June 24, 1996
"I don't know what you were thinking," Amelia Bones stated firmly, pacing back and forth in her office.
As the newly appointed Minister for Magic, she was clearly displeased with the Wizengamot's decision but seemed resigned. Rufus Scrimgeour and Callum Skinner, Head of the Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries, stood by. Outside, Fudge waited with two Aurors, while Dumbledore and Chandler were on their way.
"It's just another means to an end," I replied quietly, sitting on her desk with a shrug. "Fudge didn't deserve the position; he was just in the right place at the right time." I sighed, seeing Amelia's reproachful look and hearing Scrimgeour's annoyed snort. "Anyone could have taken that opportunity. He just happened to be the type who'd achieve his goals without caring about the casualties along the way."
Such as Sirius. And me.
Amelia paused, seeming unsure how to respond. Perhaps she had hoped the Wizengamot would choose Scrimgeour, a seasoned Auror and war veteran. Instead, they picked her—a figure known for her sense of justice and no-nonsense attitude, seen as a refuge in troubled times.
"I've told you before, no one realised it at the time," Amelia finally said, crossing her arms. "Everything happened so fast. No one understood what had happened to Black."
"Not even the Head of the Aurors was called," Rufus muttered from his spot near the door. "Black was sent straight to Azkaban from the street where he was found."
"Three days earlier, you were found unconscious," Amelia added hesitantly. "You were brought to the courtroom right after being treated at St. Mungo's, almost at the same time Black was arrested."
"It's just that Black was probably not fully aware of what was going on." Skinners piped in as my gaze was now jumping between my friends. "I saw him for a moment. He was laughing. Whatever you heard from the stories - they're not exaggerating. He was laughing like a madman. But now I think everything just overwhelmed him. The desperation, the betrayal of his friends, the death of the Potters, the chase - and he snapped, it all caught up with him."
I wasn't surprised. It's impossible to go through all this and not go a little mad. And that was sometimes reflected in the man's eyes - some kind of edge. My musings must have stopped there, however, because Albus entered the office with a quick step, followed by Fudge, who was led in by two Aurors, and finally Chandler, with his perpetual frown. I jumped up from Amelia's desk, as the Aurors left, closing the door behind them.
"Let's get started." I pulled off my jacket and waited for the rest of the audience. But no one moved, all eyes were on Dumbledore. Hell, not now. Resigned, I lowered my wand. "What now? I thought we were clear on this."
Albus looked at me meaningfully and sighed.
"There is a possibility that the spell will prove unstable if the requisite number of participants is not present."
I stared at him in disbelief. You've got to be fucking kidding me?
"That leaves five of us," Chandler added. "The likelihood of the spell failing was already high following Crouch's death, and the situation is now unclear."
I turned to him, with absolute contempt painted on my face. How dare he even speak? He has no idea, no clue, what it's like to be tethered to all these people. To depend on them all, where every spell and decision can be turned against me.
"If you think I'm going to agree to this, you're sorely mistaken." Inhale and fucking exhale.
This is not happening for real! How can they stand by and say they won't allow the seal to be removed from Fudge? Over my fucking dead body. Skinner stepped between us and raised his hands in a gesture of defiance.
"The spell is stable, for now. And besides, if we don't get the seal off them, we'll be breaking one of the conditions ourselves. We could all die. I think that's a pretty valid argument."
"Besides, Fudge would be a target for the Death Eaters," added Scrimgeour, surprisingly. "You could turn her over to Voldemort." Hey, I'm here.
"How dare you!?" The man exploded and jumped up in his seat. A flush of nervousness covered his whole face and his hands mangled the hem of his robe nervously. Without his bowler, he had nothing to clasp his hands with.
"I don't even want to imagine what would happen if he had any power over her," Skinner wondered aloud, stepping forward and eyeing Scrimgeour with a wicked twinkle that made my insides flip. What the hell was going on? "He'll take over the Ministry in half a day." Well, thank you for your confidence in my abilities, Skinner. I'll buy you a round.
The whole conversation was starting to take an interesting turn. Could it be that my co-workers were just siding with me?
"How!?" I retreated to a corner of the room, exchanging glances with Callum. He, Scrimgeour and Amelia stood and discussed further with Fudge. After a while, Chandler joined the conversation, increasingly thrown off balance by the turn of events. I know he'd be most happy to watch my execution. But not today, you motherfucker. My attention shifted to Albus, who was listening to everything in silence with obvious displeasure. A horizontal frown crossed his forehead, and his eyes stared intensely at me from over his glasses. They ganged up on you, didn't they?
"By taking you hostage, for example." Finally, Amelia interjected, stepping forward and facing Fudge and Dumbledore with a very stern expression on her face. "She has to help any of us in a life-threatening situation, or she'll die herself. You know she would have found you and rushed to your rescue, whether you were sitting in your garden or in some dungeon in the Scottish highlands. You know enough about her to give her to Voldemort on a platter."
"For Merlin's beard!," the man exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, getting even redder in the face. Amelia's words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the precarious balance we were trying to maintain. The room felt tense, with every person weighing the consequences of their actions.
"You're a greedy little man, Fudge. Don't try to tell me you wouldn't give her away at the first opportunity to save your skin." Rufus also shared his thoughts on the matter.
"I CAN'T EVEN SAY HER NAME!" Fudge was on the verge of panic, bleary eyes leaping from one person to the next, looking for support. And here's how a star falls - with less of a bang than one would expect.
The discussion continued, with each voice adding tension to the room. Strangely, Dumbledore remained silent, a stark contrast to his usual commanding presence. He had initiated the topic, yet now he sat back, listening intently, his eyes fixed on my face. It struck me suddenly—the realisation hit like a cold splash of water. Dumbledore used this conversation as a litmus test, subtly gauging the group's loyalties. He wanted to see where each person stood, and whom they would side with if we faced truly hard choices. Decisions like sacrificing one of our own—perhaps even me—for some perceived greater good. The thought sent a chill down my spine, but I couldn't show any weakness. Not now. Not here. Bloody bastard.
"Obliviate would be an appropriate action, in my opinion," I heard Skinner finally adding, focusing back on the moment. "As we have discussed many times before, the only guarantee that a person who will not be part of the oath will be able to walk away relatively unscathed is the Oblivation spell."
And that made everyone shut up immediately, focusing on Skinner. Amelia and Rufus nodded slightly as Chandler opened his mouth for another tirade. Dumbledore, however, grabbed him by the arm and silenced him with a glance.
"That's probably for the best." Albus finally spoke, his voice calm but authoritative.
