Hey all you lovely people.
I had most of this chapter written by Thursday but it has been an amazingly busy weekend for me. It was my birthday Friday and I have been utterly spoilt. I honestly feel so overwhelmed with just how much love and support I have around me. It truly has been a weekend full of family and love.
I've eaten more chocolate and cake than anyone should ever consume and had a very busy few days out visiting family, going to the shows and basking in turning 26.
I managed to edit and finish the chapter this evening and debated posting tomorrow but it's Easter so :)
For all those that Celebrate today - Happy Easter, I hope it's been an awesome day.
For those that don't, I hope your day has been as equally as awesome.
A little admin - I have had a few people ask about why Adharia simply just doesn't participate in the tournament or why her family feel her identity needs to be kept a secret. Please don't worry, i address this all in this update so I hope it'll all make sense once you have read it.
I am curious though, what would be your interpretations before reading this as to why simply not participating or going public with Adharia's identity isn't a good idea?
As always I appreciate you all. I'll never tire of telling you all that. But you are genuinely an amazing community of people and I feel truly blessed to receive your support, love, comments, feedback and Kudos. I love you all.
Please enjoy this update, it was so fun to write. I literally got chills at least twice while writing this. I hope you all do too. Also for those asking for some more Dora content - You asked, I delivered. I hope it was worth the wait.
All my love - Nell xoxo
…..
~Nymphadora's POV ~
~Hogwarts Astronomy tower~
~Thursday 2nd November 1995~
Dora climbed the seemingly endless spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower, taking each step one by one, her pace slow, deliberate. Each step echoed off the stone walls, a quiet rhythm that did little to calm the storm in her chest. Her thoughts were consumed, as they had been often lately, by the latest injustice Adharia was being forced to face. Again. It never seemed to end for the younger witch.
It was infuriating. And Dora couldn't help the tangled mess of fury that consumed her whenever she thought about all her young soulmate had been through.
Even after finally being reunited with her true family — something Dora had hoped would mark the beginning of healing —Adharia still had to live in the shadows. She still had to hide the truth of who she was and who she belonged to. Still had to play a role in a world that had already stolen so much from her. It wasn't fair. It had never been fair.
Dumbledore's reach was vast, his lies woven into the very foundation of the magical world. His influence and popularity making him untouchable and until they had enough evidence to bring everything crashing down around him, secrecy was their only weapon. It was the only thing keeping Adharia safe.
And Dora hated it.
She hated how powerless it made her feel. Hated being forced to watch it all from the sidelines while someone she cared so deeply for was forced to fight every day just to survive. Left with no option but to juggle two persona's just to keep herself safe. Every part of her ached with the need to do something, anything, to shield Adharia from the weight she carried—but all she could do was support her from the edges, quietly, fiercely.
What surprised her most was how quickly everything had changed. In less than two months, Adharia had gone from a stranger, a girl whispered about by her family, to someone Dora trusted more than anyone. A small, sharp-eyed girl with a spine of steel and a heart far too big and pure for the life she'd been forced into. There was something about her—something ancient and knowing and heartbreakingly good. Their connection had formed instantly, a bond neither of them could quite explain in words but both instinctively trusted. And now? Now it was unshakable.
They wrote almost every day. Adharia's letters were blunt and biting and warm. Bursting with such sarcasm and whit, but always honest—filled with razor-sharp observations about Hogwarts' endless incompetence and the absurdity of trying to pretend everything was fine. Dora responded in kind, regaling her with tales from the Auror department, usually involving some spectacular display of idiocy from her coworkers.
Adharia's particular favourite subject? William Weasley. Like his younger brother, the man was as incompetent as he was unintelligent.
Dora rolled her eyes just thinking about him. She'd known William her whole life, and in all that time, he had never once demonstrated an ounce of humility or self-awareness. He was all swagger and ego, with just enough skill to keep himself from being sacked but not nearly enough to justify his arrogance.
Recently, he'd decided to show off by provoking an Acromantula nest in the Forest of Dean. For "training purposes," he'd claimed. What he'd actually done was nearly get three people killed. And why? Because he was trying to impress her. As if endangering lives was some kind of grand romantic gesture that would have swept her off her feet.
She'd nearly hexed him on the spot.
Not that it would've made a difference. Dora wasn't interested—not in William, not in anyone. Her focus was where it needed to be: protecting the people who mattered. And Adharia? Adharia mattered more than most.
She wasn't sure when it had happened—when her protectiveness had taken root so deeply—but it had. Fierce and immovable. She didn't just care about Adharia. She believed in her. Respected her. Loved her, in that rare, enduring way that didn't need labels or explanations. Soulmates or not, Dora would follow the youngster to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping her safe and happy.
All Dora wished for was that. Adharia's happiness, her freedom. For a future defined by truth and love, for a future where Adharia could breathe freely. Where she wouldn't have to look over her shoulder. Where she could finally live—not survive, but live the life she had always been meant for before Albus Dumbledore had stolen her away.
Until then, Dora would stand at her side. Quietly. Fiercely. Unshakably.
Always.
As Dora rounded the final curve of the spiral staircase and stepped onto the landing, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth—unbidden but entirely welcome. The long, winding climb had been worth it when her eyes fell upon the very subject of her thoughts. There, seated by the open window, framed in the soft glow of early evening light, was the very reason she'd climbed all those steps without complaint.
Adharia sat with her back tucked against the cold stone wall, legs drawn up slightly, a weathered book cradled in her lap. The heavy, cracked leather of its spine suggested it had seen centuries of use, but the girl read with rapt attention, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Before her lay parchment covered in precise, delicate handwriting, a bottle of ink, and a quill that seemed to have paused mid-thought—frozen as though unwilling to disrupt her flow.
Her glamoured hair, much darker than her true sunlit gold, was wild and untamed, curling in defiant waves that reminded Dora—against her will—of her aunt Bellatrix. The resemblance was uncanny in certain lights, you'd almost believe the two were of the same blood, and it twisted something unpleasant and melancholy in her stomach. But the band t-shirt Adharia wore, the one she had gifted Adharia after one of their talks over muggle music, erased the thought in an instant. The oversized fabric hung slightly off her shoulder, emblazoned with the Muggle Pop band – 'Oasis' in bold letters - Dora had discovered in her exploration after Adharia had instructed her to 'educate herself'—and the sight of it brought a fond grin to her face.
"Thought I'd find you here, little love," Dora called softly, her voice breaking the stillness in the air like a ripple across water.
Adharia startled slightly, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand. But the moment recognition dawned, she sighed and let her shoulders relax, dropping the wand and rolling her eyes in familiar exasperation. Still, the curve of her lips betrayed her.
