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Chapter Text

01

Lord Voldemort

“An omnipotent wish-granting device（the Holy Grail）*, you say...”
The Dark Lord lounged in the chair at the head of the table, his long, pale fingers, thin as spider legs, idly toying with an ancient book.

“Precisely.” A hooded figure spoke from within the shadows. Swathed head to toe with not a seam left showing, he would have been indistinguishable from the darkness itself if not for his voice.

The Dark Lord said nothing, riffling the pages at hand, his face betraying nothing.

The silence pressed like a volcano about to erupt, smothering every breath. Among the Death Eaters present, some began to shift uneasily; cold sweat soaked their robes.

At last, the Dark Lord raised his head and flicked a hand. “Leave us.”

As if granted pardon, the Death Eaters filed out in haste. Severus Snape, the last to step through the door, cast a long look back into the hall and shut the door behind him.

When the sounds outside had faded, the Dark Lord turned to the black-clad man again. “And you tell me this because…?”

“Because we are convinced that you, Dark Lord, are the rightful victor of the war that has yet to come. But the road of fate is merciless; there are too many variables even someone as mighty as you cannot always command… We hope that the victory of such a smaller conflict may secure and glorify your radiant, eternal triumph.” The man’s tone was humble without servility.

“The omnipotent wish-granting device… Perhaps you do not know me very well. Lord Voldemort has found that placing one’s desires upon anything outside oneself is… unreliable. Your goodwill is received by the Dark Lord, but I’m afraid the answer is… no.”

“Ah, forgive my negligence. In truth, the Grail’s role is not limited to a wish-granting vessel; or rather, that is only the pretext to draw participants into a Holy Grail War. Beyond what this volume records, my family holds another tradition, namely, that the system of the Holy Grail War was constructed to realize the Third Magic.”

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes, indicating for him to continue.

“Within the rules of the Grail, the power called the Third Magic is the materialisation of the soul--true, complete immortality, wrought by Magic/miracle.”

“Oh?” The Dark Lord tilted his head, interest evidently piqued.

Severus Snape

“Master, you summoned me?” Snape obediently half-knelt beside Voldemort’s chair.

“Ah, Severus.” Voldemort ceased drumming the cover of the book. “I want you to take this back and study it closely. Verify its credibility.”

“Forgive my impertinence, but… do you truly believe the man’s words? He wouldn’t even show his face.”

“I admit I had my reservations. But what they offered is tempting enough. Which is why you--my loyal friend--are so very important.” Voldemort gave an airy wave of his hand, his voice soft. “Naturally, I shall make my own inquiries. Since this war is bound to unfold as time turns, if it proves sound, it will do us no harm to take part.”

Something else to make this monster stronger?

“Yes, my Lord.” Snape tamped down the faint surge of panic in his chest and kept his face impassive.

He picked up the ancient volume, more precisely, a copy of it, and deliberately affected a moment’s hesitation.

“My Lord, regarding this… Holy Grail War--when reporting to the Order of the Phoenix, am I to inform Dumbledore’s side?”

“What do you think, Severus?” Voldemort smiled without a trace of kindness.

“Your judgement is correct,” Dumbledore said as he leafed through the book. “Tom’s arrogance…”

“So this so-called Holy Grail War, do you think it’s real?”

“Hard to say…” Dumbledore raised his hand to forestall Snape’s immediate protest. “My young friend, you know as well as I how fragmentary and unreliable the records of our world are. Even if a Holy Grail War did truly take place six centuries ago, there would be no way for us to know.”

“So you think it is real?”

“I’m inclined to give it the benefit of doubt, until we can thoroughly disprove it.” Dumbledore paused. “I take it this means Tom intends to join the contest?”

Snape nodded. “He seemed intrigued. But after the meeting, they were alone for a time. I don’t know what was said.”

“No matter. You’ve done all you could.”

“Are you going to participate as well?” Snape’s tone sharpened.

Following Snape’s gaze, Dumbledore looked at his blackened hand. Catching the veiled concern, he smiled. “With such a good battlefield laid before us, I fear we’ve little choice. Whether the power of a ‘omnipotent wish-granting device/Holy Grail’ is true or not, we cannot let it fall into Voldemort’s hands. I think we must urgently call a gathering of our friends.”

Harry Potter

“According to the book, to take part in a Holy Grail War we need a magic-infused liquid to draw the summoning array, and then a specific incantation to call forth…” Hermione stopped reading. “Harry, are you all right?”

Harry scratched at the back of his right hand, irritable. It had been itching these past two days. “I’m fine.”

“Is that old toad’s scar still not healed?” Ron asked, disgruntled.

“Maybe.” Harry shot an impatient glance at the “I must not tell lies” carved there. “Go on, Hermione.”

“Hang on,” Ron cut in before Hermione could start again. “So you’re sure you’re going to enter? This ‘Holy Grail War’?”

“That’s what Dumbledore plans. He believes the Prophecy may be fulfilled within this war, and my joining will inevitably draw Voldemort’s fire and make his actions more predictable. Besides, if I don’t… they won’t have the manpower to protect me.” On that last sentence Harry grimaced as if he’d swallowed something foul. He didn’t like the notion of needing to be closely guarded. Not one bit.

“I agree. The book says that heroes whose great deeds remained as legends after death, who become objects of faith, go to the Throne of Heroes beyond the World, and become Heroic Spirits. The Grail… will summon these powerful spirits as Servants, and the summoner becomes their Master. What could be more reliable as protection?”

“Doesn’t it say there are seven participants? If we could take six of the slots…” Ron began to daydream.

“There are seven Masters, each with a Servant of a different Class--Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, and Berserker. But I doubt we’ll be that lucky, will we, Harry?” Hermione, the authority on all things bookish, corrected Ron as she went.

“Dumbledore does want more people involved. It’s just…” Harry pulled a face.

“…Wait, it’s not what I’m thinking, is it?” Ron’s smile died as if he’d swallowed a fly.

Harry nodded, looking cross. “They picked Snape as the top candidate aside from me.”

“Dumbledore isn’t going in himself?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. “He seems to be having some trouble with his health.”

Hermione nodded knowingly, thinking of Dumbledore’s hand.

“They’re gathering the materials for the summoning now, especially, er--what was it called? Relics…”

“Catalysts. Items connected to the Heroic Spirit in life. They help a Master call forth a more specific Servant--in a sense, a stronger Servant of the summoner’s choosing. That’s what the book says,” Hermione put in brightly.

