with a boldness that bordered on rudeness, her words sometimes as sharp as a blade, cutting through pretense and often leaving a sting.
Yet, there was an honesty in her roughness, a raw authenticity that Nacchan couldn't help but admire. Despite her occasional mean streak, she was undeniably real, and in that reality, he found someone who complemented him.
She always said what she thought. It was their promise to each other, after all. No lies.
They were an unlikely pair, yet somehow, her fire tempered by his calm, they understood each other in ways words could never convey. And they would always have each other's back.
Perhaps it was no wonder that he fell in love.
'Why did I come here?'
Severus Snape kept his eyes on the Dark Lord as he spoke.
Tried to ignore the Mahoutokoro student caught under the spells. His hand clenched around the tool the Emperor had given him.
It was a meticulously crafted wand, unlike any other. It had a hilt wrapped in obsidian silk, and its length shimmered with an otherworldly light that was obscured to anyone else.
To him, it seemed to hum softly, laden with enchantments he could not understand.
'Just point it at him when he's alone and it should keep him trapped within a specific area. If he's as immortal as you said, that is. Then we'll send someone to take care of it.'
That was what the man had said.
A seemingly straightforward directive, yet here, encircled by Voldemort's minions, Snape questioned whether this was the right moment.
So he held his ground, keeping his unyielding gaze fixed on Voldemort while deliberately avoiding the disturbing scene beside him.
He stood there, immobile, his inaction a weight he'd carried before.
And perhaps he despised himself for it, just a little, but that too was familiar.
…
Fleur Delacour didn't look away from Namikaze.
The ropes biting into her right side were painful, and the burns on her left were agonizing. Yet there was a guilty relief in her heart; at least it wasn't her under the scrutiny of their captors' sadistic spells.
Time seemed to crawl at an agonizing pace as he absorbed their sadistic attention, providing Fleur with precious minutes to work discreetly on her restraints. Perhaps it was a good thing they had kept her silenced, unlike him. Because she would be screaming loud enough to damage her throat right now, she knew.
Namikaze did what he did best: he kept the attention on himself.
And he bore it with an unnerving stillness at times; a dark laugh at others.
With slow, painstaking care, Fleur tried to summon a flicker of Fire — the birthright of a Veela. It might be futile, but she had to try.
And so, she kept her eyes fixed on Namikaze, who endured their torment with a resilience that both impressed and horrified her.
It was the least she could do.
…
The confused parts of Nacchan's mind latched onto his half-made plan.
The Dark Lord continued to ignore them, made intricate gestures in the air with his wand, renewing the marks upon the Death Eaters' forearms, with the ease of one who had been a wizard for more than half a century.
It looked as though darkness was trailing behind it, but in the dim glow of the moonlight, Nacchan couldn't tell for sure.
"Here…" The Dark Lord said, as his mark branded itself into a man's body again. "The most precious of gifts."
The man screamed, and darkness glowed in the air. Fleur Delacour was looking in his direction, and he thought she was as ready as she'd ever be — for whatever it was that came next.
He, on the other hand, didn't feel ready at all.
But perhaps it was to be expected. And glancing at the Cup, now seemed like his best opportunity.
Don't—
Nacchan squashed the traitorous thought. With a furious swipe of his hand, he clawed into the earth, and broke apart one of the sigils.
It gave him more mobility back, even though his arms were still bound by rope. Malfoy seemed to notice, and his eyes went to him in slight surprise. Before he could say anything at all to Voldemort, Nacchan repeated the same process.
One time.
Two times.
Three times.
He broke all parts of the Binding Curse, one after the other. And without wasting a single instant, ignoring the pain in his legs that came from being bound for so long, Nacchan threw himself on his feet, stumbling toward Fleur.
He'd grab her, and once he broke her own bindings, she could release that fireball he thought she was crafting, which would hopefully give them enough time to reach that thrice-damned Cup—
Even as he stood up, he knew he was making a mistake.
A sickly yellow light flashed, and the next instant, Nacchan felt something in his hamstring nearly tearing.
"That…" Voldemort began. "Was terribly predictable."
He was smiling again, and once more, there was no pretense of warmth behind the eyes; they reminded Nacchan of a cat toying with its prey.
In the same beat, Voldemort easily smothered Fleur's fireball, with a single movement of his wand.
The Dark Lord sighed.
"I had anticipated that your study of Eastern arts might lend this some… modicum of intrigue." He said. "Where are the ancestral abilities, so vaunted in your tradition, passed through bloodlines and honed by consuming the essence of powerful creatures?"
Nacchan had read about them, but unfortunately had nothing quite like it. Voldemort continued.
"I see no hint of mastery over soul, spirit magic, despite their crucial distinction in Eastern lore. I smell no alchemical components on you, aside from those in the pouch we took from you, and no magical cores, no potent seeds."
Nacchan gritted his teeth and tensed. Voldemort tutted. The Death Eaters likely enjoyed the peaceful reprieve in between bouts of torture.
"Not even a rudimentary grasp of geomancy, an art as ancient as the hills. Clearly, you've not faced any real tribulations yet. In essence, you've trivialized the profound intricacies of Eastern magic. A regrettable performance, indeed."
Nacchan relaxed all the bones in his body. Then he tensed again. Then let himself become loose.
"Where are your demonist abilities, your famed cryptophagy?" Voldemort continued, and it sounded to Nacchan that he really enjoyed the sound of his own voice. "Alas—"
Nacchan managed to slip out of his bindings.
The wise evade the snare; the skillful break free. That was what Mitsuki had quoted, when he taught him the rope escape technique. And Voldemort did look surprised.
"Oh." He said, with some amused delight. "So you do have something, after all."
Nacchan pushed on his weak leg, aiming for the Cup—
Voldemort pulled it away from him with a wave of his wand, tutting.
"I'm afraid I can't have that." He said, before glancing at one of his minions. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
He motioned toward Nacchan, and the man — or a woman, perhaps, it was hard to tell — stepped forward.
Nacchan pulled a second wand from his robes, out of habit more than need.
Without missing a beat, Nacchan summoned a crow from the shadows, before whirling around to throw a small fireball toward Fleur's ropes. It caught.
Then he threw himself behind a gravestone, narrowly dodging a jet of purple light that melted the grass somewhere behind him, with a sizzling sound.
Nacchan raised his wand above his head, above the gravestone, and put all he had into a large-sized fireball.