"Do you make it a habit to sneak up on unsuspecting witches, Nymphadora?" she retorted dryly, though the quiet amusement in her expression undermined the scolding tone and the smudge of ink on her cheek made her mock exasperation all the more adorable.
"Only the ones worth sneaking up on," Dora fired back, her grin widening. She deliberately ignored the use of her full name. She'd learned early on that letting Adharia know it bothered her would only encourage the girl to use it more often—and with greater flair.
She crossed the small space between them and lowered herself to the ground, settling just below the ledge Adharia was perched on. The wind from the open window tugged at her hair, and she tilted her head back to look up at the girl.
"Oh? And what makes someone worthy, exactly?" Adharia asked, arching a brow. Her tone was serious, but her eyes—those not-quite-her-eyes, borrowed through glamour and constraint—danced with mischief.
Dora felt something tighten in her chest at the sight. The laughter lighting those eyes wasn't truly hers, not yet. The real ones—bright sea-glass blue and full of storm and sunlight—were still hidden beneath Dumbledore's vile glamour. And though she would never say it aloud, it felt like a theft every time she saw a false reflection staring back at her.
But she didn't let the ache show.
"Intelligence, danger, charm," Dora replied lightly, pretending to tick each trait off on her fingers. "A healthy disregard for rules. A tendency to make my life simultaneously more chaotic and all the more interesting."
Adharia huffed a laugh and turned her attention back to the book in her lap, though the corners of her mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"You forgot stubborn," she added after a pause.
Dora leaned back on her hands and looked out the window, the wind brushing against her face, her lips drawn up in a grin. "That one's a given little dove."
For a few quiet moments, they sat in companionable silence. The distant hum of castle life was muted here, replaced by the soft rustling of pages, the rhythmic scratching of quill to parchment every time Adharia found something in her book she deemed worth writing down for later analysis, and the occasional sigh of wind as it swept through the high tower window.
Dora let herself sink into the quiet, allowing the serenity of the moment to settle over her like a warm blanket. It was a rare thing, this kind of stillness. The life of an Auror didn't grant her many moments of solace. Even rarer for Adharia, whose life had been nothing but chaos, cruelty, and uncertainty. Here, tucked away in the high solitude of the Astronomy Tower, there was a sliver of calm—just the two of them, the wind, and the unspoken comfort that came from being near someone who understood without needing to ask enhancing the serenity they felt.
If Dora could protect this peace for her, even for a few minutes… she would.
Ever chance she got.
"I'm glad you're here," Adharia said quietly, her voice low and hesitant, like she wasn't sure she had the right to say it aloud.
But Dora heard every syllable. And she smiled—soft and fond, like the words had settled directly into her heart.
"As am I," she replied, her tone light but sincere. "Mum's glad too, actually. Said it was a relief knowing there's someone else around to keep you from causing mischief."
Her voice took on a teasing lilt, and Adharia rolled her eyes, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. The banter came easily between them—effortless, like breathing. It always did. From the moment they met, there had been an unshakable pull, their bond destined from the very start. Long before either had been born.
Dora didn't pretend to fully understand it, but she'd never questioned it either. It simply was. Strong. Steady. Fierce.
"With the way things are going… that's probably wise," Adharia murmured, her voice dipping into something heavier—more uncertain. Her faint smile wavered, thinning into a tight line that made Dora's stomach twist with renewed anger. That expression, that subtle crack in the younger girl's usually sharp façade, reminded her just how much was still being asked of someone who had already endured more than anyone ever should.
Dora swallowed back the urge to curse the Headmaster's name again. She couldn't let Adharia see her fury—not now. Not when she already carried so much on those thin, strong shoulders.
Instead, she shifted slightly and asked, gently, "How are you holding up, really Adharia?"
The silence that followed was telling. Adharia didn't answer right away. Instead, she closed the heavy book in her lap with a soft thump and gave a casual, shaky wave of her hand. Her supplies responded immediately—quill, ink, and parchment floating up and neatly packing themselves away in her bag with quiet precision.
She moved slowly, climbing down from the ledge to sit beside Dora, her movements graceful but subdued. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, almost childlike in a way that starkly reminded Dora that this girl was only fourteen and should never have been in a position to sound so afraid.
"I'm scared, Dora." She admitted.
She didn't look at her when she said it. Her fingers fidgeted with her wand, twisting it gently between her hands as if grounding herself.
"This tournament… it wasn't something we planned for. And I can't stop thinking…" Her voice faltered for a moment before she pressed on. "How do I keep pretending that I wouldn't die for my family, that I don't care for them or that I still believe the lie he fed me — when Fleur is a champion too?"
Dora felt her heart stutter at the words. Her eyes widened slightly, her mind reeling. Out of everything—everything she was faced with — that was her concern?
Fleur.
Their secret.
Not the fact that she herself could die. That her name had come out of the Goblet, binding her to a competition infamous for taking lives. Not the danger she would personally face, again, at the hands of the very people who should have protected her, people far more powerful than she should ever have to stand against.
Dora stared at her, speechless for a long moment, her hair flashing through shades of vibrant colour—pink to red and back again—betraying her inner turmoil. She understood wanting to protect one's family. But the idea that Adharia was so prepared to sacrifice herself again… without even pausing to think about herself? That she had so little regard for her own wellbeing, both infuriated and broke the aurors heart all at once.
"I…" Dora started, her voice thick with a dozen words she couldn't quite shape. She took a steadying breath, forcing her thoughts to slow. She couldn't get angry. Not now. Not at Adharia, none of this was her doing and her concern for her eldest sister only proved how entirely selfless she was.
But gods, the unfairness of it all…
The Tournament was a farce. She knew it. Everyone in the Auror department with half a brain knew it. Dora had grown up in the Ministry's halls—she knew how whispers travelled, how secrets barely stayed buried. And the whispers about the Triwizard Tournament? They had been loud, deliberate, and deeply concerning.
It was a political manoeuvre—an ill-conceived attempt to repair the fractured alliance between Britain and France. The Ministry was desperate. The last war had left the country in shambles, its economy strained, its people divided. They needed France. And someone had decided that reviving a deadly tradition would be the olive branch they could extend.
Of course, not everyone had agreed. The Tournament had been banned for seventy-five years after a string of brutal deaths. Too many bright, promising students had perished in those so-called "tasks"—tasks too dangerous for even seasoned witches and wizards, let alone children barely out of adolescence.
The irony of it all wasn't lost on Dora. The British ministry sought to repair their relationship with a country that distrusted them, after the British ministry failed to find the kidnapped infant of the French ministries most affluential and respected employee, and now the very tournament hoped to repair that relationship was risking the life of not one but two, of that very same employee's children?