“That’s the one. They’re also negotiating with the Ministry, since it’s obvious the Holy Grail War won’t leave the outside world untouched. That’s what they told me.”

“Can’t wait to see what they’ve found for you! I’m sure it’ll be some monstrously powerful famous bloke!” Ron grew excited again, mentally listing the few historical figures he could remember.

Hermione smiled, shook her head, and went back to reading.

Merlin

An old man with hair and beard white as snow jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

The Sidhe king fluttered his wings lazily and yawned, bored. “Awake at last, are you? I never knew you still needed sleep, Emrys.”

“Nor did I.” The old man sounded dazed, not yet free of the dream’s grip. “I dreamed… I dreamed…”

“Mhm. Do tell me your dreary dreams, seeing as your life has nothing else worth speaking of.”

“I think it was a sign.” He ignored the jab and pressed on.

“But you’re no Seer*.”

“True. My visions tend to be of things that are happening, or about to happen at once.” He fell into thought. “Arthur is no longer here, in Avalon. Do you think this could be…?” He lifted his head sharply, seeking his friend’s counsel.

The Sidhe king shrugged. “Who knows? Go and take a look yourself. Go to the Crystal Cave/the source of magic.”

Emboldened, the old man rose at once and moved to leave.

With each step, his appearance grew younger, settling at last into that of a tall, lean youth.

“Merlin.” Just as he was about to pass through the curtain of light, the Sidhe king called after him.

“This side of the world was dying, has been.” He paused meaningfully. “You feel it too, don’t you? Perhaps the oldest prophecy is at last to come to pass.”

“Forget not--you are son of the earth, the sea, the sky.”

The youth looked back long and deep at his friend, then nodded gravely.

The birthplace of magic/the Crystal Cave was as pure and hallowed as it had been a millennium ago, but the visions within the crystals were filled with the darkness of smoke, flame, and blood.

Unlike Camlann, this was true ruin--the destruction of the world --no, more than that, the absolute collapse of humankind across the whole cosmos, past to future.

The youth’s lips trembled. With a wave he brushed the visions away. It was exactly the same as in his dream.

He was no Seer. If he had indeed been granted the gift of clairvoyance, then it looked not to the future, but this…

He felt the crystals thrill with joy at recognising one of their own. At the same time, there was a tugging, a faint sensation, as if they were trying to tell him something.

They wanted him to act. They were speaking to him, to nature’s and magic’s most beloved child, of their wish. They spoke, but the communion was too indirect; he could not read their meaning.

So he turned to the crystals* again. Perhaps more fragments would help him understand the earth’s intent.

Lord Voldemort

A roar reverberated in the empty cavern. Beneath the water, the Inferi grew agitated in response to his fury.

At last, he calmed.

The false locket had warped under the onslaught of rage. He tossed it into the water, provoking another stir among the Inferi.

Then he turned and left.

Severus Snape

“My Lord.”

Voldemort lifted his head from his thoughts. “Ah, Severus. Come, stand at my side.”

Snape obediently approached and noticed what Voldemort’s fingers were caressing: a nondescript splinter of wood.

Catching his gaze, Voldemort set the fragment on the table and laced his long fingers together.

“I take it the Order of the Phoenix has begun searching for catalysts.”

“They have. Dumbledore hopes to secure the strongest Servant for Potter.”

Voldemort gave a soft, derisive laugh. “As expected. As if a single Servant’s strength could interpose itself against a predetermined fate. Now, Lord Voldemort has summoned you for something else…”

“Concerning a catalyst, my Lord? Forgive me.” Snape ventured.

Voldemort merely raised a hand to forestall him. “I assume Dumbledore has not yet found a catalyst for your summoning.”

Finding his answer on Snape’s face, Voldemort nudged the wood forward and continued, “This is a fragment from the deck of Skíðblaðnir.*”

“The divine ship.” Snape sucked in a breath. If Voldemort were to gain support from a deity…

“So you know what it is.” Voldemort nodded, satisfied. “I want you to use this as your catalyst--”

Snape looked up in disbelief, but Voldemort cut him off again.

“In exchange, I believe Dumbledore… holds something that belongs to me.” Voldemort all but hissed the words through his teeth.

He knows.

Snape smothered the tremor in his heart and arranged bewilderment and fear on his face.

“He told you… He did not… No matter.” Voldemort watched him with interest. “In return, I want you to ask him for a ring, under the pretext of needing a catalyst.”

In an instant Snape thought of a black-stoned ring, and a charred hand.

“Ah. You’ve seen it.”

Damn!

Snape cursed his momentary slip.

“Good. Then go. The Dark Lord would have you make haste… he has little patience in this matter.”

“It seems the Holy Grail War has indeed disrupted many of our plans. But don’t worry, my friend; it has also brought us new opportunities.”

Snape paced Dumbledore’s office, still unconvinced.

Dumbledore soothed him amiably. “Do not fret. I doubt Tom truly suspects you. He’s merely negotiating with me, through you.”

“So we really are to return the ring? If its power should ultimately aid him--”

“Relax, Severus. The ring cannot truly summon Death. It may not even have the connection to Death that rumour grants it. Voldemort doesn’t want it to summon a powerful Servant. No. As usual, his arrogance forbids him to rely on external power. I suspect his demand for the ring is due to similar reasons for his collecting the Founders’ legacies--an obsession with his own lineage. By contrast, this deck-plank…”

“It’s genuine?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I did sense ancient magic within it. It seems Tom’s travels have indeed yielded some rare curiosities.” His blue eyes sharpened. “Relinquishing such a treasure may prove a loss he’ll regret, and an unexpected gain for us.”

Dumbledore took out both the diary and the ring’s remains from a drawer.

Seeing Snape’s skepticism, he smiled. “We know all we need to know. Since he’s discovered the matter, there’s no harm in returning them. After all, he has offered us such an excellent gift.”

Snape opened his mouth to say more when a commotion sounded outside.

He swiftly pocketed the items. A second later the door burst wide and Scrimgeour swept in with a clutch of Ministry officials.

“You’ve made your intent to distance yourself from the Ministry quite clear, but don’t you think your conduct in this matter has gone too far?” Like an angry lion, Scrimgeour dispensed with niceties and confronted him head-on.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Dumbledore replied mildly.

“To cut the Ministry out of the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named altogether, as if you were the only heroic leader our world had, as if an elected government meant nothing to you! Were it not for the impact of this so-called Holy Grail War may pose, would you have told the Ministry nothing at all? What do you take us for, your clean-up crew? What’s next--setting up your own regime?”