"We must proceed with caution. This ritual must be handled delicately, or the repercussions could be severe." As if the air had gone out of Fudge at these words, he slumped back in his chair, staring at Albus in disbelief.
"I'm ready," I stated firmly, looking around at the others and taking a step forward. Now or never. I quickly rolled up my sleeves and pulled out my wand. "Let's start."
Rufus nodded, his expression serious.
"Is everyone ready? Just one drop of blood from each of us. Skinner, pass the incantation."
I surveyed the group, noting the range of emotions reflected in their faces—some were nervous, others resolute. We all understood the gravity of what we were about to do, and yet, there was no turning back. We had to see this through to the end. Fudge, visibly shaken, stepped back.
"This is madness. We can't go on with such a dangerous ritual without proper precautions."
"We don't have much of a choice," Amelia replied, her voice steady but this time cold. I think she was also slowly getting fed up with his whining. "The alternative could destabilise the entire Ministry. We must act now."
They all spread out in the room against the walls, forming a circle.
I stood in the middle, looking at each of them in the eye in turn, focused on the task ahead. It's going to hurt like hell. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a small vial.
"Let's get this over with," I said, setting the tone for what was to come. The others followed suit, each producing their vials. Inhale and exhale. Balance is everything.
I hoped this would truly work. With Crouch, there had been no need for a ritual because he had been murdered so the seal disappeared on its own. The current situation was unprecedented for everyone, so it was understandable that there were doubts. My primary goal, however, was to remove all the seals as quickly as possible. Sixteen years was far too long to endure this shit. But I also needed to be patient. One at a time. Inhale and exhale.
Using my wand, I carefully traced a line of circles around myself. The symbols glowed a deep blood red on the floor of Amelia's study, a stark reminder of the gravity of what we were doing. This was a blood-based binding spell—black magic in its full, dangerous glory. Despite the inherent risks, we had no choice but to proceed. The seal had to be broken, and I was determined to see it through, no matter the consequences. Each participant pulled out a vial of blood and poured its contents onto a line of circles at their feet. The blood immediately began to glow and bubble, spreading towards the centre and converging at my position. It formed a network of lines connecting each participant, then pooled around my feet, creating additional circles and symbols. From above, it was evident that I stood at the centre of a hexagram, intricately inscribed within several concentric circles. As the ritual progressed, drops of blood lifted from the ground and hovered in the air. They began to merge, forming distinct seals in front of each person. The same symbols that appeared in the air were mirrored in the marks etched into my left forearm. This was a binding spell, sealing each participant's commitment and connecting us through a powerful, ancient magic. Till death do us part. I turned to Fudge.
"Roll up your sleeve and pull out your wand." Fudge took one last, fearful glance at Albus and Amelia, his lips trembling, but he did as he was instructed. The seal above his left wrist now floated ominously in the air between us, glowing with an eerie light. "Let's get this over with," I muttered, steeling myself for what was to come.
To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. This could lead to anything—from the invocation of a new seal to the summoning of a demon. Skinner had warned me that the spell we were about to perform was one of the oldest in the Ministry's archives, discovered on a piece of ancient leather unearthed from a burial barrow in the Norfolk moors.
The sound of my own pulse thundered in my ears as I swallowed hard, trying to calm the rebellious churning in my stomach. Every so often, the nerves would rise, threatening to overwhelm me, but I kept my face expressionless. I refused to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing my fear. After all, curses, runes, and ancient magic were my bread and butter. I cast one final glance at Fudge and took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. Closing my eyes, I let my mind sink into darkness and emptiness, a familiar mental state I always entered before attempting complex spells. On the next inhale, I opened my eyes, extending my hand toward Fudge. He flinched, clearly unnerved, but when he looked into my eyes—now glowing a bright, unnatural gold—he quickly looked away. Still, he placed his hand in mine without protest. I positioned my wand over the seal on his wrist, and he mirrored the action, placing his wand over the seal on mine. Above our heads, identical seals hovered, pulsing with latent power, waiting to be activated.
"Now," I commanded, and the others raised their spell cards. I didn't need a card; I had memorised the spell's words in English, Welsh, and Latin, having prepared for this moment long ago. I was ready, even if someone decided to alter the ritual on the fly. With a final deep breath, I began to chant, the ancient words rolling off my tongue. The air around us grew heavy with magic, and the seals above us started to spin slowly, drawing in the energy we summoned. The room darkened, and the ground beneath us seemed to hum in resonance with the spell. This was old magic—dangerous, unpredictable, and powerful. As the spell reached its crescendo, I could feel the magic binding us, twisting around our seals, and locking them into place. Fudge's grip tightened on my hand, and I could see the fear in his eyes, but there was no turning back now. The ritual was in motion, and we were committed to seeing it through, no matter the consequences.
"Per Aerem et Terram, per aquam et ignem, sic sis solutus ut cupio. Per tres, septem et novem tua virtus non est soluta. Per Lunam et Solem, fiat voluntas mea. Caelum et mare custodiunt nocumentum a me. Funis circuire solutum esto, revelatae tenebrae, nunc insculpe"*.
The others raised their wands in unison, aiming them at the former Minister. Fudge's frightened eyes darted from face to face, searching for any sign of mercy, but found none. As we began the incantation, the marks on our forearms flared bright, menacing red, the first round of the spell taking hold.
"Focus," I murmured, more to myself than to the others, as we repeated the spell. The air crackled with energy, and in an instant, the blood seals floating above us darkened, shifting into a deep, ominous purple. The third repetition of the incantation caused the blood to seep back into the seals etched on our skin, the ancient magic burning away any remnants of the spell's effect.
Suddenly, Fudge screamed, his voice echoing through the room. The pain was too much for him to bear, and he collapsed, pulling me down with him as he fell to his knees. His face had turned a ghastly, unhealthy pale, beads of sweat pouring down his forehead. He struggled to catch his breath, his chest heaving with the effort. This means that when the spell is reversed, all the pain of the burning of the seal is not passed on to me, but to the other person. Interesting.
"Hold on, Fudge," I hissed, though I could feel his hands trembling violently in mine.
His body convulsed with spasms, the force of the ritual tearing through him. The magic was relentless, purging every trace of the seal from his flesh, but the process was brutal. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Amelia trying to approach us, but I quickly stopped her with a wave of my hand. We couldn't afford to break the circle and the spell. Fudge would have to last a little longer.