Fleur having been chosen. A Veela. A Delacour. The symbol of French magic.
And somehow—somehow—Adharia too. The very child who's abduction had caused the rift in the first place?
Adharia, who was only fourteen. Who had lived most of her life under a false name, shackled by lies and spells and the twisted schemes of a man who still walked free. A child who had already been sacrificed once—offered up to Dumbledore's vision of the "greater good."
And now, offered up for the second time by the very same man?
She pressed her lips together, trying to keep her spiralling thoughts in check before they got away from her entirely.
But then, a thought struck her like lightning—sudden, blinding, obvious in its brilliance.
Her eyes widened. "The Goblet of Fire… did it use your birth name?"
Adharia blinked, startled by the urgency in Dora's voice. "No," she replied slowly, her head tilting adorably in her confusion. "It used Hermione Granger."
Dora's eyes lit up, her hair turning a blinding shade of pink as excitement surged through her. "That's it!"
She winced as her voice echoed off the walls and quickly lowered it to a more conspiratorial whisper.
"That's how you survive this, little witch. You're not legally or magically bound by the same rules."
She was talking faster now, leaning closer. Her entire body vibrating with energy.
"Your name is Adharia Apolline Delacour. Not Hermione Granger. 'Hermione' is an alias—at best. But your true legal name, the one recorded in birth records, is Adharia. And that name was never entered into the Goblet."
Adharia's eyes widened with recognition. Dora watched the understanding bloom across her face, the spark reigniting behind her glamoured features.
"So…" Adharia murmured, her voice laced with awe, "Adharia isn't bound to the magical contract."
She stood abruptly, pacing with sudden purpose, her fingers twitching as her magic stirred beneath her skin.
"I'm not bound. I can train with Fleur. I can pass information, help her prepare—and the Tournament magic can't stop me. It has no hold over Adharia."
Her glamoured hair began to frizz and spark with raw magical energy, curling wildly in response to the revelation.
Dora didn't say anything. She simply watched, pride glowing behind her eyes, her smile wide and unrepentant.
Adharia turned to her suddenly, beaming. "Oh, Dora—you are incredible! You know that, right?!" And if anyone had the audacity to question the look on Dora's face at that moment—the open, unguarded adoration shining in her eyes—she'd deny it and hex them into next week for good measure.
Adharia's energy pulsed like a live current, lighting up the little tower room with something bright and uncontainable. She paced tight circles on the stone floor, her wand flicking restlessly between her fingers as ideas collided and sparked behind her eyes.
Dora leaned back against the wall, watching with open affection as the younger girl burned through her thoughts aloud. It never failed to amaze her, how quickly Adharia's mind worked—brilliant, relentless, always three steps ahead of most adults. But what grounded her even more was the quiet humility threaded through every idea and action Adharia had. She wasn't strategizing for glory. She was trying - valiantly - to protect the people she loved.
"I could start with her boots," Adharia said, pacing faster now, her mind working faster and faster with each step. Her entire being fixated on what she could do with this new information. "Silent featherlight charms, anti-slip runes on the soles. Maybe a minor cushioning charm to brace impact if she's thrown or knocked down. Nothing flashy—just practical things that keep her steady."
Dora nodded, already seeing it. "All enchantments Fleur could plausibly do herself. Good thinking. Just keep the layers minimal—too many and they risk becoming traceable, especially if the adjudicators run integrity diagnostics. They'll be looking for irregularities that could give the champions an unfair advantage."
"Right. No obvious magic. Just… support," Adharia muttered, distracted now as her thoughts sped ahead. "I was thinking I could lace a minor temperature regulation charm through the seams of her uniform—just enough to prevent overheating. And maybe reinforce her gloves with a ward that activates on adrenaline spikes—low-grade deflection, enough to take the edge off a direct hit."
Dora whistled low under her breath, impressed. "You've been reading way too many restricted duelling journals."
Adharia grinned but didn't deny it.
"Okay, what else?" Dora asked, her voice softer now, encouraging. "What's that brilliant mind of yours cooking up?"
Adharia's smile faded into concentration. "We need to understand the tasks. If I can predict the structure of the challenges, maybe I can help her prepare spells or techniques to navigate them. They usually follow elemental patterns, right? One task physical like a magical creature, one mental – designed to test a champions ability to problem solve and one magical, aimed at both skill and power?."
"Typically, yes," Dora agreed. "That pattern's mostly held in all previously recorded tournaments. And with the Ministry involved, they'll want a show of power, not just intelligence."
Adharia nodded. "Right, something for spectacle. They'll want to draw in an audience."
"Alright, let's widen the scope," Dora said, straightening a little, shifting from friend to Auror. "First task is always designed for spectacle. Something physically dangerous. You were right before—it's probably magical creatures. That's always been a crowd-pleaser. Past tournaments have used dragons, Acromantula, sphinxes, manticore, even enchanted snakes. It won't be easy."
Adharia frowned, pacing slower now as she absorbed that. "So something with a clear threat… and either a puzzle, a defensive narrative or a retrieval element. If it's creatures, they'll need control spells in place. Barriers, maybe runic cages to contain whatever threats exist to anyone outside the tournament. Could I use that? Twist the structure to our advantage?"
"You tell me," Dora challenged gently.
"I read somewhere," Adharia began hesitantly, biting the inside of her cheek hesitantly as she considered, "that barrier charms anchored by runic magic can be disrupted—not broken, just… bent—if you reverse the stabilising frequency on the containment glyphs. But it would take time. Could I adapt that to work from a distance? Maybe key it to react to a specific spell signature? Or maybe develop something that Fleur can attach to herself that would interrupt the glyphs at her will?"
Dora blinked. "That's not just advanced, that's Ministry-level research. Where did you even read that?"
Adharia shrugged, cheeks pink. "There was a compendium in Professor Babbling's office. She let me borrow it when I translated a set of Egyptian cartouches for her last year. I wasn't supposed to copy anything… but I remembered a lot of it."
Of course she had.
Dora smiled, fond and fierce. "Alright, little witch. If anyone can make that work, it's you. But remember, this isn't just about Fleur."
That made Adharia freeze.
Because of course, it wasn't.
Dora softened her voice. "You're not required to compete. You're not magically bound to the tournament. The Goblet didn't use your true name. Legally, magically, Adharia Delacour is not a Champion."
Adharia looked down, fingers tightening around her wand.
"But," she said quietly, "The world thinks that Hermione Granger is. And if I back out, someone will notice. Questions will be asked. Too many eyes. If I don't show up, if I'm not seen competing, the entire illusion falls apart."