“Believe me, dear friend, that was not my intent. But the Ministry seems to be doing little to prove its usefulness in other areas.”

“Your cloak-and-dagger mysticism plainly doesn’t help!”

“What would you have me do, Rufus?”

“Leave matters to those better suited--the Auror Office!”

“You’re welcome to proceed as you wish. In fact, I’ve done nothing to prevent the Ministry’s participation in the Holy Grail War. I must caution you, though--letting the wider public know will only breed chaos. In the face of desire, not everyone can resist the allure of an ‘omnipotent wish-granting device.’”

Scrimgeour snorted, then turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he’d come.

Dolores Umbridge

Standing behind the Minister, Dolores Umbridge spoke in her syrupy little-girl voice. “Minister, what are your plans, then? Perhaps, if I may be so bold as to recommend--”

Scrimgeour cut her off with a wave. “Dumbledore is irritating, but not entirely wrong. We must be cautious. I need the Auror Office convened at once for a detailed discussion. What has the Department of Mysteries learned from the ancient text?”

Another official beat her to the answer. Umbridge shot him an acid glare.

No matter. Even if the Minister dithered on this…

She could still take matters into her own hands. She knew what was best.

Yes, eventually they would all learn that she knew best.

Amos Diggory

“Hey, have you heard the rumours?”

Diggory lifted his head from the paperwork.

Since the death of the son he’d been so proud of, he had not been himself. Life had lost all colour. He was a walking corpse animated by his son’s memory, every moment steeped in recollections that seemed so limited, so little.

“What rumours?” he asked perfunctorily.

“The one going around the Ministry, the omnipotent wish-granting device. A Holy Grail War.”

Amos’s heart skipped a beat.

He kept his face blank. “What is that? Some new bedtime story for wizards?”

His colleague looked offended. “Hoh hoh hoh, very sharp-tongued. Of course not. I can vouch the intel is solid. You know I’ve a contact with the Unspeakables; he says they’re studying an ancient text… and it looks rather real. They’re already trying to clamp down on the rumours. Doesn’t that make it even likelier? Who doesn’t have one or two wishes of their own? If it were me…”

Bring him back. Bring Cedric back.

The thought put down roots in Amos’s mind, repeating like a curse he could not dispel.

Yes. If it were truly possible…

Morgan Faye

Morgan scrolled on her phone, anger clenching harder with every line her eyes devoured, pooling on her fingertips in harder jabs.

Day by day, her rage had long since curdled into hatred. And yet she had to admit she needed that man. To be forced to live under an enemy’s roof--

Oh, how she longed for a chance at vengeance. And how powerless she was.

“Morgan, are you sure we can do this here?”

Morgan looked up. Mordred’s gentle, considerate expression dispelled some of the dark feelings.

“It’s fine. He’s not likely to be back today.”

“If it’s too much trouble--”

“Morgan Saikou! If not for you, where would we even find a setting this perfect?” Will’s excited shout cut Mordred off.

By the tripod, Daegal and Gilli, fussing with the phone for the livestream, nodded in agreement.

The door swung open and Anna stepped in. Arching a brow at the scene, she tossed her voluminous blonde hair. “I’m quite certain we’re the Society for the Study of Magic and the Supernatural, not some anime club.”

“Ah, but Mystery is Mystery.” Will wagged a finger cheekily. “Look at our membership--practically the full cast of Arthurian legend. Why pass up any work related to the lore? Besides, we could use some attention. If our stream gets noticed at the Fes, at least recruitment next year will be easy. What’s not to like?”

Will elbowed Mordred. The latter looked up from the game’s daily drills, a little abashed. “Mo-chan is… kind of cool.” Lines from a certain Saber’s Noble Phantasm rang out of the phone.

Anna rolled her eyes without malice, and sat beside Morgan, lowering her voice so only the two of them could hear. “You all right?”

Morgan forced a small smile and paused the video of her foster father’s speech. “I’ll manage.”

“You know I’m with you, no matter what you decide.” Anna rubbed Morgan’s arm in comfort.

“I know.” Morgan smiled, then buried herself deep into Anna’s arms. “Thank you, Morgause.”

“Hey, Morgan, think you could read a few lines for us? After all, among all of us, your voice is the nicest.” Daegal spread out the mat printed with the summoning circle on the floor, scratching his face sheepishly.

“Of course.” Morgan rose gracefully to her feet.

Heroic Spirit Summoning

(not necessarily taking place at the same time)

Voldemort toyed with the ring returned to him, gazing thoughtfully at the circle drawn in unicorn blood before him.

Mad Enhancement*… is it? To hold a mindless beast firmly in one’s grasp--a powerful tool… interesting.

Inside the Room of Requirement, quite a number of “parents” who had suddenly come to visit the school gathered together.

Harry studied the half-rotten piece of wood in his hands. On the back of his right hand, a red mark was forming, not yet fully shaped.

“Trust Dumbledore to have found the remains of Merlin’s staff. With this, Harry is bound to win.” Molly exclaimed in awe.

On the other side of the room, Snape finished drawing the second circle with the last of the Felix Felicis.

Dumbledore met his eyes and gave a small nod.

Umbridge looked with some heartache at the gemstone solution spread across the floor.

No, this was worth it. When everything was over, she would have everything she deserved.

Amos Diggory set down the dead chicken in his hands and gave his wife a nod.

Merlin drew in a deep breath. The moonlight fell upon his hair, making him seem to shine with its glow.

Amos Diggory*

Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill.

Repeat every five times.

Simply, shatter once filled.

Harry Potter

I hereby declare.

Your body shall serve under me.

My fate shall be with your sword.

Dolores Umbridge

    Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.

If you will submit to this will and this reason, then answer!

Severus Snape

An oath shall be sworn here!

I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven.

I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell!

Lord Voldemort

Yet, thou serves with thine eyes clouded in chaos.

Thou, bound in the cage of madness.

I am he who command those chains.

Merlin

From the Seventh Heaven, clad in the three great words of power,
come forth from the circle of binding,

Morgan Faye

Guardian of the Scales!

Harry Potter

A blinding light burst from the circle. Time itself seemed to halt in that instant.

Harry held his breath without meaning to. And then he saw--

A scarlet cape floated without wind; clean mail shone with a pale silver light; hair like sunlight, golden; eyes as blue and bright as stars.

At his hip, a divine blade caught the firelight and lit the engraving upon it: cast me away.

With the bearing of a king, the man within the circle turned. Blue eyes locked upon green.

Then, through the shock fogging his mind, Harry heard the man’s voice, smiling:

“So, boy, I ask of you, are you my Master?”