To his own surprise, it connected with the wizard, who fell down with horrible screams that soon began to trail off as he became unable to breathe.
Nacchan froze — all he could smell in the air was the smell of grease burning. All he could see were dark red eyes, further back, and they seemed all too amused.
He stared at the burned wreck of a man.
'I just killed someone.'
The man, no, the corpse, was likely a terrible person — but he had killed him all the same.
'I just killed someone — What if he had a family?'
What made him so different from people like the Emperor…?
From people like Hebi, Gama…? He was—
"You are next, Vale." Voldemort said. "Do not disappoint me."
Nacchan had no time to breathe. A gaunt figure, nearly a shadow, lashed out. A whip-like arc of blue light shot from their wand, severing the crow Nacchan had summoned for an incantation.
Fleur rose behind him, eyes narrowed; the wand she had seized from the dead man, aimed. A vivid red light burst forth from her wand — a Stupefy, if the French used the same spells as the English at all. But Vale was ready; a flick of their wand conjured a translucent shield, dispersing the spell.
"A nice try." The Death Eater said, sneering, and Nacchan finally realized it was a woman. "But you'll need to do better than this."
Fleur's eyes were bright with rage, and she had removed the silencing curse already. "I intend to."
Nacchan threw whatever spells he could remember in the heat of the moment, and considering how out of it he felt, it was quite a meager repertoire. They all were caught by the witch, almost lazily.
In the thick of battle, Fleur was a portrait of concentration, deflecting and parrying with her wand. The air was alive with the hum of spells. She moved with purpose, each spell cast a challenge to the encroaching darkness.
With abruptness, an enemy broke through, wand aimed with malicious intent. Nacchan tried to shout a warning—
Fleur noticed and reacted with lethal precision, a vicious counter-spell slicing through the air. The spell struck true, and the man fell as his own spell went awry, his life extinguished as quickly as a thought.
Nacchan took note of this, too.
A momentary horror washed over Fleur, her heart catching at the sight of the fallen. She had trained to be a duellist, not a murderer. Guilt clawed at her, but there was no time for remorse. A battle doesn't pause for grief, or so went the old saying.
With a deep breath, she shook off the shock, her wand arm steady once more. Spells continued to fly from her fingertips, her focus narrowed to the one enemy at hand.
The air became a blur of incantations and light as Fleur and Nacchan coordinated their assault. Yet, Vale seemed impervious, her defensive spells forming almost instantaneously.
It was clear that a new strategy was needed — or this duel would be over sooner than they'd like.
Perhaps… Yes. There was a pattern to Vale's defense.
It wasn't unlike a spar, most people tended to fall into their preferred patterns, whether it came to offense or defense. And that witch was no exception.
One — two — One — two — three
A spell slammed into Fleur, sending her crashing into a gravestone. She stood up anyway, groaning, and her skin was turning a strange shade of yellow, all too quickly.
One — two — One — two — three
There!
Instead of aiming at her shield, in hopes of breaking it, Nacchan aimed his fireball into the powerful spell that the dark witch threw. He poured all he could into it, and it surged forward with a roar.
Fleur blinked. Vale blinked.
The fireball detonated.
Vale fell to the floor with a howl, and Nacchan thought he saw a beautiful, ruined face, sloughing, melting with the mask…
Fleur froze again as she saw the failing woman — it wasn't her doing this time, but…
Nacchan didn't freeze. The crow he summoned went for Vale's eyes, mercilessly.
Ignoring the gruesome screams that echoed through the graveyard, Nacchan's sole focus was on locating the Cup.
"Are you looking for something?" A sinister voice interrupted his search.
A sickening feeling clawed at Nacchan's gut as he met the cold, calculating gaze of another Death Eater. In the man's hand, the Cup gleamed, held firmly and ready to be used.
The Death Eater threw it at him.
Acting on instinct, ignoring the fact it might have been a trap, Nacchan took hold of Fleur's shoulder, and grabbed the Cup the very next moment.
But nothing happened.
The assembly was not laughing, either. The only thing that floated over the graveyard was a deadly silence.
The Cup did nothing. Fleur and he wouldn't be able to use it to return. They were fucked.
The Dark Lord's eyes simmered into a low, dangerous boredom.
With a sudden, practiced flick, a scarlet curse slammed into Nacchan's hand, and he hissed as his 'wand' was wrenched away from him. He barely registered the sound of Fleur's breathless grunt as her wand was similarly torn from her grip, her body slumping against the cold stone of a nearby gravestone.
Then, a spark of malevolent purple ignited at the Dark Lord's fingertips—a spell unknown, its intent unmistakably deadly. It streaked through the air, toward him—
No. Not towards Nacchan, but towards Fleur, defenseless on the ground.
Time slowed, every heartbeat a drum in Nacchan's ears.
Sakura shifted uncomfortably, her gaze sliding away from Nacchan's earnest face. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, a hint of something concealed.
But she wouldn't lie to him, he knew: they had agreed on it as children — best friends forever; no lies.
"Ah, your cousin Gama?" She feigned a casual tone, a little too nonchalant. "Yeah, I think I saw him around. Just before."
"For real?!" Nacchan's eyes lit up with a mixture of hope and exhausted frustration. "I've been looking for that idiot everywhere. Where did you see him?"
Sakura hesitated, biting her lip. "It… was just a glimpse near the station." She said smoothly, still not meeting his eyes. "He was probably heading out somewhere."
Nacchan's shoulders slumped a bit, a silent thank you etched in his nod as he nearly ran after Gama.
He trusted her implicitly, not questioning the tremor in her voice or the way she wouldn't even look at him.
"Hey, Nacchan!" Sakura called out to him, her voice cutting through the distance he was putting between them. "We're still good for the date, right?"
"Of course!" He grinned back, without a second of doubt.
'Why did I come here?'
He knew the answer deep down.
Without a thought for himself, Nacchan leapt, propelled by a mix of adrenaline and an unyielding instinct to do something. Something at all.
The spell collided with his back, a blaze of agony that felt like liquid fire. His body convulsed with the impact, the pain a white-hot brand that seared through his skin and seemingly into his bones.
As he hit the ground, the world a blur of pain and noise, he was distantly aware of Fleur screaming, of her disbelieving eyes.
But the burn on his back was a fierce, all-consuming entity. Despite the agony, there was no regret.
The fire spread—
And was dispelled when the monster in pale flesh lifted his wand.