"Exactly," Dora said, reaching out to gently tug her out of her thoughts. "So the goal isn't to win. It's to blend in and stay out of as much danger as possible. Support Fleur. Keep your cover. Stay invisible unless you can't avoid it."
"I can do that," Adharia said after a beat. "But it means everything we plan has to protect both of us. Not just Fleur—not just the crowd—but me. My name. My truth. If someone figures it out, if he figures it out…"
Dora cut her off, voice low and steady. "That's not going to happen. Not if we plan this right. But just in case—we'll talk to your family. We'll tell my mum, too. Between Narcissa and Apolline plus my mum and your grandmothers, they'll have contingency plans in place before the first task even starts."
"But we won't build one ourselves?" Adharia asked, brows drawing together.
"No. Not right now," Dora said, shaking her head. "Because building a backup plan now means we're already imagining you being caught. And we can't afford to let that fear guide us. We focus on keeping you hidden. Safe. Quiet. And if it ever stops being safe—we call your family because that's what adults should do Adharia, they protect their children. It's their job to have a back-up plan for everything. Not yours. They'd be devastated if they thought you felt you couldn't rely on them to protect you. They can and I know they would do absolutely anything to keep you and your sisters safe."
Adharia took a deep breath, her body visibly easing as she sat down again beside Dora. "My mother told me," she said softly, "that all Veela children are taught—after I was taken—that if they were ever lost, if they were ever scared, they could apparate to the Veela ancestral ward point. That there would always be someone there who would help them until their parents came for them and that I should do the same."
Dora's heart clenched. She reached out and took Adharia's hand, anchoring her in the present.
"Do you need to see a picture or be taken to the ward point in advance?" Dora questioned softly, her hand never leaving Adharia's.
The younger witch shook her head. "Maman said that they spelled the ward point, it's magic senses the need in a Veela and will pull them there, even through the strongest wards. It was designed to ensure even the youngest of Veela could reach safety if ever endangered." Her voice low, mournful.
And Dora could tell without Adharia speaking the words that the younger witch was wishing desperately she had known about it, or had the ability to access the Veela magik in her veins when she was younger. It horrified the auror to even contemplate the dark places her soulmate had been in her life.
"Then that's where you go if everything falls apart," Dora said fiercely. "That's your last line of defence. And I'll make sure you get there, no matter what, even if I have to carry you through chaos and flames to do it."
Adharia gave a small, trembling laugh, squeezing her hand in return. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm your Auror," Dora replied with a wink. "It's in the job description."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the air between them full of unspoken things. Not fear, not exactly. But gravity. Understanding. And something deeper that lived in the quiet moments—safety. Trust.
Adharia broke it gently, her voice laced with reluctant amusement. "Okay, so. Subtle enchantments on Fleur's gear. Barrier manipulation theory. Potions disguised as biscuits. And avoid eye contact with anything that has more than four legs."
"Sound strategy," Dora agreed, grinning. "Add in a few panic buttons and a lot of luck, and I think we'll make it through this tournament."
Adharia sighed, letting her head fall onto Dora's shoulder. "I hope you never get tired of being my auror" she whispered and the older witches heart tugged painfully once more. The vulnerability in her soulmates voice, ringing painfully.
Dora smiled softly, her eyes watering as she pulled Adharia into a cuddle, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Never."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
~Amilie's POV~
~French Ministry of Magic, Wizengamot Chamber~
~Monday 15th of November 1995~
The chamber of the French Wizengamot was a marvel of magical architecture—its vaulted ceilings shimmered with enchantments, and the walls bore centuries of history etched into their stone. The entire room was lit with the brightest Bluebell flames many had ever seen, casting a serene yet intense glow that danced across the ancient stone. Amilie Delacour stood at the centre of the room, her presence commanding attention, and her tall, thin frame casting a striking silhouette against the flickering light. Beside her, her wife, Adharia Delacour, stood proudly; her very presence exuded a quiet strength, her lineage lending weight and suspense to the proceedings.
It wasn't often that Adharia attended a Wizengamot meeting. Her presence today signalled to all that this gathering was far from ordinary, filling the room with a palpable sense of anticipation.
"Esteemed members," Amilie began, her voice steady, "I must first apologise for the urgency and lack of detail in which I have summoned you all here today. It is my hope that I have not torn you away from anything of importance." She smiled apologetically as she spoke, that same fierce warmth she was known for radiating within her unusually stormy grey eyes. "We convene today under grave circumstances. I assure you it is, unfortunately, of utmost importance that we enlighten you as to all that we have been made privy to as of late."
Her warmth sobered as she continued. "Many of you will be aware that my youngest grandchild—Adharia Apolline Delacour—went missing almost fifteen years ago."
She paused, waiting patiently as the hall erupted in acknowledgements and whispered fury. Her family had been deeply affected by the disappearance of her granddaughter, but Amilie knew their closest friends and allies had also mourned. Little Adharia's disappearance had been a grave loss for all who knew her, and any mention of her until now had been kept well out of earshot of the Delacours out of respect and grief. To hear Amilie speak of their loss so openly was, of course, a shock to all, and she could only nod solemnly as all eyes returned to her once more.
"It has been confirmed that my granddaughter, Adharia, was abducted as an infant. Her identity stolen from her and concealed from the world through powerful glamour charms. Her very magic suppressed and bound."
"Forgive me, my lady, but you speak as if she has been located?" Gaspard Chevalier, a slim, kindly man, interrupted apologetically. His freckled face was a mixture of hope and wariness as he addressed her. Not that Amilie blamed him; he had always been a gentle soul, his family having an affinity for all things magical creatures.
"No forgiveness needed, Gaspard. We have been blessed with the return of our youngest. Though I am afraid circumstances demand that we keep this information within these walls, lest we put her in grave danger. She is why we convene today." Her voice was sincere, and none could doubt the earnestness of her words.
"As you are aware, my heirs left France at the beginning of September to participate in the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts School. It was in the first days there that they discovered their connection to a young witch—a witch who had evidently been through more hardship than any should ever know. Fleur and Gabrielle sought our immediate counsel, where it was discovered that our youngest grandchild had been placed in a Muggle orphanage, where she endured unspeakable hardships before receiving her letter to Hogwarts at the age of ten."
"Why must this be concealed, Amilie? Surely you would wish for the girl to be brought back under your house and guidance once more?" A plump, elderly woman questioned. Her expression was one of disbelief and outrage as she leaned forward in her seat, peering over the top of her silver-framed spectacles.
Amilie scowled, opening her mouth to retort in kind to Lady Rosalinde D'Aubigne. The woman had once been a formidable headmistress before Olympe had taken over, and in many ways, she was still extremely influential and had always been an ally of House Delacour. However, her inability to filter and aptitude for jumping to conclusions had often rubbed Amilie the wrong way.