Chapter Text

02

Morgan Faye

Morgan had just finished chanting those Chūnibyō lines when an engine cut off out by the front door.

“Damn it!” Will swore under his breath, waving the boys into a panicked clean-up as they fumbled things into bags and scrambled out the window.

Anna gave Morgan a quick nod and slipped out after them.

In that instant of chaos, they all missed it--the unreasonable flash from the circle on the plugged mat, even though it wasn’t actually powered at all.

Morgan surveyed the wreck the room had become with cold eyes. Unlike her friends, who were eager to clear out, she had no intention of hiding a thing. In fact, the messier the room was, the more it clashed with that man’s tastes, the happier she felt.

Hearing noises in the foyer, she patted down her skirt and stood, only to freeze the moment she looked up.

As someone from her social stratum, Morgan prided herself on having seen more than her share of beauties. If nothing else, her sister Anna—Morgause and her dearest friend Mordred were both standouts.

But the black-robed man who had suddenly appeared atop the mat-circle shattered her usual frame of reference. So please, excuse her moment of stunned silence.

The instant she looked at him, he clearly saw her as well. He frowned, took in the surroundings with a glance, and said, “A muggle?”

Morgan snapped back at once. “Who are you, and how did you get in?” As she demanded answers, a flicker at the edge of her vision caught the red mark on the back of her hand.

The man seemed to recall something at the same time. In a heartbeat, he softened; the danger her instincts had caught vanished altogether, replaced by an air of reliability and approachability. “Hello. Are you my summoner? My Class is Caster. You may call me Caster. May I have your name?”

“Oh, come on. Will, Gilli, you guys really outdid yourselves this time.” Morgan let out a frustrated sigh, then heard footsteps coming down the hall. “Look, I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I don’t know what Will and the others told you, but whether you’re cosplaying from FGO, FSN, or whatever, we don’t need it anymore. Still, since you’re here, I guess I’ll have to trouble you to play along with me for a while. I--”

She didn’t finish. A middle-aged man pushed the door open and strode inside.

The man carried himself with the air of someone long accustomed to power. His sharp gaze swept the room before settling with hostility on the one who had introduced himself as Caster.

“How many times must I tell you, Morgan? Stop consorting with disreputable types.” His tone carried nothing but threat. He shot Morgan a cold glance, picked up the book Daegal had left on the table, and sneered. “Magic, is it? Hmph. How long has it been since you last went to church, or a place where decent people go? Don’t you think your little rebellious phase has dragged on far too long? Grow up. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look? You’re supposed to be the ward of a Member of Parliament. If anyone outside finds out you’re spending your days in this nonsense, what do you think it will do to my reputation?”

Morgan gave a sharp, scornful laugh.

“Ruther Pandrakon, you talk so big about morals, about image, about appearances, about God. But what about you? You’re the biggest hypocrite alive. I’d love to see what people say once they learn your true face!”

“Morgan Faye!” Ruther whipped around and closed the distance in several strides. “Do not take that tone with me!”

“Did I say anything wrong?” Maybe it was the presence of the black-robed man, maybe something else, but words she had always meant to keep buried came spilling out. “Who was it cheating on his wife with my mother while she was sick in bed? And my father’s death — you really expect me to believe you had nothing to do with that? You took me in as your ward, pretended there was nothing else that relate us, and expected me to be grateful to the very murderer of my foster father. You must have felt so damn pleased with yourself, didn’t you, Saint Ruther?”

The accusation caught him short. The very next second, he swung on Caster.

“Get out. You heard nothing.”

But before Caster could move, Morgan grabbed his sleeve.

“What’s wrong, scared to face it? Of course you are. Your face, your image--that’s all that ever matters to you. Naturally, that’d be the first thing you think of!”

Ruther’s face flushed crimson, trembling with rage--then suddenly, as though he’d came to a revelation, his expression shifted into a tolerant smile, the kind used to humor a child’s tantrum.

“Morgan, my ward. If I’d known you were sulking over this… Listen. You’ve been utterly misled. I don’t know where you heard such poison, probably from those so-called ‘friends’ who always looking to bleed you dry, but I swear to you, every last word of it is fabricated.”

Morgan laughed in disbelief, bitter and sharp. “Still lying? Even now?”

Her hands shook with anger as she fumbled at her phone. Pulling up a screenshot of a lab report, she shoved it in Ruther’s face. “Go on, keep talking!”

To her surprise, Ruther visibly relaxed. He sighed and gave her a smile of weary indulgence.

“Nymue*’s hospital. Of course she would forge it. Morgan, darling, calm down. And I understand--after all, you’re a girl. It’s natural for you to get carried away with emotions.”

Before Morgan could even rage at the same tired line she’d heard too many times before, Ruther turned back to Caster.

“Boy. Leave. Now. If a single word of what happened here today gets out--”

“He stays wherever I want him to stay!” Morgan snapped, furious.

“Enough!” Ruther roared, drowning her out, still addressing Caster. “I’ll grant you, you’ve got the kind of pretty face that fools people at first glance. I don’t care if you’re another leech sniffing after my ward’s money or some street punk looking for a free ride. Know your place. She’s out of your league.”

Caster tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded the man threatening him.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Morgan burst out. “How many times do I have to say it before you get it? I like girls! Girls, girls! He’s not my boyfriend. For God’s sake, I’m a lesbian!”

“Shut your mouth!” Ruther’s thunderous bellow rattled the very walls. After a silence broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing, he forced himself calm again. “You’ve been brainwashed --your loser friends filling your head with garbage, all that online trash you read, your childish rebellion. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re still just a stupid little girl--”

“How dare you--!”

“Enough!” Ruther snapped, cutting her off, and turned once more on Caster. “So what are you supposed to be--another freak friend of hers? Some low-life punk? Or--” His eyes narrowed, words twisting sharp as knives. “Oh, I see. I know your type. Pretty boys looking for shortcuts--I’ve seen a hundred of you in Parliament. Pathetic parasites. I bet you just love bending over for a real man’s cock. Don’t think you can play the victim card and con your way into her life. I know exactly what kind of filth runs in the minds of freaks like you--”

Caster let out a bored sigh.

His expression did not change--still patient, gentle, almost kind. His posture did not change either--still loose, still open.

But Morgan’s intuition, the sharp instinct that had saved her more than once, was screaming from every cell in her body: Danger. Danger. DANGER.