Voldemort's piercing crimson eyes swept over his assembled Death Eaters, his disappointment palpable.
His voice, laced with poison, slithered through the air. "Such a pathetic display." He hissed. "Have the years rusted you all to nothingness?"
The Death Eaters cowered in silence, their fear of their malevolent master's wrath overpowering any retort.
Voldemort continued his relentless tongue-lashing, his words like venomous daggers slicing through the tension-laden air.
"Pathetic." He spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "You, who claim to serve the Dark Lord, are nothing more than trembling insects. Incompetence stains your very souls."
The Death Eaters stood there, unable to meet his gaze, their faces etched with shame and dread.
"Do you think your feeble attempts at loyalty are enough?" Voldemort's voice rose, echoing around the graveyard. "I am surrounded by incompetence, betrayal, and imbeciles. It sickens me."
He singled out a few, his red eyes burning with fury.
"Pathetic." Voldemort repeated, his voice a hiss that sent shivers down their spines. "I expected loyalty, power, and ruthlessness. Instead, I see a gathering of failures and cowards. And…"
Just as he was about to unleash another wave of condemnation, a choked sound reverberated through the graveyard. The dark wizard cut himself off, his eyes narrowing.
"…Truly?" He turned his gaze toward the fallen Death Eater and the figure standing behind him.
Nacchan stood there, half-bent from the pain coming from his back, a short blade gripped in his hand. Orochi's Fang Dagger gleamed in the dim light, its tip wet with the blood of the fallen.
Today, Nacchan discovered that stabbing someone didn't really feel any better than burning them to death, or forcefully removing their eyes.
The dagger was the one they had found on that treasure quest with Boruto and the others, of course. Mitsuki had named it and taught him how to use it, as well as how to hide it on his person.
Instead of keeping it in his Pouch, like Nacchan had intended to, which he now felt like thanking Mitsuki for.
The enemy had thought him entirely defenseless. But he wasn't, not entirely. Not while he still had a weapon, not while he could still move. Although even that was a pretty vague notion, with how his back flared with every move. He gritted his teeth, and for a moment, he wondered how he was still standing. Was it the Eye, or something else...?
The Dark Lord talked of incompetence, betrayal, and imbeciles. But he too had failed to notice Nacchan, sneaking right into their midst, as he droned on.
He was not as fast as any of the shinobi. Still, he used the general confusion to slam into another man, dagger first, aiming for the gut. He fell too, from the poison that coated the blade, this time.
Nacchan threw himself once more—
And was slammed into the floor, as Voldemort lazily twisted his wand.
"I'm afraid I can't have you killing more of them."
Nacchan gritted his teeth, but the spell held him down firmly. His every muscle tensed in futile resistance, and he met the eyes of the monster, which glinted like two cursed garnets.
Voldemort chuckled, a sound as unsettling as nails on a chalkboard. "You did well, I suppose." He paused, circling Nacchan as if appraising a piece of art. "Although you lack power, you seem unbound by the weakness that plagues most."
Voldemort's gaze held Nacchan, and his voice, though soft, cut through the thick air with the precision of a blade.
"Do you think you have seen it yet… Nacchan? True power?" He paced with a predator's grace, his cloak whispering against the ground. And the nickname Voldemort had gleaned from fake memories did nothing to make him seem more convincing. "I see the defiance in your eyes, the same defiance that once burned in mine, incredible as it might sound to your ears."
He leaned in, and the air seemed to grow colder with his proximity. "You fling yourself into the path of danger, shield others with your own flesh. Admirable, I suppose. Foolish, but admirable." A smile curled the edges of his lips, not of mirth but of dark amusement.
"You've tasted weakness however, haven't you? The bitterness of it, the despair." His eyes bore into Nacchan's, seeking, probing. And his voice became quieter, as though trying to stoke a fire of imaginary empathy. "I, too, have known such weakness. I have been cast aside, stepped upon, left for the lesser men to scorn."
He smiled then, and went on, still in that conspiratorial whisper that meant to belie the distance between them. "But unlike you, I refused to accept it as my fate. I molded my weakness into a weapon more formidable than any wand could provide. I became a force that nature itself dares not challenge."
He straightened, his presence commanding the shadows. "I understand the weakness that gnaws at your core, the powerlessness that clutches your heart." He extended a hand, not in a gesture of help but as an offer of alliance. "Join me. Together, our family can reshape this world into one where strength reigns and weakness is purged. Where your valor is not sacrifice, but the key to unbridled dominion."
His voice rose, a crescendo of conviction. "Reject the false comfort of mediocrity. Embrace the greatness that I can unlock within you. Understand, Nacchan, that in your weakness, I see the ember of potential — potential that I can fan into a blaze to set this world aflame."
The absurdity of the offer almost drew a bitter laugh from Nacchan. "…After you showed me how you treat them?"
Voldemort's lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. "I am a harsh master." he conceded with a tilt of his head, the smile never reaching his eyes. "But a just one."
Nacchan briefly met Voldemort's eyes and all he could see in them was an endless abyss.
He felt the pull, the tantalizing lure of power and freedom from his constraints. But all he could see in it was a future steeped in darkness.
"…Not interested." He rasped out.
Voldemort's face twisted into a cruel smile, as if he'd expected this answer all along.
"Very well. You've made your choice." His voice dripped with malice, as though the refusal had merely been a part of a larger game.
As Voldemort raised his wand, Nacchan braced himself, his resolve unbroken.
"You were too weak to seek true power, after all."
Then, with a slight gesture to his left, Voldemort dragged Fleur, bound in wraith-like ropes, through the mud.
Nacchan's heart hammered so violently he thought he might faint.
She was going to die, too. Because of me, he thought.
If he'd been a different person, someone stronger, this wouldn't have unfolded this way. Nacchan's mind resonated with the unspoken advice of the Emperor.
The cold, seasoned ruler would've had a straightforward answer to a dilemma like this, either because he'd been in similar straits or because he'd never allowed himself to be ensnared to begin with.
His heart was thundering.
The Eye seemed to be asking a silent question, in a voice that brought with it memories of pink, and the smell of hydrangeas:
Destroy?
Nacchan reached deep within—
"My Lord."
Nacchan blinked.
Severus Snape appeared, as if from the shadows. His eyes flickered to Nacchan and then back to Voldemort.
"Speak."