Before she could respond, Adharia, who had been quietly observing until now, placed a restraining hand on Amilie's arm, silencing her as the Veela matriarch turned indignant eyes on her wife. Eyes that softened as soon as she saw the patient understanding that shone back at her. Amilie nodded, taking her wife's hand in her own and taking a deep breath.
Rosalinde hadn't meant offence, and as it was, they couldn't afford to spark one of their legendary verbal sparring matches right now.
"We wish for nothing more, Lady D'Aubigne," Adharia replied diplomatically. "However, our dear grandchild is still under the care of the very man that stole her. To publicly claim her would only ensure that he turns his ire onto her, and at fourteen, I'm sure you agree that she is still far too young to be forced to defend herself against an outright attack by a man more than eight times her age, no? Especially when all we have right now is our word to back the accusation, no tangible proof so to speak."
Rosalinde gasped. "Oh, Amilie, forgive me," she declared, her eyes widening in shock at the very idea of a child being placed in harm's way. For all her bluster, everyone knew Rosalinde D'Aubigne would die before she saw harm come to a child.
"Who, Amilie? Who dares abduct the heir to multiple houses, a scion of not only yours but mine?" Sylvain Lestrange, the elderly great-uncle of Amilie's mate, demanded. His head raised in outrage, and his face, well-trimmed of course, set fiercely as he watched her with narrowed eyes.
"That, dear Uncle, is the million Galleon question," Adharia replied smoothly, though her voice carried an edge that betrayed the storm beneath her calm. She offered Sylvain a tight-lipped smile, the sort that didn't quite reach her eyes. Despite the enormity of what she was about to reveal, there was still something deeply grounding in speaking to him directly.
For all that she had become—a formidable force in her own right, a leader in the shadows, and mate to the High Lady of all Veela worldwide—Adharia would always hold deep affection and deference for Sylvain Lestrange. The man was a relic of their golden age, a paragon of old-world nobility and unyielding honour. Fierce, yes. Intimidating, unquestionably. But always just. He had ruled their house for the better part of a century with grace, wisdom, and the rare ability to inspire respect even among those who disagreed with him.
To see him now—his knuckles white against the carved wood of his seat, his eyes flashing with wrath barely restrained—filled her with an old, gnawing anxiety. Sylvain Lestrange did not anger easily, and when he did, the consequences had historically been… formidable.
Amilie felt it too. Without a word, she wrapped a reassuring arm around her wife's waist, fingers pressing gently into her side. The gesture was both grounding and protective, a silent signal of unity and strength. Adharia inhaled slowly, allowed herself one precious heartbeat of comfort, and pressed on.
"The man responsible, Uncle—the one who dared to steal our grandchild, to bind her very magic and raise her in obscurity and squalor—is none other than Albus Dumbledore himself." The reaction was instant. The name fell like a thunderclap throughout the chamber.
A collective, horrified gasp reverberated through the Wizengamot chamber, followed almost immediately by a cacophony of outrage. Voices clashed like blades, overlapping in fury and disbelief, echoing from the enchanted stone as if the very walls were screaming alongside them.
Sylvain surged to his feet, the crimson velvet of his robes rustling like the unfurling of a battle flag. His expression was carved in granite, his normally ruddy complexion now pale with cold fury.
"To think," he thundered, his voice booming over the clamour, "that our sacred bloodline—descendants of the very first Mage, protectors of old magic—was so brazenly defiled by that man." He spat the last two words like poison. "Albus Dumbledore, who dared parade himself as a friend to our House. This—" he swept a hand toward Amilie and Adharia, and then the rest of the chamber, "—is an affront to every pure-blooded family on this continent, and beyond."
A hush began to settle as his fury punctuated the air like a tolling bell. The weight of his accusation, of his betrayal, stilled the room.
From her seat on the left dais, Victoire Rousseau stood, her movements sharp and precise, her finely tailored robes as flawless as the logic she had spent her life mastering. Petite in stature but commanding in presence, she adjusted her spectacles with trembling fingers, her disbelief unmistakable even behind her carefully composed expression.
Her voice rang clear—high-pitched, clipped, and trembling with controlled outrage.
"Such actions, if truly proven, are not merely cruel—they are catastrophic violations of magical law, Amilie. Not only here in France, but under the full jurisdiction of British magical legislation as well." She took a breath, visibly rattled. "This is no longer a private family matter. This constitutes the highest order of treachery against our world."
Murmurs of agreement and unrest spread like wildfire.
Adharia and Amilie remained silent for a moment, letting the shock sink in. Their expressions remained composed, but the storm in their eyes had darkened. For the first time since entering the chamber, they looked not just like grieving grandparents—or the poised political leaders.
They did not merely look like warriors.
They looked like justice incarnate — ancient, vengeful, and divine. Women forged in fire and grief, shaped by centuries of legacy and the blood of a stolen child. They did not come to speak.
They had come to wage war.
When Amilie Delacour finally spoke, her voice was low and deliberate, each word carved with care and laced with steel. And yet, beneath the calm cadence, there was something else—an unmistakable resonance, as if her voice echoed with the cries of a thousand Veela mothers who had lost what could never be replaced.
"I agree, of course," she said, her eyes sweeping across the room, holding the gaze of each representative in turn. "But our next steps must be measured. Precise. Each strike we make must land like a blade to the heart—fatal and irrefutable. We cannot act on rage alone. Not when our enemy is as cunning as he is cruel. We must be certain. We must have proof so ironclad that he cannot twist free, cannot spin another lie to mask his sins."
She paused, letting the silence wrap around them like a second skin before continuing.
"That, my friends, is why we have called upon you." Her voice strengthened now, rising with purpose. "The leaders of the Old Families. The guardians of our legacy. We do not ask you merely to be angry. We ask you to join us. Not only in stripping Albus Dumbledore of his unearned prestige—but in building a case so damning it will bind him with the very laws he's spent a lifetime bending."
A hush fell over the chamber once more—not of disbelief, but of dawning realization.
From the third tier, Alaric Bellamy rose. A man of contradictions—plump and charming, with a penchant for diplomacy and a long-standing, if misguided, admiration for British magical innovation. But now his pleasant face was drawn, his expression grave as his intelligent eyes searched Amilie's.
"You are calling us to arms, Lady Delacour?" he asked, his voice wary but clear. "Formally?"
Amilie gave him a faint, pained smile. Her next words were heavy with sorrow and necessity.