"Stay with us, Cornelius. It's almost over," her voice firm but tinged with concern. Fudge's grip on my hand tightened, his nails digging into my skin as he fought to stay conscious. His breathing was ragged, each exhale a shaky gasp as he struggled to endure the pain. The others continued to chant, their voices unwavering as the ritual neared its end. Finally, the light of the seals began to fade, and the pressure in the room eased. Fudge collapsed fully, his body going limp as the last of the magic dissipated. I released his hand, pulling back as he lay on the floor, gasping for air.
"It's done," I said, my voice flat. I glanced down at my left forearm, expecting to see the familiar mark where Fudge's seal had been, but there was nothing—just pale skin, crisscrossed with my usual tattoos. I flexed my hand a few times, testing the muscles beneath the skin. Everything seemed intact. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until I exhaled, the deep rush of air easing some of the tension coiled inside me. But something still felt off. My head was clouded, like it was stuffed with cotton, and my thoughts refused to come together. I couldn't focus. The ritual had taken more out of me than I'd anticipated. For a moment, I stood there, numb, until a firm hand on my shoulder snapped me out of the fog. I blinked, turning to see Skinner beside me, his hand still resting on my shoulder. To my surprise, his eyes were filled with concern. I had never known him to be sentimental. Skinner was a man of logic and practicality, someone who always focused on the task at hand. He rarely, if ever, showed emotion, let alone concern for others. Yet here he was, his grip on my shoulder steady and his eyes betraying more than his usual stoic expression. For the first time, I saw something beyond the calculating, methodical exterior.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice gruff but not unkind.
I nodded, still processing the unexpected display of care. "Yeah... I'm fine."
His hand lingered for a moment longer before he withdrew it, the concern in his eyes quickly masked by his usual calm demeanour. He stepped back, clearing his throat as if the brief moment of empathy had never happened.
"You did well," he added, his tone now more businesslike, as if the momentary crack in his armour had been sealed. I gave him a small nod, still not quite sure what to make of it. Skinner had surprised me today—first by taking my side, and now by showing something close to compassion. I wondered if he even realised it himself.
I finally tore my gaze from my forearm and surveyed the room, my eyes moving slowly over the others. Amelia, Chandler, and Albus were kneeling beside Fudge, checking his condition. From what I could see over their heads, he was still alive, his chest rising and falling steadily, though he looked worse for wear. The next step was clear—someone would have to cast the Obliviate Spell, erasing the memory of these events from Fudge. Once that was done, this whole ordeal would be over. At least, for now. In the corner of the room, Rufus stood near the door, watching everything with a sharp, calculating gaze. He hadn't moved since the ritual ended, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I couldn't help but wonder what was running through his mind. Was he judging the success of the ritual? Our eyes met, and he caught the questioning look I gave him. He shrugged, his expression unreadable.
"You should go," he said quietly, his voice breaking the silence. "We'll take care of the rest." I raised an eyebrow.
"Are you sure about that? I can still—" ,
"Go," he repeated, more firmly this time. His gaze softened slightly, but there was no mistaking the command behind his words. "We'll sort everything out from here. You've done your part."
I hesitated, glancing once more at Fudge's pale form and the others still tending to him. Part of me wanted to stay, to see this through to the very end, but I knew Rufus was right. There was nothing more I could do here, and the weight of exhaustion was starting to settle. With a final nod, I turned toward the door, pausing only briefly to meet Rufus' gaze again.
"Make sure he doesn't screw this up," I muttered, gesturing toward Fudge. Rufus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
My hand was on the doorknob, ready to leave it all behind, when Dumbledore's calm voice called out from behind me. "It's not over yet."
There was no threat in his tone—just a quiet certainty that sent a chill down my spine.
"I'm aware of that," I replied, my voice clipped. "After all, I still have to figure out how to get the five of you out of my life."
"Vivian…" Amelia's voice broke through the silence, soft yet weighted with emotion. I turned slightly, meeting her gaze. There was pain in her eyes—a sadness I wasn't sure I wanted to see. Yes, we were friends, and yes, she had taught me everything I knew about navigating the complexities of the magical world. But none of that changed the fact that I was bound to her—and to the others—in ways that went far deeper than friendship, mentorship, or even loyalty. These ties weren't relationships; they were chains, heavy and unyielding. And I wasn't about to apologise for wanting to break free. "I know what you're thinking," Amelia said softly, taking a step toward me. "But it's not that simple. We're bound—"
"—by magic, not choice," I interrupted, my frustration surfacing. "Don't mistake this for something it's not, Amelia. I didn't ask for this. None of it."
She flinched at my words but didn't back down. "Neither did we. But here we are."
I shook my head, gripping the doorknob tighter. "That doesn't mean I have to accept it."
Dumbledore's voice cut through again, calm as ever. "You may not have asked for this, Vivian, but at the time it was the only option. The alternative was your death."
"I'm not interested in mystical bonds or cosmic ties," I snapped, turning fully to face him, ignoring the last sentence. "I'm interested in living my life without being tethered to all of you."
"And what will you do when you realise the cost of severing those ties?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes steady and unwavering. For a moment, the room felt too small, too heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. Amelia looked like she wanted to say more, but something held her back. Dumbledore stood, as if he knew the answer to his question long before I did. I exhaled, releasing the doorknob and letting the silence stretch.
"It depends," I admitted, more to myself than to them. "If the world will accept me or not." Chandler, the fucker, had the time of his life frowning like a little bitch. "Dangerous freedom is better than peaceful slavery, Albus," I declared. "Stop trying to confine us with your rules and restrictions, or we'll do whatever it takes to break free." I paused, shifting my weight and scanning the room with disdain. Amelia, standing beside Rufus, shot me a warning look, while Fudge stared at me as if I'd sprouted another head. I continued, "You need our help…"
"Help from the likes of you? Never!" Fudge erupted, clenching his fists as he finally stood up from the floor with Chandler's help. "The only thing we need from—" He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening in sudden realisation. "You conniving witch! This was your plan all along! Black's escape, the attack on the Ministry, all the accusations against me!" I met his gaze coolly.
"No, Cornelius, you did this. You imprisoned an innocent man, accused a group of teenagers of conspiracy, and gave people like Umbridge power. You, Cornelius, you did it all by yourself." I clapped slowly, mockingly, as Fudge sank back into his chair, his face pale and eyes unfocused, overwhelmed by his failure.
Ah, karma at its finest.
Without a backward glance, I stepped into the corridor. The weight of yet another problem lifted from my shoulders, and the cigarette between my lips tasted sweeter than it had in a long time.