It was as if Caster hadn’t heard a single word of Ruther’s venom. He spoke lightly, almost to himself:

“Well then, it seems I don’t have much of a choice. Morgan Faye, is it? In that case, our contract is sealed.”

At last, he lifted his eyes. His dark irises flashed scarlet in an instant.

“Avada Kedavra.”

As Ruther collapsed, time itself seemed to stretch without end.

In that drawn-out instant, Morgan understood many things--

How the man in the black robes had appeared.

What kind of snare she had stumbled into.

And most of all, that the man before her posed a real threat to her life.

Her body shook uncontrollably.

Thud.

The sound of Ruther hitting the ground jolted her back. She realized Caster’s gaze was now fixed upon her.

“Well then. Let us return to our conversation. What is the wish you intend to make upon the Holy Grail? I imagine… that is what we should first make clear. After all, I’m sure you understand...if our wishes should happen to conflict, it would be… most inconvenient.” His voice was soft, almost tender.

Morgan stumbled back a step, but her trembling legs gave out, and she dropped onto the floor with a hard smack. Looking up, she met Caster’s face--patient, waiting, but only on the surface.

Her lips opened and closed, yet no sound came out.

But in that moment of hesitation, the calmer part of her mind, which is located very close to her instincts, seized control. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a red mark etched onto the back of her hand--something that had not been there before. She immediately understood what she must do--Command Spells, the crystallization of Magecraft, the visible proof of a Master–Servant pact. Three sigils, three chances, three absolute orders a Master could enforce. And more importantly, she remembered something Gilli had once told her: “The more specific the order, the greater the effect.”

Then, Morgan’s trembling ceased. Her expression hardened into calm resolve. She gripped the arm of the sofa and pushed herself to her feet, posture controlled and deliberate.

“In truth, I think you’ve just granted me my wish.”

She saw Caster’s pupils contract in surprise, and before he could react, she pressed on:

“By the power of my Command Spell, I order you, Caster: For as long as you remain in this world, you shall not, by any direct or indirect means, inflict upon me--Morgan Faye, your first Master in the 2017 Holy Grail War of Britain--any harm, physical or mental, as defined by the general understanding of ordinary human beings.”

As expected, and yet unexpected, one stroke of crimson light vanished from the back of her hand.

Even if that had not been enough to convince her, the sudden darkening of Caster’s expression made it certain. His facade of warmth was gone.

“…Clever girl.”

A terrifying pressure radiated from him. If she still had doubts that he was a Dark wizard in life, now she had none left. He looked young, but the weight in his voice… how old had he been when he died? Twenty? Sixty? A few hundreds? She forced herself to smother the primal fear clawing at her gut.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied evenly.

Caster began to pace slowly about the room. His movements were graceful, but every step radiated dominance--a presence that made Ruther seem small in comparison. At last, he stopped beside the corpse, and gestured at it with long, slender fingers.

“So this was your wish. To kill your father?”

“To kill Ruther. And leave behind nothing that could ever be traced back to me.”

“I see…”

Caster’s soft tone made Morgan’s guard rise again at once.

“You’ll do that for me, won’t you? Or shall I use another Command Spell?” she asked cautiously, eyes searching his face. “But you want to win the Holy Grail War, don’t you? Someone like you wouldn’t want to waste a Command Spell/precious source of power. Am I right?”

Perhaps it was no more than a flicker, perhaps nothing at all, but her intuition caught it. Her Servant wanted to win. Desperately.

Relief washed through her. She had him.

“The Grail War itself means nothing to me. My wish is already half-fulfilled. I could order you to dispose of the body and then immediately order you to end your life and you could do nothing to harm me.”

Caster chuckled softly. “But my dear girl, you do understand, don’t you? Ruther Pandrakon came back home, with no one else present but you. Neighbors heard the shouting... Passersby did too. He had no heart condition, no medical history... A Servant is, after all, no more than a weapon, a familiar wielded by its Master. Technically, his death is on you. I don’t even need to lift a finger, merely... let certain people know... a little information. Hardly qualifies as... ah, yes, ‘harm, physical or mental, as defined by the general understanding of ordinary human beings.’ It wouldn’t be harm at all, merely... justice.”

Damn it! Morgan cursed herself for the oversight silently.

But she recovered quickly. “And what would that gain you? A double loss? You dead by my order, me in prison, the Holy Grail War over before it even begins. Is that what you want? Admit it--you need me. Without a Master, you cannot remain in this world. That’s why you accepted the pact in the first place. Am I right?”

She paused, ensuring he was listening. “Work with me. Help me fulfill my wish. Keep me safe through the Grail War. And then--we achieve yours together.”

Morgan stared him down, voice like steel. “Accept it.”

Caster’s expression betrayed nothing. He studied her a moment, then resumed pacing. But Morgan relaxed instantly--Ruther’s body was gone.

“You don’t know magic. You have no magic.”

It wasn’t a question. Still, Morgan felt she had to answer. “I know a little. In fact--”

“You don’t know what the word Muggle means.”

Morgan grimaced, hesitated, then finally admitted, “No. I don’t.”

Caster nodded once, flicked his hand, and the room was spotless.

“But you do know about Servants, Command Spells, the Holy Grail War. More than most.”

“When you hang around Fate nerds, it’s hard not to pick up at least the basics.”

Caster frowned faintly, not understanding. But Morgan had her own question.

“You still haven’t told me your True Name. Isn’t a Servant supposed to reveal it to their Master?”

Caster stepped to the window and looked out.

“Then let me ask you this... When you face an enemy, you--a girl with no magic, no defenses--can you guarantee you could protect my True Name from being torn out of your mind?”

Morgan flushed. She couldn’t.

“Then at least give me something. And as my Servant, shouldn’t you be the one protecting my head?” When he offered no compromise, she sighed. “Fine. Different question. Were you stronger in life, or in death?”

The question caught him off guard. He hesitated. Morgan felt a spark of triumph.

“I... the rumors, the records after my...time, even the tales when I was still... living, the titles and names history bestowed me, the whispers, rumours... even lies. Yes. They... made me stronger.”

What is this? Morgan almost thought she’d misheard, but there was reluctance in his voice.

But before he finished, his gaze sharpened, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Actually... I can’t even be certain whether I am already--Do you have newspapers from the past six months? Bring them to me.”

“Uh… I’m not sure about that. I mean, who even reads newspapers anymore?” Seeing the shadow cross his face, she hurried to add, “But I can look it up for you. If you’re not good with smartphones.”

“Do it.” Caster gave the order as if it were natural. “And while you’re at it--tell me about this… Fate.”