"I'm afraid so, Monsieur Bellamy." She inclined her head respectfully. "If there were another path—any other—I would take it. But Albus Dumbledore holds half of Britain in his palm, and the other half cowers beneath his shadow. To rise without the full backing of our noble homeland would place my heirs, and our cause, in mortal peril. I will not risk them. Not again."
Her wand slipped into her hand with a flick so subtle, so graceful, it seemed almost ceremonial.
Then she straightened fully, standing tall at the heart of the chamber—a vision of power, legacy, and maternal wrath wrapped in silk and magic.
"On this day, Monday the fifteenth of November, in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-five, I, Amilie Delacour—High Woman of the French Magical Court, Matriarch of the Delacour Family, and Chosen Leader of the Veela People—formally call upon the Houses of Old to rise. To rise not in vengeance alone, but in pursuit of justice. To join me in exposing the grievous wrongs committed by Albus Dumbledore. To bind your wands not to me, but to the integrity of our laws and the protection of our children. Let us unite, as we once did, in the ancient ways decreed by Lady Magik herself."
Her voice thundered through the stone chamber, rich with Magik so old, so pure, it left the air vibrating with raw energy. Veela fire sparked behind her words, wrapping around her in flickers of silver flame, not dangerous, but divine.
And the response was immediate.
It had been centuries since the Old Ways were invoked. Centuries since the Houses had answered such a summons. But the truth behind her call—the gravity of what had been done—demanded action. Each representative felt it in their core: the awakening of ancient bloodlines, the stirring of ancestral power that had lain dormant for generations.
One by one, they stood. Some slowly, reverently. Others with fire in their eyes. Each wand was raised in silent pledge, then crossed over their hearts in the age-old sign of allegiance. It was not a declaration of war for war's sake. It was a promise—to uphold truth, to avenge the innocent, to remember who they were.
Then came the first voice.
"I dare say, Lady Delacour," the speaker said, his voice ringing like a bell through the chamber, "your call to arms has been heard. And answered. Lady Magik walks with you, and so shall we."
"You have our backing." Another voice, firm and resolute.
"And ours." A third, louder now, echoed by murmurs of agreement and scattered applause.
Then, solemnly, with conviction burning in his tone, Selwyn Lestrange stepped forward. "House Lestrange pledges its support. Our wands, our wisdom, our wrath—yours."
"House D'Aubigné joins you," declared Rosalinde, her sharp features proud and aflame with purpose. "In justice, and in blood."
And so it went, House after House, rising from the shadows of their silence, casting their allegiance like stones into still water, creating ripples that would soon become waves. Waves that would crash upon the shores of Britain and swallow the lies that had poisoned it.
Amilie could only stand there, her chest tight, her heart full. Her hand found Adharia's—her wife, her strength—and they stood united as the tide of support rose around them.
She had known they were respected.
She had known they had allies.
But she had not expected this. This overwhelming show of loyalty. This rising chorus of outrage and love—not just for her, but for her grandchild. For their little Adharia.
And for the first time in many years, Amilie Delacour allowed herself to hope—not cautiously, not guardedly, but fully. Because now she knew:
They would not fight alone.
Adharia had remained quiet until now, letting her wife speak for them both as she called them to arms, letting the fire and storm of justice brew around her. But as the final voices died down, as the ancient chamber stood unified in silence and power, she stepped forward—radiant, regal, and resolute.
The air shifted. Eyes turned. Even the Veela magik curling around the chamber paused to listen.
She did not raise her wand.
She didn't need to.
"To each of you who stand with us," Adharia began, her voice clear and rich with a lifetime of pain, strength, and dignity, "know that your support does not merely protect a child or a family. It protects every child who has been silenced. Every family torn apart by deception. Every truth buried by a man who has lived too long in the light while moving only through shadow."
She let the words hang, watching the impact settle on the faces before her.
"My youngest grandchild was stolen," she continued, her voice softer now, but every word landed like thunder, "A newborn, her name taken, her magik bound, her soul bent to another man's will. Her spirit broken by cruelty. My family shattered. Her life twisted into a lie. But no more."
A hush swept the room.
"Because of you—because of this—my grandchild has a future. And so, for them, and for every child to come, we must be methodical. We must be precise. The world must see the truth for what it is. And so I ask… who among us will begin?"
A moment passed.
Then a voice rose from the third row. A thin, wiry man with sharp features and a twinkle of cunning in his eyes stepped forward and gave a small bow. Thierry Voclain, editor-in-chief of Le Prophète Français.
"My pen is at your service, Lady Delacour." His voice was crisp, his French accent clipped with precision. "I will begin publishing a series—'The Truth About Dumbledore.' We will unmask the man behind the myth. Paint him not with fiction, but with fact. Bit by bit, we'll unravel the tapestry he's woven. And when we are through, there will be nothing left to admire."
Adharia inclined her head gratefully. "Merci, Monsieur Voclain."
From the shadows near the northern arch, a tall, broad-shouldered man with storm-grey hair stepped forward. Mathieu Rousseau, a seasoned investigator for the French Magical Forensics Bureau. "I will investigate the rumours that surround his father," he said gruffly. "Percival Dumbledore. The muggle attacks, the trial, the secrets the British Ministry buried out of convenience or fear. If there's corruption in that story—and there always is—I will find it."
A woman with copper-coloured curls and sharp hazel eyes stepped forward next, her robes lined with emerald silk. Celeste Bellamy, a senior historian and archivist from Beauxbatons. "I'll take on his youth," she said. "Albus. Gellert. Ariana. The explosion. The coverup. The questions no one dares to ask—what really happened in Godric's Hollow that night? Who benefited from the silence?"
Another voice—Rosalinde D'Aubigné, her gold-trimmed wand gleaming. "And I will look into the matter of Sirius Black and Bellatrix Malfoy. If what you suspect is true, Lady Delacour, then this conspiracy runs deeper than we imagined. I will unearth the truth, no matter what shadows it hides in. The great thing about getting to my age is one acquires a great many resources to call upon in times such as these."
"I want Hogwarts," said a younger witch boldly from the outer ring. Léonie Martel, correspondent for La Lumière Sorcière, France's most-read magical column. Her voice burned with outrage. "The sheer lack of care. The dangerous situations that have befallen the school. The silencing of students. There is a pattern of manipulation, and I want to shine a spotlight on it. I will go to Hogwarts as a special correspondent—under the guise of reporting on the Triwizard Tournament. I'll ensure the truth is what gets reported, not the narrative Albus spins."
A murmur of approval swept through the hall.
Amilie gave her wife a sidelong look, pride shining in her eyes. And then she turned back to the room, her voice rich with the gravity of command.