I met Potter the following week in Albus' study at Hogwarts, on a warm midsummer Friday. He was seated between the muggle-born girl who had trapped Rita in a jar, and one of the younger Weasley boys. All three eyed me with a mix of reluctance and wariness, though Potter's gaze held a defiant edge. Leaning casually against Dumbledore's desk behind them was Sirius Black, watching the scene unfold. I asked him before this whole conversation to stand back and not interfere, no matter how the situation developed. I had to see where I stood with someone like Harry Potter.
"Don't think I'll drop dead just because you're staring at me with menace," I said, addressing Potter directly.
"There's always hope," he shot back, his tone sharp. The girl on his left squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes darting between Potter and me as the tension crackled. The Weasley boy on Potter's right looked like he wished he were anywhere else, clearly uneasy with the standoff. Ignoring Potter's glare, I turned my attention to the redhead.
"Years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting your brothers, Bill and Charlie," I said, watching as the boy's focus snapped to me, his posture stiffening. "Quite capable wizards, both of them. Charlie, in particular, had a close call with a dragon." Weasley's eyes widened as if a memory had clicked into place.
"Yeah, he mentioned something like that a few years ago." He glanced at Potter and the girl beside him, his expression one of dawning realisation. "During his first year in Romania, he went into the mountains with the other tamers and got lost. He ran into a wild dragon in the forest and nearly got eaten—if not for a group of wizards in some hidden camp who rescued him," he said, looking at me expectantly.
"That's right," I confirmed, a slight smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
The girl finally spoke up, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Was that you?" I nodded, observing their reactions closely.
The room's tension eased slightly as the tale sank in, but the wariness remained. I had their attention now, and the dynamics of the conversation were beginning to shift in my favour. Black moved closer, clearly intrigued by the story. He listened intently, though I caught him making faces at Potter from the corner of my eye, subtly gesturing with his hand. The rebellious defiance in Potter's expression had faded, replaced by a growing curiosity as he studied me more carefully.
"He's got a scar on his forearm as a permanent reminder that when you see a fully grown dragon, you run like hell instead of trying to pet it," I said, a hint of amusement in my voice. The Weasley boy grinned, the tension in his posture easing slightly.
"Mum would kill him if she knew." His smile was hesitant but genuine, and Black, standing behind them, let out a snort of laughter.
"So, how'd you beat it?" Black asked, his curiosity piqued. I waved off the question with a casual shrug.
"That's a story for another time, Black." Shifting my attention to the dark-haired girl, I addressed her directly. "Hermione, Queen of Sicily." As expected, the rest of the group exchanged confused glances, their eyes widening in surprise. But Hermione only smiled, unruffled by the unexpected title. "My mum liked the play," she explained calmly.
"A Winter's Tale," I acknowledged with a slight nod, returning her smile. "The girl who locked Rita Skeeter in a jar and kept her there for an entire year."
The smile slipped from Hermione's face as the atmosphere in the room shifted. She glanced first at Sirius, then at me, her demeanour suddenly more guarded. Black, however, remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he observed the exchange.
"She deserved it," Hermione said, her voice firm, betraying no hint of regret. I raised an eyebrow, impressed. Oh, what a ruthless little witch.
"She sure did," Black finally spoke up, a note of approval in his tone. "Skeeter has a special talent for rubbing people the wrong way."
Curiosity sparked in Potter's eyes as he asked, "How did you find out?"
"She told me. We're somewhat... friends." The revelation hung in the air, and I could see the gears turning in their minds as they processed this new information.
"With that bloody harpy?!" Black finally chimed in, his disbelief evident. I couldn't help but smirk at his reaction.
"I locked her up with a lizard in the first pet shop I could find the moment I discovered she was an animagus spying on me. That kind of experience tends to build trust."
Black raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. "How does that work, exactly?"
"It's simple," I replied, my tone matter-of-fact. "I trust she'll never write a word about me, and she trusts that I'll never lock her up again. Mutual understanding. It works."
"And you call that a friendship?" Black asked, incredulous. I shrugged again, this time with a bit more nonchalance.
"We all need that one sarcastic, brutally honest friend who isn't afraid to tell you what a piece of shit you can be. For me, that's Rita."
The room fell silent as they absorbed what I'd said. I could see a mix of reserve and curiosity in their eyes, each of them processing the information in their own way. I allowed the moment to stretch, giving them time to adjust to the unexpected revelation. Finally, I turned my full attention to Potter. After all, this whole meeting was because of him.
"Will you listen to me now?" Potter's posture shifted immediately. He straightened up, the defiance in his gaze replaced with something more cautious. He glanced at Black, silently seeking guidance. Black gave him a slight nod, his expression unreadable, but the message was clear. Potter turned back to me, his eyes more focused now, ready to hear what I had to say. I sighed deeply, feeling the tension in the room. The anger in him was almost palpable, and I wondered how he managed to carry so much of it without breaking. "It's surprising you can afford so many enemies in your situation," I remarked, my tone deliberately calm. Potter's reaction was immediate and explosive.
"What's that supposed to mean?!" he shouted, springing to his feet. His fists were clenched at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely restrained fury. Fury at what? Or at whom?
Great, just my luck—babysitting an unstable teenager.
"I came here to offer my help," I continued, my voice level, though I was beginning to lose patience. "But seeing your attitude, it's clear I'm not needed. You seem to think you know all about duelling, boy."
Potter's face twisted with a mix of fury and confusion. He opened his mouth, struggling to find the right words, then glanced over my shoulder at Sirius, searching for support. Without waiting for a response, I headed for the door, half-expecting the inevitable protest. One, two, three, four…
"Wait!" It was Granger, who spoke first, followed closely by Black. They both called out, trying to defuse the situation before it escalated further. "Let's all calm down," Granger urged, her voice steady but laced with concern, as if she sensed the growing tension.
"I don't want to calm down!" Potter exploded, his voice rising as he marched toward me, his fists clenched. "She broke my nose! And she didn't let me see you, Sirius!"
"Complaining won't change anything, boy," I retorted, my voice cold. "And you were in the way."
"In the way?!" Potter echoed, incredulous. "I wanted to help!"
"That doesn't mean you could," I shot back sharply, my gaze locked on his. "Or do you think you know how to pull a wandering soul back from the afterlife better than a qualified healer, boy?"
"Stop calling me that!" Potter shouted.
What a brat. His anger clouded his judgment, leaving little room for reason. A part of me considered how easy it would be to silence him with a flick of my wand. One snap of my fingers, and the tantrum would be over.
"And why would I stop?" I challenged, my voice turning icy. "You're acting like a spoiled child who didn't get his way. I'll call you whatever the fuck I want until you drop the attitude."