"My Lord." Snape began, choosing his words carefully. "Might I suggest we take a moment? It seems to me we're on the cusp of something significant, and there are preparations that could ensure it unfolds more — smoothly."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed at Snape, clearly impatient but somewhat curious. "Explain."
"The boy, I believe, is in possession of precious artifacts." Snape continued, his voice tinged with just the right amount of uncertainty to appear genuine. "It might be advantageous to ask him about them before disposing of him. We stand to gain even more."
Voldemort considered this. "Precious. Does he, now…?"
"My Lord." Snape took a slow breath before speaking, ensuring his voice carried the weight of his words. "Among these artifacts is the Jade Coil. An old talisman of considerable potency. It is said to grant the wielder command over elemental forces and even limited prescience. In the right hands — your hands, my Lord — it could prove to be an invaluable asset."
Nacchan had no idea what the Jade Coil was.
Voldemort's eyes glinted with a newfound interest, turning his gaze back to Nacchan as if seeing him in a different light — something to be dissected.
"The Jade Coil, you say? Very well, Severus. We shall proceed with your suggestion."
"You honor me—"
"You will, of course, be the one to do the honors." Voldemort said, and the malice never left his eyes. "And be swift about it."
"…Yes, my Lord."
Snape drew closer to Nacchan, who began reaching for the Eye's hidden layer of power once more — something vast, something that the wizards didn't seem to even perceive.
Snape tilted Nacchan's chin up, locking eyes with him. Nacchan braced himself, anticipating an invasion of his thoughts. The Eye had protected him before; he trusted it would do so again. He was mentally poised for the battle.
But Snape's mind made no assault. Instead, he projected what little he could — mere words.
'Time is of the essence if all three of us are to survive this.'
Nacchan faltered. '…What?'
'I am on your side, you fool. Aligned with the Empire, that is. Just like Dumbledore and his flea-bitten, mangy mutt of a follower are.'
Nacchan had no idea who the hell Snape was talking about.
'Have they never told you at all?' Snape thought, contemptuously.
'No.' The same resentment was gathering again.
'I should have expected it.'
'What should we do, then…?'
'Follow my lead for now.'
Snape drew back from him slightly.
"He does know, my Lord." He said, for Voldemort's sake. "I shall need more time to extract its location."
"Do so, then." The answer came curtly. "In the meantime, I shall dispose of the spare."
Nacchan broke the connection. There was no doubt who the spare was.
Snape's gaze bore into Nacchan again, a silent request in his dark eyes. Nacchan ignored it.
"…No." He rasped out.
There was only silence, and Snape nearly begging him to shut up. Was he intending to let it happen…?
"No?" Voldemort repeated, sounding all too amused.
"I won't let you." Nacchan said, and tried to stand up.
This time, Voldemort laughed. A few Death Eaters followed, almost hesitantly. "Your life is going to be short enough as is." He said. "Do not make me shorten it any further."
They Eye saw Snape as an ally, now. And his voice was echoing through Nacchan's mind.
Snape's consciousness slipped through the mental barriers, he found himself in the midst of Nacchan's memories — not as an intruder, but as a guest. He walked through a gallery of shared pain: dreams thwarted, powerlessness against fate, and the sting of unrequited love.
"...thought we were supposed to be friends?" One of them was saying, or perhaps both. "Best friends?"
'Why did I come here?'
Nacchan supposed it started from a wish.
But wishes… were something you had to make true yourself.
"...I am sick of feeling so damn useless. I won't let you kill her." He decided. "I won't let you do anything to her at all!"
Snape was surprisingly silent, now.
Nacchan's bindings shattered. He drew himself up, nearly howling in pain as he did.
"Ah, wandless magic?" Voldemort observed, a note of genuine intrigue coloring his voice.
Snape rose too, a silent sentinel. His eyes, hard with determination, flicked towards Nacchan — a subtle, almost undetectable nod of solidarity.
And then came another voice.
"Well said, Nacchan."
Nacchan stiffened as a voice cut through the tension, its clarity surprising in the midst of chaos. Only he seemed to hear it.
Moody, the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, appeared.
And a sharp crack resounded throughout the graveyard. It wasn't the crack that followed a wizard appearing, however. And it wasn't Moody who had spoken.
"Ah, Barty." Voldemort murmured, the tone almost affectionate as his gaze fell upon the man Nacchan had thought was Moody — and likely was a faker.
But that didn't matter now.
The crack that had resounded was unmistakably the snap of a neck cracking. Something that Nacchan had had the misfortune of listening to too many times during the Chūnin Exams.
And something that Voldemort, as a wizard, likely hadn't recognised.
Moody crumpled, lifeless, into the earth.
As if stepping out of an illusion, Sarada emerged, standing where Moody had fallen.
Her expression was one of cold fury.
Without hesitation, Nacchan sprang into action. Eschewing the need for a wand, he conjured a barrier of fireproof magic, encircling himself, Fleur, and Snape in a protective cocoon.
On the other side of the graveyard, away from this distraction, was a second Sarada, who had been weaving signs silently.
Then, a blistering inferno engulfed the field, devouring the desecration of the night with its purifying flames.
Voldemort had no trouble shielding himself from the flames, powerful as they were.
And neither did a few of his servants. The fire likely left only the strongest alive, which might be a boon in disguise.
His gaze was as sharp as the spells he wielded, his voice stripped of inflection as he addressed the enigmatic girl before him. "Who are you?" The question was pointed, his wand poised for any threat.
The Dark Lord was no stranger to the deceptive nature of appearances. He mulled over the possibilities, the wheels turning behind his cold eyes.
The girl had the look of youth, but her actions spoke of a darker, deeper magic. She had led Barty to his death with an ease that spoke of a deadly prowess.
'She could be an Animagus.' Voldemort considered, scrutinizing her entirely human facade. 'A strong one. One with an affinity for fire. But where are the tell-tale animal traits?' It seemed improbable. 'A werewolf then? No, the eyes would be amber, not this piercing red.'
His mind raced through darker arts. 'Soul magic, perhaps? A vessel for someone else's ambition — a soul fragment hidden within her? But who would dare such a sacrilege?' Such practitioners were rare in this age. Aside from him, that was.
'Or maybe an advanced Polyjuice Potion, a disguise taken for espionage. But then, what of the original? Why assume this particular form unless… she's a spy for Dumbledore?'
He pondered the connection to Mahoutokoro, considering astral projection or other incorporeal magic, but then why would she bother executing Barty? The girl's intent seemed focused, her target clear.