Harry Potter

Arthur Pendragon was already making introductions with the members of the Order of the Phoenix, but in Snape’s summoning circle, nothing stirred.

“I don’t get it, why would Merlin’s staff call forth King Arthur?” Hermione frowned, studying the armored man.

“Bet the old bat couldn’t summon anyone at all,” Ron muttered, clearly enjoying himself.

Harry’s eyes narrowed on Snape’s circle. What unsettled him even more was Dumbledore’s silence--though the unresponsive array was already causing murmurs and unease, the Headmaster seemed lost in thought, making no move at all.

Harry glanced across at Lupin. A single look was enough: they shared the same thought. Wait a few more seconds, then confront Dumbledore. Make him say something.

And then, Dumbledore’s eyes cleared, sharp and bright once more. He clapped his hands lightly, drawing the entire room’s attention at once.

His expression was grave, almost solemn, as his gaze swept across every face in the room. But then it softened, and he gave one of his familiar, wry smiles.

“My friends, I fear I must bid you farewell a little earlier than expected.” He raised his one good hand, halting Molly’s anxious question. “You see, Severus’s Servant has not failed to answer the call. In fact, he has found me. Believe me when I say, he will be a powerful ally to our cause. But alas… as a god, he cannot manifest directly. He has asked me to serve as his vessel.”

“You cannot truly be considering this…” McGonagall’s head shook in disbelief.

“Oh, but I already have.” A twinkle flashed in Dumbledore’s blue eyes, he turned to Kingsley, Lupin, Moody… and finally Snape. “I trust that even without me, with your strength combined, you will lead us to victory.”

The first three nodded gravely. Snape’s face was like stone.

At last, Dumbledore walked to Harry’s side. “Harry… in the Pensieve, I have left you some gifts. Our private lessons will have to become self-study, I’m afraid. I only hope you can forgive me.”

Conflicting emotions surged through Harry, but in the end he pressed his lips tight, holding Dumbledore’s gaze in silence.

Dumbledore smiles. “Then… I suppose this is goodbye.”

Everyone wore heavy expressions--everyone but Dumbledore (and the newly arrived Arthur, who had yet to find his place among them).

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept the room once more, as though memorizing each face. Then he closed them.

Radiant light enveloped him. And changes came swiftly:

The withered blackened hand restored to life. Shrunken muscles filled and strengthened. Wrinkles smoothed into youthful skin. His pale hair was streaked with blazing red, color flooding back down its length.

When the blue eyes opened again in a young man’s face, no one needed to be told. This was no longer Dumbledore. Another soul looked out from within, for--

Those eyes were now alive with cunning and mischief beyond measure.

The first thing he did was touch his lips. Harry noticed it then--the scars etched faintly across them.

The new soul caught himself at once, dropping his hand as though nothing had happened. To most eyes, it would seem perfectly natural.

He turned to Snape. “Severus Snape, is it? You are my Master? …How curious.”

He thrust out a hand, bright and bold. “Loki. Class: Lancer. Pseudo-Servant. Our contract is sealed.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Now they understood what Dumbledore had meant by him being a powerful ally. But those who knew their myths also understood the dangers such a being could pose.

For a flicker of a moment, Snape regretted yielding two Command Spells to Voldemort so hastily. He did not feel confident he could keep control of this Servant. Not entirely. Not at all.

Expressionless, cautious, he accepted the handshake.

Loki’s attention slid to the other Servant present. “Saber, is it?” His eyes flicked to the blade. “King Arthur, no less?” Catching Arthur’s wary stare, Loki grinned wide. “Oh, come now. We’re supposed to be on the same side, aren’t we? Still, if you mean to keep your identity hidden, you might consider dressing up that sword of yours.”

 “As if I would let one such as you lay a hand on my blade, trickster.”

Loki pouted, shrugging with feigned innocence. “Just a friendly suggestion. Look at me--I’m a Lancer, not a Caster. Even if I wanted to meddle, what could I possibly do, hmm?”

Arthur said nothing, merely stepped closer to Harry, eyes never leaving the god.

Snape exhaled sharply. “Enough. We waste time. Let us turn to strategy.”

Chapter Text

03

Lord Voldemort

Before the Servant came into view, there was a cloud of ominous black smoke.

It seeped with boundless malice. Even its mere presence felt like a profanation of light itself.

Despair, hatred, madness--clinging, suffocating, wrapping thick around the darkness.

The smoke shrouded the Servant’s form so completely that no features could be seen, though it clearly did nothing to hinder him from looking straight at his Master.

And then, Voldemort was greeted by his Servant’s first words —laughter. Mad, howling laughter.

Voldemort had to admit, this was not quite what he expected of a brainless beast of a Berserker--Heroic Spirits stripped of reason and sanity in exchange for raw strength. He would almost have preferred the inarticulate grunting of an animal* to this grating laughter.

Would he laugh like this forever?

Voldemort felt the first stirrings of irritation.

At last the Servant’s laughter ebbed, his breathing steadied. “How should I put it? Fate never fails to find new ways to torment me.” His throat seemed as corroded as the mist, voice twisted and harsh.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Clear-headed enough to speak in sentences. Not at all what he had expected.

But the Servant paid no heed to his silence. He strolled up to the altar, picked up the ring, turned it over in his hand. “THIS is your grand idea? If it hadn’t been me that answered the call…” Something seemed to amuse the Servant; he broke into laughter again.

“You don’t intend to introduce yourself to me--your Master--SERVANT?” Voldemort’s hiss was soft, dangerous.

“Oh, I was only marveling at the delightful twist of fate that bound us together.” The Servant gave a dry cough, finally realizing how near he was to testing his Master’s patience. “Very well then. Class: Berserker. At your service, Lord Voldemort… MASTER.”

The last word dripped with derision. Voldemort had never heard anyone make the word sound so much like an insult.

His distaste for the Servant grew darker still.

“You know who I am. Yet I know nothing of you.”

“Well… you may call me Cadmus.”

“Cadmus?”

“Don’t tell me--you used this ring to summon me, yet you don’t know who its first owner was?” His disbelief carried a bite of mockery.

“So you are--?”

“There aren’t many who could be tied to this ring, and at the same time qualify as a Heroic Spirit. Barely a handful--and that’s counting you. Does summoning me really surprise you?”

Voldemort’s fingers trailed along his wand, his gaze measuring. “How do you know me?”

“Cadmus Peverell is your forebear, isn’t he? From the Throne of Heroes I’ve watched your every move my... descendant.”