"Listen here, lady—" Potter began, his defiance flaring as he stepped closer, his wand twitching in his hand.
"Harry." Black's voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm but firm, as he placed a hand on Potter's shoulder, holding him back. His eyes flickered with warning as he looked between us. "Vivian's a combat witch," he explained, his voice taking on a steady, authoritative tone. "Do you know what that means?" Potter blinked, his anger briefly giving way to confusion.
"No…"
"It means her job is to assess danger in the heat of battle and act swiftly," Black continued, his grip on Potter's shoulder tightening slightly as if to anchor him. "The biggest threat in the Ministry was Bellatrix. She had to be neutralised. I was trapped in another dimension, nearly dead, and Vivian brought me back - that was another thread." Black's voice softened as he spoke, the storm in his eyes fading as he met my gaze with gratitude. "I'll be forever thankful for what she did. She brought me back because my soul refused to stay anchored to my body. She didn't hesitate." Potter looked stunned, the fire in his eyes dimming. Black continued, his voice gentle but resolute. "She saved my life, Harry. She did her job, and she did it well. She went against the Ministry for me, made them listen, and now I'm free because of her." I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Black's words hanging in the air. That was uncomfortable as fuck.
Potter glanced between Black and me, the anger slowly draining from his face. His clenched fists loosened, and the defiance in his posture softened. He looked at me again, and this time, there was something else in his eyes—an understanding, tentative and raw, but there. The storm in the room had passed, for now. I eyed Potter, then Black. Bloody Griffindors with a short fuse. Finally, I sighed with resignation.
"I've been asked to teach you what a real duel is like," I said, my voice calm but firm, my eyes locking onto Potter's. He crossed his arms defensively, defiance still flickering in his eyes.
"Sirius can teach me." I sighed again, exasperation creeping in. Fray, Frigga and Tyr, give me the strength not to strangle that boy to death.
"Yes, Sirius certainly can," I admitted, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. "But he doesn't have my experience." Potter's brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing slightly. He wasn't convinced, not yet. I stepped closer, deliberately closing the distance between us, my tone softening but not losing its edge. "Sirius hasn't trained the last dozen Aurors on how not to get themselves killed in the field." I let the weight of my words hang in the air for a moment. "I have." That got his attention. I could see his posture shift, the curiosity flickering behind his stubbornness. "You see, Harry," I continued, my voice steady as I met his gaze, "there are other things in this world besides Voldemort that want to hurt you. Things you might not even see coming." His expression flickered with uncertainty, and I could tell my words were starting to sink in. I moved even closer, lowering my voice just slightly as if sharing a secret. "It's not just about power or bravery. It's about survival. About understanding what's coming at you and reacting before it hits. You need more than just a wand and a few spells. You need instinct. You need to know how to stay alive when everything around you wants you dead." Potter's arms slowly uncrossed, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind. He was starting to understand that this wasn't just about duelling—it was about survival. About living to fight another day. "I'm not here to replace Sirius," I said, my tone softening further. "I'm here to make sure you're ready. For whatever's coming. Because trust me, it's coming." For the first time, Potter's defiance faltered, replaced by something else—hesitation, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, the beginnings of trust. I pulled my jacket off and rolled up my shirt, showing the boy the expanse of my stomach and then back. "Spells kill," I pointed to one of my scars near my left hip. "Knives kill," I turned around, showing the boy a faded line on my ribs. "And muggle bullets kill," I pulled the collar of my shirt down to show him a punctured scar below my right collarbone. "And stupidity kills. Mainly those around you," I pointed to Black. Potter's eyes flashed suddenly with rage, all the tentative trust I'd seen moments ago evaporating instantly. His voice came out sharp and furious.
"It wasn't my fault! Sirius is alive!"
And just like that, we were back to the shouting. I straightened up, looking down at the sulky kid. Without a word, I put my jacket back on, and, disentangling my hair from the collar, I looked at the boy with pity.
"Thanks to whom?" I snapped, my voice cold. "Not you."
"What the hell, Lake?" Black finally stepped forward, breaking his silence, his tone sharp with frustration. "He couldn't have prevented any of it."
I shot Black a hard look. "Of course he could have." Potter's face was turning red with anger, but I wasn't going to let him off that easily. "Stop acting like being responsible for your actions is some grand, impossible feat. You made an emotionally driven decision, Harry. You dragged a group of children into danger, risking the lives of your friends, the Aurors, and your godfather. Take responsibility for that."
Potter's hand shook with fury and his wand was pointed directly at me.
"Harry, no!" Granger's voice rang out, panic lacing her words. Black also jumped to the boy grabbing his arm, but Potter didn't move. I stared at the wand, unimpressed. If he wasn't careful, this boy would get himself killed sooner rather than later—with that temper and no skill to back it up.
"You don't just point that stick at anyone, boy," I said, my voice dangerously low. "If you aren't going to use it, don't point it at me." But Potter didn't lower his wand. He was glaring at me with such intensity, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly, his chin raised again in defiance. "If you want a fight," I said, stepping closer, my gaze locked on his, "then I'll give you one."
"Good," he spat, his voice filled with venom. Without another word, he spun on his heel and marched toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the tense silence. "I know just the right place," he called over his shoulder, the challenge clear in his voice as he disappeared through the doorway, Granger and Weasley right behind him.
I let out a breath, watching him go, and glanced at Black, who was frowning deeply.
"This isn't going to end well," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. Black sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"It never does with Harry."
Well, fuck it all to the moon and back.
Here we were.
Room of Requirement, or whatever the fuck it was called. Apparently it turned in anything you needed at the given moment. After all those stairs to the Astronomy Tower it should turn into a sandy beach with drinks and hammocks, but I knew you seldom get what you want. So instead of a peaceful evening at home, I got myself a brat with anger issues wanting desperately to prove Odin only knew what.
Weasley and Granger eagerly explained how the Room of Requirement worked. "You just have to imagine a space," Granger said, her tone taking on its usual lecture-like quality. "Something you need, and the room will shape itself accordingly. It can become almost anything."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall on the seventh floor, watching with mild curiosity as Potter paced in front of the opposite wall. He walked back and forth, his brow furrowed in concentration, muttering something under his breath. Black stood beside me, his arms folded, his gaze following Potter.
"This room isn't on the map," he remarked, pointing toward the wall as the faint outline of a stone door began to appear.
"It's not," Potter confirmed. He reached out and pushed the door open, stepping inside without hesitation. I raised an eyebrow and muttered to Weasley,
"What map?" he shrugged, clearly trying to suppress a grin.