'Rituals, ancient and powerful, might explain her sudden appearance, her ability to create an illusory double.'
Unless…
'A summoned being, then? An avatar for a greater, unseen force?'
Voldemort's mind was wary of the unknown variables at play. Yet the girl before him offered no answers, her silence a choice shroud.
"How did you come here, then?" He probed with calculated calmness.
Her response was nonchalant, a simple shrug. "I told him to bring me to you. It worked, I think."
"How did you know he would?"
She smiled mirthlessly. "I didn't know for sure until you told me. But he was a man in disguise, this much I knew. And no one seemed to realize."
'She has killed him on a hunch, then. Or the moment she realized we were truly on the same side, rather.'
The Dark Lord's question had been a gambit, one that yielded no secrets this time.
He wasted no more time on speeches.
With a swift, fluid motion, Voldemort raised his wand, his mind reaching into the abyss of his vast knowledge, summoning the eldritch powers at his command.
The air around them grew heavy, a tangible pressure as the very atmosphere seemed to warp with the gathering of arcane energy.
Shadows danced and flickered around him, as if the darkness itself was eager to respond to his silent call. He stood, a conductor before an unseen orchestra of malevolent forces, poised to unleash a symphony of destruction.
His followers moved away from him, aware of the catastrophe he would rain down upon the 'girl.'
Voldemort's wand tip blazed with an unholy light. This was the might of the Dark Arts, raw and unbridled, and he was its master. With a single word uttered in a tongue lost to time, he would unleash the full fury of his power—
His sight, enhanced by dark rituals, caught Snape raising his wand from behind him. It was clear who it was he was aiming at. Betrayal, then…?
He had overestimated the man's judgment, then. Or perhaps he had underestimated his attachment to the mudblood he had killed, on the night he became a wraith.
Voldemort raised his wand to the skies, and a dark orb of light grew above it with a sound like thunder. Spears of ebony sundered from it, aimed at all of his current enemies.
He brought his wand down in the same beat, summoning a weave of cursed fire in the shape of a snake to shield him. And he enhanced the strength of the anti-Apparition wards, too. Voldemort's focus was absolute, his command of the arcane a spectacle of dread power.
The orb of darkness above him surged, the air crackling with horrifying energy, and the spears of night unfurled like the wrath of a vengeful deity.
However, as he released his fury, a stark, brilliant white dome snapped into existence around him.
The dome, pure and impenetrable, encapsulated him completely, a sphere of bright light his fearsome spells couldn't breach.
They now collided against the dome's surface with impotent fury.
Each spear of darkness shattered upon impact, dissolving into harmless wisps. The cursed fire, which should have incinerated all it touched, recoiled upon itself, trapped within the confines of the dome. He dispelled it once its contained heat became too much to bear.
His first, strongest dispel didn't manage to affect the barrier.
Nor did his second.
Nor did his third.
Voldemort's eyes, usually so piercing and certain, now reflected a glint of bewilderment.
His wand moved in many complex patterns, incantations flowing from his lips like a river bursting its banks. Yet for every curse he hurled at the barrier, it absorbed the impact, the white surface glowing momentarily before returning to its state of calm luminescence. He tried to apparate next. Then he tried to enchant a Portkey.
Tried.
Fury rose swiftly.
He was trapped, caged by an unseen hand. The dome stood unyielding, a silent guardian nullifying the might of the darkest wizard of the age.
The two Death Eaters trying to break the dome open from the outside, in more and more desperate attempts, didn't manage to affect it either. Pettigrew, especially, looked more and more desperate.
As he turned around to direct his most baleful look toward the traitorous Snape, Voldemort understood the reason why.
His gaze fell upon Snape indeed, but the man he once considered a faithful servant was embroiled in a duel with Malfoy. Snape's wand was a blur, parrying and attacking with lethal precision, his expression one of grim determination.
Beside Snape, aiding him with a dark smile, was a figure whose presence on the battlefield made Voldemort himself wonder.
A young, fit man with long wavy hair that framed the sort of face that Voldemort was all too familiar with — typical Black traits.
But that couldn't be him, because that man had been rotting in prison for years.
And still, Sirius Black moved with an agility that bordered on the supernatural, his dueling style almost a dance, each step and swish of the wand performed with a deadly grace. There was a feral joy in his movements, a contrast to Snape's focused intensity.
And his sights were not set on the duel he was steadily winning, no…
But upon Pettigrew, whose panic was now palpable.
…
"You're the help?!" Snape said, injecting as much contempt as he could into the question.
"You should thank your lucky stars I'm here at all!" Sirius Black barked a short, mocking laugh as the other man barely dodged a spell that had been rocketing toward him and singed the hem of his robes. "Aren't you happy to see me fighting on your side this time, Snivellus?"
Snape's lip curled in disdain as he narrowly avoided a curse. "I would prefer the assistance of a flobberworm to your presence, Black. Was there truly no one else?"
With a dark grin that flashed white in the smoke-filled air, Black parried a spell that had been meant for Snape's unprotected back. "The mean king is terribly busy, I'm afraid. Besides, you were supposed to get him alone."
"Then he should have sent any of his lackeys." Snape countered.
"Someone will come, later — Oh, come on, Snape. You've always enjoyed my company." Sirius jested with a grin, deflecting another curse with a grandiose sweep of his hand.
"You mistake disgust for enjoyment." Snape retorted with lethal calm.
They moved in tandem, back-to-back, their spells weaving an intricate dance of destruction.
Sirius Black's wandwork was flamboyant, almost showy, compared to Snape's precise and economical movements.
"And besides… I'd prefer any incompetent dolt to an arrogant prat." Snape snarled, knocking away a curse intended for Sirius with a flick of his wand.
"I am terribly glad you can see the good in me! An arrogant prat with my stunning reflexes?" Sirius quipped, ducking as Snape deflected another curse. "You might just survive this day!"
"Focus, you inbred imbecile, or this little reunion will be your last."
Sirius laughed briefly. "Always so dramatic! You haven't changed a bit. Perhaps I'll save your life again!"
Their banter continued, sharp and biting, as they fought back-to-back — the reluctant dance of two old enemies bound by a common goal.
Snape's wand traced a precise arc, weaving an intricate web of magic that sprouted a shimmering barrier before them. It stood resolute, if only briefly, against the onslaught.