"So it begins, then." Her voice was low, reverent. "This will not be swift, and it will not be without sacrifice. But we are not afraid of long wars. We are the daughters of fire and moonlight, the sons of legacy and blood. And for the sake of our children we will not falter."
Adharia nodded once. "Begin your work. Share only what is proven, follow every whisper, and do not let fear deter you. We are no longer alone—and neither is my granddaughter."
As the council began to break into murmurs of strategy and movement, the two matriarchs stood shoulder to shoulder, twin pillars of flame and ice, love and fury. Around them, alliances reformed like tectonic plates, slow but irreversible.
And above them, high in the enchanted ceiling of the council hall, unnoticed by all, Lady Magik's symbol glowed faintly—an ancient sign of accord. A promise that justice, though long delayed, would not be denied.
Not anymore.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
~Adharia's POV ~
~Monday 22nd November 1995~
~Room of Requirement~
Adharia exhaled slowly, muscles thrumming with fatigue as she leaned against the cool stone wall, the faint shimmer of fading wards still clinging to her fingertips. Her limbs ached from the gruelling session Andromeda had just put them through—rapid-fire shield rotations, layered reflex enchantments, disillusionment counters, and combat hex redirection. Her robes clung to her back, damp with sweat, and her glamoured curls stuck to her forehead in wild, chaotic angles. Her heart still pounded hard in her chest, as if it hadn't quite accepted that the fight was over.
But it was a good ache. The kind that whispered of progress and resilience. A sign she was no longer the girl who flinched when someone raised their wand too fast. Because now she knew she'd be faster.
Beside her, Fleur and Gabrielle were in similar states of elegant dishevelment—robes askew, cheeks flushed, hair undone from their usual meticulous styling. Gabrielle giggled as Fleur tried to tame the flyaway strands of her braid, only for the younger Delacour to swat her sister's hand away, laughing louder. The sound was infectious—light and free in a way that made something in Adharia's chest loosen.
Andromeda had left not long ago, issuing strict instructions to rest, relax, and not even think about spell work until the next morning. The duel they'd just finished—Adharia, Fleur, and Gabrielle against Andromeda and Dora—had pushed them to the edge of exhaustion. The older witches had been relentless, forcing every inch of precision and instinct from the three younger women.
Still, they'd held their own. Two hours of fast-paced, brutal combat, filled with feints, counter-charms, and high-level transfigurations. And they'd lasted. Matched them. And in some moments—Adharia was certain—they'd even led the duel.
Andromeda hadn't said it aloud, but the soft pride in her eyes had been unmistakable.
That pride had only been dimmed by her resignation. She knew they wouldn't rest. Not really. Not with the Tournament looming and the weight of expectation pressing on their shoulders like storm clouds. Not when every day felt like a countdown.
She was right, of course. They wouldn't rest.
The Room of Requirement, sensitive to their emotions and unspoken needs, had already shifted into something more fitting—transforming from a battered duelling arena into a haven of warmth and quiet companionship. The scuffed floors had become thick rugs. A low fire danced in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows along the curved stone walls. Oversized beanbags, plush and welcoming, were scattered in a loose circle. A table had materialized between them, laden with sandwiches and a chilled jug of pumpkin juice, the smell of cinnamon and clove curling into the air.
And amidst it all, Dora remained.
Adharia watched her soulmate with quiet appreciation - the woman who had quickly become her biggest confidant in such a short period time. The Auror had been stationed at Hogwarts for weeks now, part of the Tournament security detail, but they'd barely seen each other. Their stolen moments were brief—glances across corridors, quiet whispers during training. Her role required visibility and professionalism, and Adharia understood. Dora had worked hard to become what she was. She wouldn't ask her to jeopardize it.
Still, it meant something that she was here now, choosing this room and this silence over duty or sleep.
They didn't speak as they settled into the beanbags, Adharia instinctively taking the centre cushion. Fleur sat on her right, Gabrielle on her left, each claiming a space beside her like they always did now—like they'd been doing since the moment they found each other again. Dora, as ever, took the seat closest to the door, her posture loose but alert, protective instinct burning even when she was off-duty.
They reached for food without much thought, nibbling quietly, sipping juice, letting the silence wrap around them like a blanket.
It was peaceful.
Rare.
And Dora didn't want to break it.
But she had to.
Her voice, when it came, was soft—almost hesitant.
"I know I shouldn't ruin the mood," she began, rubbing the back of her neck with a sheepish expression. "But… I overheard something earlier. Something important."
Three sets of eyes turned toward her.
Adharia sat up straighter, alert.
Dora exhaled. "The First Task. I wasn't meant to hear it, obviously, but Bagman doesn't understand the concept of a locked door. Or a silencing charm. He was speaking with Karkaroff. It's Dragons."
Gabrielle made a small, breathy sound that could only be described as delighted.
Fleur's smile turned sharp, like the curve of a drawn bowstring. "Enfin."
Adharia blinked. Her voice hesitant. "Wait—dragons?"
Fleur leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "Oh yes. That explains the magic I've been sensing around the northern grounds. Fire suppression charms. Containment enchantments. I knew it was something large."
Gabrielle was nearly bouncing in her seat. "We grew up around dragons," she said brightly. "The Bulgarian Sanctuary. Our family's always had ties there—Grand-Mère Amilie brokered their first treaty with the International Confederation of Wizards."
"They trusted her, the dragons I mean." Fleur added, pride woven into her voice. "Because she was Veela. Dragons… they remember old things. Ancient magic. And Veela were among the first magical peoples to ever bond with them."
Adharia tilted her head. "I've never heard of that before."
"It's not widely taught," Gabrielle chimed in. "Too wild. Too primal for the structured education most magical institutions prefer, plus after the creature wars in the 1700s, Veela people became rather selective about who learns our secrets. But our people—Veela—we come from fire. Some of our ancestors lived in the volcanic highlands, where dragons roamed freely. We didn't tame them. We didn't want to. We respected them. Sang to them. Danced with them."
Fleur took over, her voice reverent. "There are old stories—thousands of years old—of Veela nesting alongside dragons. Not in cages or pits, but in kinship. Both creatures of magic. Both territorial, fiercely loyal, and feared by men. We share something deep in our core—heat, wildness, instinct. The dragons recognized it. Still do, if you know how to approach them."
Gabrielle nodded quickly. "They don't bow to power. They don't care how skilled your wand work is. They respond to presence. To fire."
Adharia frowned, considering. "So it's not about defeating them. It's about being seen."
"Exactly," Fleur said. "You have to meet their eyes. Stand your ground. You don't fight. You exist. You burn. And if they deem you worthy, they'll allow you near."