"You'd have to ask him." Granger shot him a sharp look but said nothing as they followed Potter through the doorway.
Black glanced at me briefly before stepping inside, leaving me to bring up the rear. Reluctantly, I pushed off the wall and walked through the stone doorway. The room wasn't exactly what I had expected. It wasn't large—just a modest space with an open area in the centre. The walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed haphazardly with tomes and scrolls, interspersed with scattered cushions. A few magical devices stood out on tables along the edges, resembling the threat-detection gadgets I'd once seen in Moody's office, though these looked older and less reliable. The room had the air of utility, like it had been hastily cobbled together for training purposes.
"Tolerable," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, stepping further inside and taking a slow look around. My fingers trailed over a nearby shelf, brushing against a dusty tome labelled Defensive Magic in Times of War.
"This is what you imagined?" Black asked Potter, his tone light but curious. Potter nodded, his expression sharp with determination.
"Something practical. A space where we can train. Where we can learn." His voice carried a quiet certainty, a subtle challenge wrapped in resolve.
"Not bad," Black said, stepping closer to one of the magical devices. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips as he studied a softly glowing orb spinning in midair. It pulsed with light, each beat filling the room with a low, rhythmic hum. "I've seen worse setups."
I scoffed, crossing my arms.
"Practical, sure," I drawled, letting my gaze sweep over the room. "But not exactly inspired." I gestured to the cushions lining the walls, my brow arching in clear disdain. "What's with those? Planning to take naps between spells?"
Potter's jaw tightened, and he turned to me, his green eyes narrowing. His lips parted, ready to fire back, but Granger stepped forward before he could speak.
"It's for safety," she said, her tone clipped but controlled, as though addressing an unruly student. "In case someone gets hit with a spell and falls."
"How considerate," I said dryly, my voice tinged with sarcasm. I let my gaze linger on the glowing runes etched into the walls, their light pulsing in rhythm with the orb. The room was functional, but it lacked grit—an edge, a sense of danger. "Still," I added, stepping further inside, "this isn't quite what I had in mind."
Black turned, leaning casually against one of the bookshelves. His arms folded, and his tone carried a note of amusement. "And what did you have in mind?"
"Something with more… weight," I replied, waving a hand vaguely as I scanned the room. "Something that feels like a battlefield. Not… a study group's hangout."
Weasley let out a snicker, hastily covering his mouth when I turned to glare at him. "I don't think the room does 'battlefields,'" he said with a shrug. "But it's better than nothing."
Potter stepped into the centre of the room, his fingers curling tightly around his wand, shoulders squared with an air of quiet confidence. "It'll do," he said, his voice steady. But even as the words left his lips, I noticed a flicker of hesitation in his posture—subtle but unmistakable. He tried to appear composed, but the doubt was there, lingering just beneath the surface. "We can make it work."
"No," I said bluntly, stepping forward until I stood a few feet from him, my tone cutting through the faint hum of magic in the room.
Potter blinked, startled by the abruptness of my response. "No?" he echoed, his voice faltering as uncertainty crept into his expression.
"That's not how this works," I said, holding his gaze with unwavering intensity. "If this is the room you're counting on, you'd better prove it's worth your time. You don't train to 'make it work,' Potter. You train to survive."
From behind me, Black pushed off the bookshelf he'd been leaning against, his usual humour fading from his expression. His eyes shifted to Potter, studying him with an intensity that matched my own.
"She's right," he said, his voice low but firm. "Let's see what you've got. If this is where you plan to train, it's time to put it to the test."
Potter adjusted his grip on his wand, shifting his stance to steady himself. His jaw tightened as his gaze flicked between Black and me, determination beginning to replace the uncertainty in his eyes. I stayed near the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching him with a faint, taunting smile.
The faint hum of magic that had lingered in the air seemed to grow louder, resonating through the room as though responding to the challenge. The glowing runes along the walls pulsed brighter, and the atmosphere thickened, the air almost vibrating with energy. The room itself seemed to shift, the soft hum transforming into a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat. Then, the transformation began. The simple training space warped and expanded, the walls retreating as the room reshaped itself into a full-scale Auror duelling arena. Thick mats unfurled across the floor, their dark blue surface marked with intricate silver lines that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The walls were lined with glowing runes, meticulously carved into the stone, each one pulsing with protective magic. The room wasn't just larger—it felt alive, crackling with an energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Black stepped inside, his boots clicking against the mat. His gaze swept the room, and a flicker of admiration crossed his face.
"Impressive," he said, his tone carrying a hint of respect. He ran a hand along the nearest rune, watching as it pulsed faintly in response to his touch. "You don't see many setups like this outside of the Ministry."
"That's because most people don't need them," I replied, my voice calm but sharp, my gaze fixed on the shimmering silver lines beneath my feet. "This isn't just a classroom. It's a crucible. Anyone who steps into this arena learns what it means to fight for their life." Potter entered a moment later, his steps tentative. His expression shifted from scepticism to something closer to awe as he took in the room.
"What's all this for?" he asked, glancing between me and Black. His voice carried a note of uncertainty, but there was a spark of curiosity there too.
"This," I said, gesturing to the arena with a sweep of my arm, "is where you'll learn how to survive. Not just how to duel, Potter, but how to think, how to react, how to stay alive when everything out there—" I pointed toward the far wall, as though it symbolised the world beyond—"is trying to kill you." Potter's jaw tightened as his gaze swept across the room again, lingering on the glowing runes and the faintly shimmering lines on the mat.
"It's just a duel," he muttered, but I caught the edge of doubt in his voice.
"No," I corrected, stepping closer to him. My voice dropped, quiet but forceful. "It's preparation. The moment you step onto this mat, you leave behind the idea that this is a game. Out there, no one cares about rules, or fairness, or whether you're ready. If you're not ready, you're dead." Black folded his arms, leaning casually against the wall but watching Potter closely.
"She's not wrong," he said, his voice softer now but no less serious. "You've got to treat this like the real thing, Harry. Because one day, it will be the real thing."
Potter shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of our words, but I saw something flicker in his eyes. The hesitation was still there, but so was the determination. He didn't fully understand what this meant—yet—but he wanted to. I let the silence stretch for a moment before stepping back, motioning toward the centre of the mat.
"Alright, Potter," I said, crossing my arms again, my voice edged with challenge. "Show me what you've got. Let's see if you are up to the task."
Potter's grip tightened on his wand as he moved to the centre of the mat. The faint glow of the runes reflected in his eyes, and for the first time, his hesitation melted into something stronger: focus. The room seemed to pulse in anticipation, the magic within it thrumming louder as Potter raised his wand. I stayed where I was, watching, waiting, as the air grew heavy with energy.