Voldemort could not shake the sense that the Servant was toying with him. Yet he could not be certain.

A flicker of vexation stirred. This was not the Servant he had desired.

The Berserker, however, looked perfectly at ease, as if at home. He even yawned. “So then, my most illustrious Master, what is the next glorious step in your grand design of radiant victory?”

Voldemort’s frown deepened, but the Servant went on without pause: “Ah, let me guess--kill Harry Potter. Kill that wretched teenage brat who simply refuses to die.”

Voldemort drew a long, deliberate breath. His voice stayed smooth, but his anger was unmistakable. “You will not speak to me that way.”

“And if I do?”

Until this moment, Voldemort had believed himself free of regret. Every choice in his life, he had stood by without hesitation. But now, for the first time, he found himself wondering if choosing this relic, summoning this Servant, had been a mistake.

He needed no dog that bit its master. No Servant who defied his command.

The Command Spells on his wrist flared.

“I order you--obey me!”

One stroke vanished.

The Servant froze. Even the black haze around him seemed to freeze in place.

Then he stirred again. “So that’s how you waste a Command Spell. Well, you’ve plenty to spare, haven’t you? Enough to burn through. So I suppose it matters little.”

A heaviness sank in Voldemort’s chest.

His knowledge of the Grail War’s rules was lacking. Unlike other magics, beyond that single grimoire, he had found next to nothing.

But to have his blunder laid bare so bluntly by his own Servant--most unseemly.

His wand hand tightened.

The Berserker, unruffled, continued: “Before you squander any more, let’s at least agree to stop wasting them. On the battlefield, one Command Spell’s worth of power can mean life or death.”

“Relax. I’ll obey you. Most of the time, at least.” The mist shifted, and the outline of a firm jaw, a pair of lips curled in a mocking smile, glimmered through. “Now… shall we talk about how to kill Harry Potter?”

Snape (Team Lancer)

“I must admit, of all the ways I had imagined to rid ourselves of Dumbledore… who would have thought it would prove this… effortless?”

For the third time during their discussion, Snape found his thoughts drifting.

Voldemort’s Servant was without question a frightening presence.

Though he loathed admitting it to himself, but when he first laid eyes on the Berserker, that suffocating black miasma had truly unsettled him.

What unsettled him even more, was the clarity of thought the creature later revealed. Nothing like the mindless Berserker Snape had expected. And when Lancer confirmed the credibility of his class, there was no denying it: however few his Mad Enhancement was, this was indeed a Berserker.

Voldemort relished the notion of a Servant without thought. But to Snape, facing him as an enemy, it was precisely because this Berserker was no mere beast that he was all the more perilous.

At present, said Servant was seated by the fireplace, playing wizard’s chess with Lancer. They seemed to be getting along far too well.

Snape drew his gaze back, “As you say, my Lord.”

“Now,” Voldemort’s long, spider-like fingers tapped against his wand, “tell me, what is the Order planning next? Surely they don’t intend to keep Potter hidden in the castle forever?”

“They have indeed spoken of increasing their mobility in the Grail War. With so many students still at Hogwarts, they are reluctant to place children in unnecessary danger.”

Voldemort’s pale fingers stilled, waiting for him to continue.

“They’ve secured a few safehouses among loyal families, though defenses remain incomplete. Meanwhile, they’ve ordered me to London ahead of them--”

“As bait, to draw out other Masters, I presume.”

“Precisely, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s long, spiderlike fingers steepled.

“I confess, Severus, I had considered ordering you and your Lancer to eliminate Potter outright…”

Snape’s heart leapt painfully in his chest.

“But that would not be fitting, would it? Killing Harry Potter must be done by my hand--and by mine alone.”

From the hearth came a noise that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh. Snape almost thought he had imagined it, until Voldemort cut a withering glare in his Servant’s direction, as though strangely accustomed to the insolence.

“Perhaps…I should have you strike down Potter’s Servant, and leave Potter himself for me... Now that Dumbledore is no longer an obstacle, I see little reason for you to persist in this charade of friendship with the Order. This masquerade...comparing to direct actions, has outlived its usefulness...”

“My Lord.” Once he had Voldemort’s full attention, Snape pressed on, weighing each word with meticulous caution. “Perhaps the infiltration has lost its value, but the Order’s strategy holds one point worth considering...”

“As it stands, aside from Potter’s Saber, my Lancer, and your Berserker, there remain four Master–Servant pairs yet unidentified. Perhaps it would serve us best to linger close to Potter, to pose as his ally, and to make full use of Saber’s strength in eliminating the others, all while conserving our own power. And when the time come--when I finally reveal where my loyalty lies, we may strike Potter and the Order at their most unguarded.” Snape watched the Dark Lord closely as he spoke, weighing each word. Voldemort, for his part, had fallen into a contemplative silence.

Only the pop and crackle of firewood and the soft clatter of chess pieces filled the air.

At last, when Snape’s chest was tight as a vice, Voldemort spoke. “Sound reasoning. Convincing, as always, Severus…”

Relief washed cold through him.

“But tell me,” Voldemort’s voice cut once more, those scarlet eyes piercing into Snape’s skull, “when I call upon you to turn on the Order, when I demand you strike Potter down... will you obey, without the faintest flicker of doubt?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Seemingly having found an answer that pleased him, Voldemort pulled back.

“You may go. I believe the Order still awaits your return.”

“Now? But I haven’t finished my game.” Voldemort’s Servant called from the hearth.

Only then did Snape realize, despite his apparent focus on the board, Berserker had been listening all along.

Voldemort swept closer to the table, perhaps intending to scold his Servant, then caught a glimpse of the chessboard itself.

“If this is the extent of your skill, it’s hardly worth carrying on.”

The darkness around Berserker stirred irritably. Loki broke into loud, gleeful laughter, red hair flashing like fire in the hearthlight.

“Oh, you cannot begin to imagine my suffering!” With a graceful leap, Loki bounded upright, still grinning even as Berserker’s shadow glowered. “Come along, Master. Another stage awaits us.”

The two finally walked the London streets.

“I don’t see why you didn’t simply strike him down.” Loki eyed Snape sidelong, then grinned. “Oh, we both know where your loyalties truly lie. No need to pretend with me.”

“I thought you were enjoying their company,” Snape deflected.

“Perhaps,” Loki drawled, shrugging.

His smile faded as he looked further ahead, blue eyes glinting cold. “But what does it matter? This is the Holy Grail War. It’s either victory, or death.”