The barrier splintered with an echoing crack under Malfoy's curse, its shards of magic dissipating into the smoky air. Snape's eyes, cold and determined, met Black's for a mere instant, a silent agreement passing between them.
They used that moment to launch a fierce counterattack.
A blasting spell ruined Malfoy's legs at his knees, and a cutting curse tore at his throat.
Both wizards paused.
"That was dangerously close to the dark arts, Black." Snape's voice was as smooth and sharp as the blade of a knife.
A shadow of a grin danced in Black's eyes, a stark contrast to his fierce stance. "Worried about the repercussions for a fugitive, Snape? Or is it familial concern for your godson's father?"
"Silence would serve you best, mutt." Snape returned coldly, his disdain palpable.
…
Voldemort was still strapped.
The next few duels, if they could be called that, unfolded, and the disparity in skill was stark.
Snape and Black had kept their dueling skills honed (or had brought themselves back up to speed, in Black's case) and they faced Death Eaters who had grown complacent and clumsy after thirteen years without real challenge.
Most were rusty, if they had been good at all. And besides… they were also facing a shadow that moved like lightning, and had no qualms about killing them.
One after another, the Death Eaters' spells were either redirected or neutralized.
They could not compete with Snape and Black's fluid, practiced responses, as they neutralized each threat with seemingly minimal effort.
Peter Pettigrew cowered, diminished not only in stature but in the presence of those he had wronged. His beady eyes darted from Black to Snape, the weight of his past treacheries heavy in the air.
It was hard to tell which one wanted him gone the most.
Snape's lip curled, his disdain as sharp as the edge of a knife. "I presume we're keeping this one alive?" The sneer in his voice did not distinguish between the traitor and the traitorous.
Black's gaze fixed on Pettigrew with intensity, a storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes. For a moment, his resolve wavered, a battle between vengeance and reason. But Harry's words echoed, anchoring him.
"I did give Harry my word." He conceded, his voice tinged with reluctance.
"Sirius, I—" Pettigrew's plea was cut short as both wands pointed at him with unerring certainty.
In a desperate bid for escape, Pettigrew reverted to his animagus form, a scrawny rat, scuttling towards the dubious shelter of a gravestone.
But Black, who shifted into the form of a great black dog, was quicker. His jaws snapped shut around the rat with finality.
Moments later, Black stood, human once more, wiping his bloody mouth with a grimace. "Well, fuck."
"Disgusting." Snape remarked, his face twisted in revulsion.
"Never cared much for rat meat." Then, a murmur of regret escaped Sirius. "Harry, this one's on me."
The graveyard was shrouded in a heavy silence. Sarada worked swiftly, her hands steady as she attended to Nacchan and Fleur's injuries — with what little she did know about healing from her mother.
In the distance, Voldemort was a figure of futile persistence, delving deep into his extensive arsenal of spells in search of an escape.
But that was a fool's errand.
"You know." Black began, with calculated calmness. "Just because he can't get out doesn't mean we can't—"
"We are not going in." Snape cut him off. "We are not engaging him."
The sharpness in Snape's interruption spun Black around, a scowl etched deeply on his face. The contempt between them was as palpable as the magic that hung in the air.
"Fear isn't a reason to stand back—" Black's accusation was sharp, aimed like a dagger at Snape's pride.
"Then by all means, throw yourself at him." Snape snapped back, his voice a whip-crack of irritation. Frustration, too. "And when he destroys you, it will be no one's doing but your own."
The words hung between them, a challenge laid bare. Black's face twisted into a snarl, the scars of old betrayals split wide by the jagged edge of each word flung in his direction.
And something cold settled into Snape's gut: realization.
"You orchestrated this, didn't you?" He hissed, and from Black's shifting eyes, he knew his hunch was right. "You absolute imbecile. You delayed the help, for a chance at vengeance…? Do you comprehend the magnitude of your folly?"
Black's retort was a derisive scoff. "Spare me. It's a mere moment's delay — a ninja friend's promise. Aid will arrive in due course — in a few minutes."
"If our cause collapses due to your personal vendetta—"
This time, Black didn't try to hide his feelings behind a veil of calmness.
"You never gave a damn about her. Did you?" Black hurled the accusation, his expression a grotesque mask of fury. "Your claims of caring are nothing but hollow lies. He murdered James! He slaughtered Lily—" The names of his deceased friends spilled like bitter incantations, a profane invocation, his eyes ablaze with a sorrow that had blossomed into relentless rage.
Snape's façade of control fractured, a seething tempest unleashed with a venom that spiraled into a roar. "Do you not think I'm aware?!" He exploded, the last threads of restraint severed. "Do you suppose I am not tormented each waking moment by the ghost of her memory?"
Black's hands clenched into fists, his whole body seemed to quiver. "Tormented? You wear your guilt like a badge of honor, Snape, but it's nothing compared to the ruin you've wrought!"
Snape's posture was rigid, his face a stone mask about to crack. "You dare speak to me of ruin?" He spat, his words like daggers. "You, who played the hero, yet were absent when she met her end? You speak of guilt, of honor, but what of your own?"
Black nearly took a step back, and the years of bitterness and blame festered like an open wound between them.
Voldemort was laughing, too. Both of them were vaguely aware of it.
"You're right." Black's voice broke, a rough whisper that cut through the charged silence. "I wasn't there. But it wasn't my love that led them to the slaughter."
Snape's face turned ashen, a hit too close to home — did he know? No, he didn't, or it would be much, much worse, likely. "Silence!" Snape barked, a clear note of danger threading his tone. "You know nothing of my sacrifices, of the price I've paid!"
The sound of Voldemort's laughter wove through the tension. Its timbre was chilling, full of the pleasure of witnessing the fracture between the two men before him.
The Dark Lord's amusement was a shadow that loomed, turning the air colder, the conflict more bitter, a curse in itself.
Voldemort's mirth crescendoed. "Yes, Severus, tell us of your sacrifices." He hissed, the words slithering into the space, a taunt that prodded at the raw edges of Snape's tightly wound control. "Tell him all about the prophecy."
There stood Snape, a silhouette of seething anger, his shadow long with guilt. Black's gaze locked onto him.
"The prophecy…" Snape trailed off, a look of haunted self-loathing settling upon him, as if speaking it aloud brought back the specter of a ghost he had fought to exorcize.
Voldemort's laugh cut sharply once more into the space, a cruel reminder of the puppeteer's delight. "Yes, Severus, let the truth spill forth. It's what we're all dying to hear, after all—"
There was the sound of a fist smacking against the back of a skull, a body crumpling to the floor, then nothing at all.