"Let's begin," I said, and the hum of the room seemed to echo my words. Potter's gaze snapped to mine.
"Pull your wand," he spat, his voice laced with defiance. I tilted my head, letting a faint smirk curl my lips.
"I don't need a wand to beat a boy in a duel," I replied casually, as if we were discussing the weather. Potter bristled but said nothing, stalking to his end of the mat with an air of righteous determination. His shoulders squared, and his eyes flashed with a confidence that teetered on arrogance. He huffed as he took his stance, radiating the eager energy of someone who thought they already knew the outcome.
"You ready?" he challenged, arching an eyebrow. Naive little boy. You know nothing.
"For you?" I replied, pulling a cigarette from my pocket. With a flick of my thumb, it ignited, and I took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily around my head. "I'm ready like an open grave."
The silver lines on the mat shimmered faintly as I stepped forward, each footfall deliberate, the room amplifying the tension with its faint, rhythmic hum. "First rule of duelling, Potter: never assume your opponent will wait for you to be ready." Potter hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before raising his wand. His stance was uncertain but resolute, the fire in his eyes faltering ever so slightly. From the sidelines, Black leaned against the wall, his expression a mix of amusement and apprehension.
"Don't let her intimidate you, Harry," he called out, though his voice carried an edge of warning. "But don't underestimate her either."
Potter gave a sharp nod, gripping his wand tighter. The room seemed to shift with his resolve, the glowing runes flaring briefly as he stepped fully onto the mat.
"This isn't about power," I said, beginning to circle him slowly, my gaze never leaving his. "It's about control. You can have all the magic in the world, but if you can't focus it—if you can't think—you're useless."
His jaw tightened, and he turned to follow me, his wand raised. "I'm ready," he said, though his voice betrayed a slight tremor.
"Good," I replied with a faint smile, stopping my pacing. "Then show me." He didn't wait. With a flick of his wrist, he fired his first spell. The beam of red light shot toward me but fizzled out halfway, the magic dissipating into nothingness. He frowned but didn't pause, casting another spell with more force. The result was the same—mid-air sparks that scattered uselessly to the ground. His frustration mounted as he fired a third spell—a stunner—but it, too, dissolved before reaching me. Potter lowered his wand, his confusion plain.
"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice sharp as his eyes narrowed on me.
"That's the wrong question, boy," I said, folding my arms, the faintest hint of a smile playing on my lips. "It's my turn now."
Potter instinctively took a step back, his grip on his wand tightening. His stance shifted, his weight balanced as he prepared to defend himself. His defiance was commendable, but his inexperience was glaring. He held his wand like a shield, more symbolic than practical. I raised my hand slowly, deliberately, and his shoulders tensed as if bracing for an invisible blow. I hadn't even cast a spell, but the motion alone was enough to make him flinch.
"Lake!" Black's voice rang out, cutting through the room. There was a sharpness to it, a note of panic that betrayed his usual composure. He stood behind the wards, pacing, his wand now clutched tightly in his hand. I turned slightly, just enough to glance at him while keeping Potter in my peripheral vision.
"And what do you want in a moment like this, Black?" I asked, irritation creeping into my tone.
"If anything happens to him—" Black began, his voice taut.
I cut him off, turning fully to face him. "He wanted a duel," I said, my tone cold and deliberate. "So I'm giving him one. Or something close to it." Behind Black, Granger and Weasley hovered anxiously, their wands drawn. Granger's knuckles were white around hers, while Weasley looked as though he was seconds from stepping forward. Admirable, if misguided. I took one last drag from my cigarette before dropping it to the ground, grinding it under my boot. Letting the silence linger, I finally added, "But if you'd rather switch places with him, Black, I'd be more than happy to oblige." Black stilled, his pacing stopping abruptly. Our gazes locked, and I could see the storm brewing behind his calm façade. For a moment, I thought he might take the challenge, but then he glanced at Potter, who still stood on the mat, his wand raised, his determination wavering. "Thought so," I muttered under my breath, turning back to Potter. "Alright, boy. Let's see what you've got."
The room felt alive, its energy thickening with every passing second. The glowing runes along the walls pulsed brighter, the light casting dancing shadows across the mat. The faint hum of magic now resonated like a heartbeat, a rhythmic cadence that matched the rising tension in the air. Potter adjusted his grip on his wand again, his stance firming as he took a deep breath. His shoulders squared, his green eyes blazing with something new. Resolve. A small smile curved my lips. This was what I had been waiting for. The fire, the determination. He was finally starting to understand. "Good," I said softly, raising my hand.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the very air taut with anticipation. The first pulse of magic sparked between us, and the duel began. A streak of red light shot toward me, cracking against the barrier wall behind me with a deafening snap. Another followed in quick succession, and then another. Potter wasn't holding back—not anymore. His wand moved in sharp, precise arcs, each spell bursting forth with raw energy. But there was no finesse. No strategy. Just a desperate barrage of power. I stood still, letting his spells streak past me. One shattered against the mat, sending a spray of sparks across the floor. Another whizzed over my shoulder, close enough to ruffle my hair. Yet I didn't move, didn't raise my hands, didn't even blink. I simply watched. Potter's face was set in grim determination, his jaw clenched, his arm trembling slightly from the effort. He barely paused between each spell, pouring every ounce of energy into his attacks. And yet, the futility of his assault was written in every missed shot, every wasted burst of magic. When his final spell fizzled out, he staggered back, panting heavily, his chest heaving with exertion. The glow of the runes around us dimmed slightly, as though the room itself had tired of his effort. We were maybe fifty feet apart when he finally stopped, his wand shaking in his hand. I raised my empty hand, holding it aloft as if I were gripping an invisible wand, while my other hand hung loosely at my side.
"Tell me, Potter," I called out, my voice cutting through the stillness. "What exactly did you accomplish with all that reckless casting?" He froze, his brow furrowing as confusion clouded his features. He hadn't thought this through—that much was obvious. The idea of strategy hadn't even crossed his mind.
"I've done plenty!" he shot back, though his voice wavered, the uncertainty creeping into his words. His grip on his wand faltered, his confidence unravelling.
"Really?" I said, raising an eyebrow. I took a step forward, my voice carrying an edge of mockery. "Did any of those spells hit me? Did you do me any harm at all? Look at yourself—your wand arm is shaking, your breath's uneven, and you're standing wide open to attack. No shield. No defence. You were so focused on flinging spells that you didn't even notice you'd fallen into a trap."