Dora finally spoke again, her tone drier. "That's… poetic. But let's not forget, they're still massive, fire-breathing apex predators. The Tournament committee isn't going to let you waltz in and hum lullabies to them."
Fleur gave her a look. "We're not stupid."
"I didn't say you were." Dora raised a hand apologetically, her eyes shining with concern. "Just… let's keep it within the boundaries of 'legal' and 'not likely to get you disqualified or singed to death,' alright?"
Adharia cracked a small smile, but her mind was already racing.
"I've been working on a thermal dispersal enchantment," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Nothing overt, just a heat-reflective filament woven into the robe lining. And the gloves—if I layer them with flexible shielding runes, I might be able to grip something hot without setting off the ward detection."
Dora leaned forward. "Run it by me before you stitch anything into your uniform. The judges are going to be looking for any enchantments outside standard regulation. If they catch you—even if it's not aggressive—they could call foul."
Adharia nodded, gaze focused. "I'll keep it subtle."
Fleur smiled, slow and fierce. "Good. Because if they're giving us dragons, then I say we show them exactly who they've invited into their arena."
Gabrielle raised her glass of pumpkin juice in salute. "To fire."
Adharia met her gaze, and her sisters' warmth filled her like a second heart.
"To fire," she echoed.
Fleur's smile lingered, slow and knowing, as she leaned back into her beanbag, watching the flickering firelight dance across Adharia's thoughtful face.
"You know," she said softly, "if Dora is right and dragons are involved, you have a chance to do more than survive. You have a chance to reach them. But not like a witch. Not like a student."
Adharia glanced at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Fleur said, her voice warm but firm, "you must stop treating and thinking about your Veela magic as something separate to you. A weapon to wield only when forced."
Gabrielle nodded, her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. "They'll sense it. Your fire. Even if you hide it from others, dragons will know. They're old magic. Not fooled by glamours or suppression charms. But if you meet them as a Veela… even partially… you'll have something no one else in that arena can match."
Adharia swallowed hard. "But if I draw on my Veela too much — won't people notice? It's supposed to be a secret. I'm supposed to be a secret."
"Not if you're clever," Fleur said smoothly. "You don't have to transform. Not fully. Your Veela isn't a switch you flip — You are the Veela, it's a current beneath your skin. You only need to let a little of it rise. Let it colour your magic. Let it burn beneath your gaze."
"Enough for the dragons to feel it," Gabrielle added, her eyes bright with mischief and pride. "But not enough for the humans to name it."
Dora tilted her head. "Can she do that? I mean, I've seen what happens when you transform—it's not exactly subtle."
Fleur smiled. "That's why she should ask Grand-Mère Amilie to help."
At that, Adharia blinked. "Grand-Mère?"
Fleur nodded. "She's one of the oldest living Veela in our line. She taught Maman how to access her fire without losing control. Grand-mere can show you how to walk the edge—how to coax the Veela forward without tipping into transformation."
"She taught me," Gabrielle said proudly. "It was terrifying at first — when my Veela began waking, my magic used to flare out in every direction. But Grand-Mère taught me to shape it. Like sculpting heat with your breath. Enough so that I can control my reaction much better, she said it'll be helpful when I go through my ascension."
"Exactly," Fleur said. "And if you can shape it, Adharia, you can carry it into the arena. The dragons will see it. Feel it. You'll be one of them."
For a long moment, Adharia didn't respond, her eyes fixed on the fire. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"I'll ask her," she said, voice quiet but sure. "If I can meet them like that—on their terms—it might change everything."
Dora watched her for a beat, then straightened, posture shifting from relaxed to alert. "Alright. Let's talk about the rest of your plan. You mentioned enchantments before. What exactly are you thinking?"
Adharia's expression sharpened, slipping into the cool, focused calm that always came over her when she talked about spell work.
"I've designed three core layers," she began, fingers tapping rhythmically against her knee as she spoke. "First is a thermal dispersal weave. I'll embed the pattern into the inner lining of Fleur and I's robes—specifically around the arms, chest, and back. It's based on a modified Caloris Deflecto matrix, but I'll adjust the runic sequence to redirect heat outward in a spiral pattern instead of deflecting it straight back. That way it will significantly reduce the risk of blowback in a confined space."
Dora gave a low whistle. "That's… ambitious. Spiral dispersal could work, but only if your control is precise. What's anchoring it?"
"I can layer a grounding rune at the base of the spine," Adharia replied. "A dual-inscribed Stabilitas rune—one etched for static enchantment, the other for reactive responsiveness. It will anchor the dispersal spell to our body's core temperature, that way it will adjust in real time."
"Alright, I'll bite," Dora said, clearly impressed. "What about you and Fleur's hands? You said something about gloves when we spoke last week?"
Adharia nodded. "Moleskin gloves, enchanted with flexible shield matrices. Instead of a single Protego layer, I can use overlapping Resilio wards—three in total. They'll be tuned to kinetic force, thermal intensity, and corrosive substance, respectively."
Gabrielle looked awestruck. "That's brilliant."
Fleur raised an eyebrow. "It's also very… experimental."
Adharia gave a small, rueful smile. "I know. But standard shielding wards are too stiff. They'll crack under sustained exposure. I needed something that moves with us without sacrificing the integrity of the protection it offers."
Dora leaned forward. "What about concealment? Anything that might trigger the ward sweep?"
"I can use weft-weaving," Adharia said. "The enchantments are woven into the structure of the fabric. Not added on top. It's nearly undetectable unless someone specifically knows what they're looking for."
"That's Auror-level work," Dora said softly, her gaze full of admiration.
Adharia shrugged one shoulder, but her cheeks flushed slightly. "I just… I needed to be sure. I didn't want to rely only on brute strength. Especially not when we know the task is designed to test instinct under pressure and adaptability not just sheer skill or force. Besides Dangerous or not Dragons are beings, if I can do something that will protect us and them, I will. I don't like the idea of fighting dragons."
"You've always had good instincts," Dora said, and her voice was gentler now. "But now you've got the power and knowledge to back them up."
Fleur reached out and curled an arm around Adharia's shoulders, pulling her close. "And soon you'll have more. Once Grand-Mère shows you how to feel your fire—how to command it without letting it consume you—you'll be unstoppable."
Gabrielle leaned in too, her head resting against Adharia's opposite shoulder. "They're going to feel you walk into that arena. Every beast in that enclosure will know you're kin."
Adharia exhaled slowly, her eyes drifting back to the fire. She didn't know what lay ahead—what kind of dragon she'd be facing, or what the crowd might see when her magic rose.
But with her sisters beside her, with Dora watching her like she was made of starlight, and with the ancient fire of her blood rising to meet her…
She felt ready.
Or, at the very least—as ready as she could be.