Uchiha Sarada stood over the corpse of Lord Voldemort, and patiently waited until a shadowy miasma, his escaping soul, seeped from the still body. Then, she stepped back, relinquishing the space to the specter.
"Indulging him seemed… unwise, judging from your reactions." Sarada remarked, her tone even. "If you wish to speak with him further, speak with his specter."
None of the men answered, simply staring like statues, staring in befuddled silence at the wraith, who was still trying to find its way out.
"Now…" Sarada said, calmly. "You said help was on its way?"
"Sakura!"
That was the first thing that registered to Uzumaki Sakura's incredible eye as Sarada sprinted to meet her — she had gotten decently fast, which was good.
The teenager then proceeded to hide her excitement — which was good too, and would serve her well in case she needed to tame a powerful partner or six in the future.
"Are you well — Boruto's dad was being very cagey, and my father was even weirder than usual so I thought something terrible had happened to you — I was worried, but I remembered you're the strongest so it was probably fine anyway—"
Sakura laughed and ruffled her hair in this distinctly awkward way that Sarada maybe just maybe had missed. In any case, Sarada dutifully cleared her throat, and stomped down on the additional babbling that would have followed.
"What were you up to, all this time?" Sarada's skepticism was palpable in her tone, a subtle translation of the worry that lingered — 'why have you been so silent?'
Sakura thought back of the stuff that had happened over the last few months, from getting swallowed by a kami while trying to save the multiverse to learning her husband (and wives, but mostly her husband) had more or less doomed their planet, to the fact that there was a decent chance she was going to get obliterated in eight years.
Sakura thought of the best way to answer.
"Eh, not much, you?"
…
"I see, I see." Sakura nodded proudly. "Great job on building upon your solid friendship with a snake-like psychopath and the next coming of Otsutsuki Hamura, they are probably going to stick with you for life. And Nacchan is cool, too."
Sarada beamed at her.
Sakura continued. "Good job on subjugating the master of this school, too. And finishing his minions off instead of capturing them."
"Who…?" Sarada paused. She hadn't finished anyone off, unless Sakura counted the fire that had killed most of them. "Oh, him. That's just some local dark lord of magic. Every school has one, I think."
"That's what I said." Sakura chuckled, shaking her head amusedly. "Now you and your boys can take over the school for the Empire."
"Am I supposed to?" Sarada frowned minutely.
"Only if you want to, Sarada." Sakura smiled gently. "Only if you want to."
Sakura did something to heal them, but Nacchan was done listening to anyone, at this point.
Least of all the person who had, unknowingly, dropped them into this hot mess.
He said he wanted to leave and she just nodded, in something that could almost pass for understanding, had it not come from a murderous lunatic. She kicked the Cup twice, stared at it, kicked it again.
"Restored." Sakura gave him a thumbs up. "Now, for the wound on your back, you should ask—"
Nacchan's grasp found Fleur's silent form, their fingers intertwining. His other hand locked onto the Cup.
Sakura shrugged.
He felt something tug at his navel and the world spun again. He was looking up at the starry sky, his exhaustion singing, waiting.
Sounds cascaded over him, a deluge of shouts and footsteps, screams tearing through the night. He registered the familiar silhouette of Hogwarts' gardens with a detached sense of déjà vu.
He tried to name the expression upon the people's faces.
Glee.
Looking at their faces, their screams of excitement, Nacchan felt the same distrust for them he always did.
He did not tell them anything about what had actually happened out there. That, he would keep to himself. Unless Fleur talked, that was her right, too.
Or any of the others, really. He just didn't want to deal with any of this.
There was some ruling, some jury thing. Fleur didn't let go of his hand through it.
He simply raised the trophy up, with empty eyes.
"Namikaze, Uzumaki, Naruto!" Dumbledore bellowed, as though he was reading a children's story. "Emerges victorious!"
After a ceremony of which he remembered nothing, aside from being handed a few things, and seeing familiar faces in the crowd, clapping, Nacchan was sent to the Infirmary for a check-up.
But as he had expected, there was nothing left of his injuries, aside from the mark upon his back. The same thing went for Fleur, too, whose injuries Sakura had healed as well.
She didn't do anything for the exhaustion, but that was something he could handle on his own. Both he and Fleur were released for the evening.
Fleur thanked him, and then thanked him again, but he didn't manage any real answer; only a tired nod and a curt smile.
She gave him another strange look, almost considering, before they went their separate ways.
There were several things on his mind, the latest of them being the now impossible to notice change in his body: he had gained nearly twenty kilos, and gotten much taller, when compared to the last check-up he had bothered with.
And supposedly, he had been past puberty already.
It wasn't the Eye. And it hadn't been the Eye that had allowed him to stand up in spite of his injuries, in spite of what he had thought then.
It left only one thing.
'What the fuck was in these cubes…?'
He was supposed to go to bed.
Sleep sounded like a good idea.
He didn't go to bed, instead opting to simply sit by the Lake. People were celebrating — what exactly, he couldn't tell, and didn't want to think about.
Here, seated at the water's edge, Nacchan tried to find some semblance of peace.
The evening air was cool, and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore offered something like it.
Footsteps approached, soft but unmistakable.
He closed his eyes in frustration, and turned around, a few words hot on his tongue. They died on his throat as Fleur Delacour gave him a hesitant look, eyes looking a bit misty.
Nacchan paused.
And found there was nothing to say. He simply motioned for her to sit, if she wanted to.
And so Fleur sat next to him.
They lay in silence for a long, long while, in this echoing quiet, and even the wind seemed to become silent, the crowds and their laughter more distant. They both stared into the horizon, where the sky kissed the earth, and the stars and Fleur… Ah.
Nacchan's frown deepened, a shadow passing over his features. "Please don't look at me like that."
Fleur's apology was a broken thing, struggling to surface. "I'm sorry. I just… I'm so sorry—"
If her apology was a fragile thing, his shrug was much of the same; a fortress of denial, a vain attempt to shield them both. "What for? None of this is your fault, so please don't carry that guilt."
Her response was immediate, a cry that pierced the silent air. "But it's not your fault, either!"
A great dam burst, and words were spilling from him before he could even consider stopping them.
"I think something is wrong with me." Nacchan breathed out, feeling as though he had lost something he hadn't even known he had had in the first place. "I… killed people and I..."