His eyes widened slightly, darting from me to Black, as if seeking reassurance. His voice rose, indignant.
"You didn't cast any spells! You don't even have a wand!"
"Unpopular opinion number one," I said, a cold smile tugging at my lips, "you don't need a wand to cast spells." His eyes narrowed, frustration and confusion mingling on his face. "And number two," I continued, letting my voice drop into a taunting drawl, "never believe everything your opponent tells you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice breaking through the silence.
"It means," I said, taking a step closer, "that I've already won. You're so busy trying to figure out a trap that doesn't exist, you forgot about the duel. And in doing so, you gave me the perfect opportunity to…" With a flick of my wrist, Potter's wand flew out of his hand, spinning through the air and landing neatly in my grasp. His eyes widened in shock, but he didn't even have time to react before I flicked my fingers again, conjuring thick ropes that snaked through the air and wrapped tightly around him. "…beat you."
The ropes coiled around his arms and torso, pinning him in place. He struggled against them, his face flushing with anger and embarrassment, but it was no use. The magic held fast. Behind the glowing wards, Black took a sharp step forward, his expression tight with concern.
"Maybe next time, Potter," I said, letting his wand clatter to the ground with a deliberate, echoing sound, "you'll remember that raw power alone isn't enough. You need control. Without it, you're nothing." I took a step forward, pulling the next cigarette from my pocket. My voice echoed back to him, calm and unyielding. "Until you learn to think, you'll never be ready for what's out there."
Potter's glare burned into me as I exited the mat, his defiance unbroken. But beneath the anger, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Understanding. He had a long way to go, but today, he'd taken the first step. With a snap of my fingers, the ropes unravelled and fell to the mat like discarded vines, vanishing into faint wisps of smoke. Potter staggered slightly as he regained his footing, his hands flexing at his sides as if he still felt the phantom weight of the binds. His face was flushed—partly from exertion, partly from anger—but he refused to look at me. "Sit," I ordered sharply, nodding toward the edge of the mat. My tone left no room for argument. Potter hesitated for a moment, glaring at me as though weighing whether to defy me, but eventually he relented. He slumped down onto the mat, his breathing heavy and uneven. His wand remained on the ground where it had fallen, but he made no move to retrieve it. Almost immediately, Black and the kids rushed forward, their expressions a mix of concern and reproach. Granger was the first to reach Potter, crouching beside him and inspecting him with the scrutiny of a healer.
"Are you alright, Harry?" she asked, her voice tight with worry. Weasley stood slightly behind her, glancing between Potter and me, his brow furrowed.
"That was… a bit much, don't you think?" he muttered, the accusation clear in his tone. Black, however, didn't stop at Potter. He strode right up to me, his movements deliberate, his eyes dark with restrained anger.
"What the hell was that, Vivian?" he demanded, his voice low but charged. I raised an eyebrow, meeting his glare without flinching. Since when are we on a first-name basis?
"A lesson," I said simply, crossing my arms. "One he needed to learn."
"Needed to learn?" Black echoed, his voice rising slightly. He gestured back toward Potter, who was still catching his breath on the mat. "You call tying him up in front of everyone a lesson? You humiliated him."
I let out a sharp breath, stepping closer to Black until we were nearly eye to eye.
"Better humiliation here, in a controlled environment, than death out there," I snapped, pointing toward the door as if it led to the dangers Potter would eventually face. "Do you think Voldemort or his followers will give him the courtesy of ego preservation? He's reckless. He doesn't think. That will get him killed."
Black opened his mouth to retort, but Granger's voice cut through the tension.
"She's not wrong," she said quietly, still kneeling beside Potter. Black froze, turning to look at her. Granger glanced up, her expression conflicted but resolute. "Harry does need to think more in a fight. He's powerful, but… he doesn't strategize." She hesitated, her gaze flickering to me briefly before adding, "If he doesn't learn control, he won't stand a chance."
Potter finally lifted his head, glaring at me with smouldering defiance.
"You didn't have to go that far," he said, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Didn't I?" I countered, my tone calm but pointed. "You fired off spells without thinking, drained your energy, left yourself wide open, and you still don't realise how vulnerable you made yourself. You want to fight Voldemort, Potter? You want to survive? Then you'd better start using your head."
Potter clenched his fists, his jaw tightening, but he didn't argue. The flicker of understanding in his eyes was faint, but it was there. Black exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"You could've made your point without tying him up in ropes like some kind of spectacle," he muttered. I shrugged.
"Sometimes the lesson sticks better when it stings."
Weasley let out a low whistle, muttering under his breath, "Remind me not to volunteer for your lessons."
I smirked, my gaze flicking toward him. "Smart choice." I turned again to Potter. "It's not your job to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you know," I said, my tone firm but gentle. "No one should expect anything more from you than good grades, maybe a few fistfights, or a winning streak in Quidditch." Potter's expression softened, as though he hadn't considered that before. "But I can show you something more. Real duelling. Auror-level training," I continued, meeting his gaze. "Not for the sake of the magical world. This would be for you. I heard you're interested in becoming an Auror." He looked at me, taken aback, and shook his head slowly, as if unsure how to respond. "Good. You've got the drive and the talent." I extended my hand, and after a brief hesitation, he took it. The moment our hands met, I felt a surge of magic pass through me, a tingling warmth spreading to my fingertips. Potter's eyes widened slightly—he felt it too. "And you've got the power," I added, watching his expression as he processed what I'd said. "So what do you think? There's no trial period here," I added immediately, seeing his expression. "If you want to train with me, you're in it for real. I decide when you've had enough. No complaints, no drama, and no room for anyone's ego." I paused, meeting his gaze steadily. "I don't do soft landings. This will be hard, and I don't expect you to like it." Potter's brows knitted, but he held my gaze, considering my words carefully. Finally, he nodded, his determination clear. "Tomorrow morning. Dawn. We'll see what you're really made of."
Potter gave a single, determined nod, and I couldn't help but feel a flicker of anticipation. This was going to be interesting.
Granger helped Potter to his feet, and the group began to shuffle toward the door. Black lingered for a moment, his expression a mix of frustration and grudging understanding.
"You'd better be right about this," he said quietly, his tone low but carrying weight.
"I am," I replied without hesitation, meeting his gaze. "He'll thank me for it someday."
*"By Air and Earth, by Water and Fire, so be you unbound as I desire. By three, seven and nine your power is unbound. By Moon and Sun, my will be done. Sky and Sea keep harm from me. Cord go round power be unbound, the darkness revealed, now be unsealed."