They weren't good people, far from it, were not innocent, but…
They were still people, after all. People weren't supposed to play vigilante. Dad said so, too. That was the kind of shit that ninja…
"Malfoy, too." He finally admitted, and it felt like he couldn't stop. "He was dying — I think — But I finished him off anyway. With my dagger — I watched the light fade from his eyes — And he wasn't the only one, I…"
That was the kind of shit…
("We don't kill people." Hebi had said. "We only neutralize targets.")
That was the kind of shit Boruto, Sarada and Mitsuki did.
That was the kind of shit that other Sakura did.
That was the kind of shit the fucking Emperor did.
That was the kind of shit fucking Gama and Hebi did.
Nacchan hid his face behind his hands. "What the fuck am I doing…?" He muttered. In the stillness, memories of the fallen, unmasked faces haunted him. "What am I becoming? I saw their faces. I did that." Each word was a stone in his stomach.
Her confession mirrored his own. "Me too, Nacchan. I killed, too. I'm very sorry we had to."
He stiffened, and he could almost hear that cold, high voice again. A short laugh escaped his throat. "Where did you even hear that name?"
"From your… friend." She said, hesitantly.
Sarada, then.
In the void of their silence, Nacchan's self-inquiry was a whisper of existential dread.
"…I'm not a good person at all, am I?" Nacchan asked, looking lost. "I tried, y'know — Maybe I was just lying to myself, thinking I was trying to choose for myself — trying to survive."
He shook his head, and heard no answer.
Then, unexpected warmth encircled his neck and Nacchan stiffened.
"That's exactly what you did. And you saved me, too." She insisted. "We both did what we had to. That's what my grandmother would say, I know."
It was said for both their sakes, of course, even though Fleur had trouble believing it when it came to herself. Perhaps fullborn Veela, like her grandmother, simply had a different sort of attitude when it came to these matters.
His laugh fell short. "That doesn't change anything. I am not — I lied to everyone — not a ninja, not a wizard, not — not anything at all."
The same creeping cold.
"I am… I am…"
'I don't know who I am.'
"…I think I understood most of what's going on." Fleur said. "The important parts, at least, I heard."
None of it she would have believed, had she not seen it with her own eyes, heard it with her own ears. Whether he had been born a wizard or not ranked pretty low, when compared to this pink-haired woman who talked about bending reality itself.
"Then you know—"
Fleur lifted his chin up.
Her smile, soft and understanding, quelled one storm within him and ignited another.
"You are you." She said. "That doesn't change."
His eyes met hers, the vulnerability in his gaze akin to an open wound. "How can you say that…? I'm just a stranger — I'm not even from this world at all—"
"Nacchan."
"…Yes?"
"How long are you going to make me run after you?"
"Wha—"
The suddenness of her kiss broke through his defenses, and for a moment, he was adrift in a sea of confusion.
He kissed her back, and they fell together onto the grass; fierce and angry; nearly out of their minds and desperate to feel something else.
Boruto glanced at Nacchan, the next day. "…Did you get into a fight?" He asked him.
"…No." Nacchan replied tersely.
"You're—"
"Yes, I know what I look like." Nacchan said, pulling his collar a bit higher.
He only wanted this school year to be over; he only wanted to go home, to get some time to think in a place where he didn't feel in danger.
Mitsuki stared at him, and Nacchan whirled, ready to tell him not to—
"Nacchan had sex for non-reproductive purposes." The little snake stated. "Likely."
"Thank you very much, Mitsuki." Nacchan hissed.
"You're welcome." Mitsuki smiled easily. He stepped closer."What are you…?"
Mitsuki slapped his back, quite harshly. It knocked the wind out of Nacchan.
"Why the—"
"Father says people often seek validation in sex and sharing their exploits." Mitsuki explained, as if discussing the weather. "He mentioned a pat on the back is really what they're after when boasting of their conquests, especially when some people are fabricating outlandish tales—"
"I'm not looking for validation." Nacchan hissed.
"I understand." Mitsuki nodded, miming zipping a mouth shut. "These things can't be said out loud."
Then he winked at him, the rest of his face staying entirely impassive. It looked as though he was having a stroke, really.
Nacchan's frustration was palpable. "Don't do that, Mitsuki. Any of that. Please."
…
"…What do you mean I didn't even have to compete…?" Nacchan muttered incredulously.
"You remember the broken cup Boruto linked to you so we could try it out?" Sarada posed the question like a riddle.
"Yes." Nacchan said tersely. "That was five minutes ago."
"You didn't feel any pain when it broke, did you?"
"I didn't."
Sarada shrugged. "That means the binding didn't take. Now of course, perhaps that artifact is stronger and all, but the same principle applies because Sakura is even stronger. The Eye she gave you makes bindings not latch onto you until you accept them, it seems. They slip off, like rain on glass."
"Are you for real?" Nacchan hissed.
"Is anyone?" Mitsuki inquired, staring at his palms in childlike wonder.
Sarada just nodded. "Evidently."
Boruto clapped his friend on the back, chuckling. "Ah, that's too bad we didn't think to try it out earlier! But the Tournament was fun, wasn't it, Nacchan?"
Which part? The dragon…? The lake…? Perhaps to them, it would have been thrilling.
Nacchan's mind, however, was trapped in the memory of the dreadful Third Task — details he'd never shared, so how could they understand?
It wasn't as though Sarada would say anything if he didn't, he was sure.
"They came in as strangers, they left with deep emotional scarring; that makes them family." Mitsuki quoted.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Boruto turned to him, confused, but Mitsuki offered no clarity until he nudged him and reminded him he had promised to be less cryptic.
Mitsuki relented. "The real prize is the camaraderie forged on the journey. It's an age-old adage."
Nacchan didn't respond. He just started walking away, Boruto on his heels.
"…Nacchan. It was fun, right?" Boruto asked again, a bit more worriedly.
Nacchan began walking faster. He didn't want to answer. Fleur had offered him to meet her tonight again, and perhaps he would take her up on her offer.
They had a little over a month together left. Perhaps it would do both of them some good: something nice, simple and easy.
Boruto kept up with him on much shorter legs.
"Come on, Nacchan — tell me you enjoyed it, right? Right?!"
lensdump:
i/BvSyxo : Protegee
i/BvSb2P : Champions
Still having some trouble with FFnet not mailing anything, from story updates to PMs, you guys too?