He sighed. “I can see why you’d want to shield the Potter boy. But that Lord of yours? I admit, his Servant may be troublesome, yet--”

“It isn’t so simple.” Snape cut in. After a brief hesitation, he decided to lay it bare. “To want Voldemort gone, mere death will not suffice.  Should my hand be revealed before Potter clears the way, we’ll only end up at a disadvantage when it truly matters.”

Loki dipped his head in a flippant nod, but Snape knew he had convinced him, for now.

“Very well…” The Trickster seemed to have noticed something, a grin of excitement split across his scarred lips. “Since you won’t be targeting the Berserker Team for the moment, you won’t object if I suggest… easier prey, will you?”

Loki gestured toward the massive screen in the square. A news broadcast showed a girl in her twenties, tear-streaked, pleading with reporters--identified as the foster daughter of MP Pandrakon, begging for her adoptive father’s safe return.

“I fail to see the relevance.”

“Ah, that’s because you missed the earlier footage.”

From who-knew-where, Loki produced one of those… what was the word, ‘clever phones’? With a swipe, he pulled up the same footage that was playing on the large screen, froze it on a fleeting frame just before the interview. For the briefest instant, behind ranks of policemen, the girl could be seen being escorted from the site.

Then Loki zoomed in, and only then did Snape catch it--the faint red markings across the back of her hand.

Meeting Loki’s expectant gaze, Snape paused, then replied with a tone that was dismissive yet brook no argument. “We cannot yet confirm whether it was Command Spells or just a tattoo. Even if it was--she’s a Muggle. We do not drag Muggles into this.”

Loki did not look convinced.

“This matter ends here. Until we confirm the identity of more Masters, she is not a target. Do you understand?” Snape could only hope the command would hold, if only a little.

Loki shrugged.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. They had a war to prepare for.

Chapter Text

04

Morgan Faye (Team Caster)

Rage, humiliation, scorn, the refusal to recognize--beneath the surface swell of all that darkness, ran a single glimmer of light, thin yet unyielding.

A hope--one that had clung to him since his earliest memory — his… weakness.

Perhaps the human creature is, at its core, a leech: driven by instinct to cling to others, to cling to anything outside itself, begging for answers--

“Who am I?” “Will I ever be loved?”

Reason told him that years of neglect had already given the answer. Principle told him these were only Muggles, unworthy of his attention, a blot upon his name.

But this damned, damned, weakness… so long as reality did not crush it utterly, it would hold on to that hope.

Reason said: Go, and let that hope die. Cut the weakness out.

Principle said: Go, and you will see I was right. Strip out the stain.

So he went.

A splendid manor. A sky drowned in gloom. Gardens exquisite in their design, yet as empty and death-still as a graveyard.

Silence, then a roar, screams, chaos--

“Freak!” “Filthy mongrel!” “Lunatic!” “Degenerate!” “Spawn of the devil!”

And then--

“I knew she could never bring anything decent into this world!”

Ah. So that was it--

He knew. He had always known!

And yet, knowing everything, he still chose to leave, chose to look the other way, chose to--

So. That’s how it is.

With laughter, the black flames climbed higher and higher — until they swallowed that last glimmer of light.

Anger at the world. Scorn for the world. Hatred with no place to bleed.

He no longer sought the answers; he had always known the answers. Yes--once he cast off that weakness, he could see at last:

He was himself. He stood above all.

Nothing to cling to. He needed nothing else.

Somewhere even he did not notice, the black flames flaunted pitiless tongues, each blaze a proclamation--if he burned, the world ought to burn with him.

“They bought every word of it.” Having just seen off another round of sympathetic visitors, Morgan peeled off her glove with a practiced flick and let herself collapse elegantly into the sofa, immediately thumbing through her phone.

“Must I remind you again, Miss?” Caster didn’t even glance up, eyes still fixed on the stack of printed pages before him.

“--No electronics in the workshop, especially nothing connected to the internet.” Morgan obediently set her phone aside, showing her empty hands. “But honestly, you can’t expect someone from the twenty-first century to live without a phone or a laptop. Even if it’s not about addiction, other people would get suspicious. No offense, but isn’t magic that clashes with electricity and magnetic fields just a little outdated*?”

“I am working to resolve that issue. And like all things worth doing, it requires time,” said Caster, mulling it over as he spoke. “In fact… once I’ve solved it, I might even be able to reverse it...turn this very flaw into a weapon, and disrupt wizards with it.”

“You seriously believe your so-called arch-enemy from life is going to show up in this Holy Grail War?”

“I have no reason to believe he is not.”

“This might not even be the same world,” grabbing the marked-up newspaper and reports, Morgan retorted before he could argue. “Sure, the Brockdale Bridge collapse, the western hurricane, fog rolling in at the wrong season, it all looks suspicious. But it could just as easily be coincidence.”

Caster rose to adjust the instrument he had crafted a few days ago. It flared with a brief light, and he nodded, satisfied.

“Not coincidence. I was there. I would know.”

“Fine, whatever you say. After all, I’m only--what was the word--an ignorant, useless Muggle.” Morgan flopped back into the cushions with a touch of dramatic sulkiness. She hated this helpless feeling. Then, regaining her poise, she flashed him a smile: “Come on, aren’t you at least going to compliment me on my flawless performance in front of the media?”

Her phone buzzed. Caster frowned.

Morgan flicked her eyes to the screen, one brow arching with smug delight. “Well then--looks like by dawn tomorrow, someone will just so happen to stumble upon dear Ruther’s body.”

“Good. Now, regarding the properties I mentioned earlier--”

“You’re already trying to bleed me dry before I’ve even inherited anything?” Morgan teased.

“Shall I remind you, lass--without me, you wouldn’t even have an inheritance to your name. Now. Switch it off.”

Morgan swept her hair back with practiced grace, as if brushing aside his words, then picked up the marked map. “Are you sure all of these are necessary? This one, for instance, won’t come cheap.”

“This is not the world of Fate…” Caster’s voice grew pensive, perhaps an answer to her earlier question, though the leap in his logic left Morgan uncertain.

“Obviously.”

“I possess ample memories of magic to prove that the framework of power in this world differs fundamentally from that of Fate. No magic circuits. No crests. No mystic codes. No governing Five Elements--at least, not in modern sorcery. Ancient alchemies from Egypt and Greece speak of four elements, certainly, but those are an entirely separate conception. Which leads to the question: in this Holy Grail War, what is it that sustains my manifestation? Is it wizarding magic? The strength of souls? Or has the War itself conjured into being some analogue to circuits, something born just as the war unfolded?”

Morgan tilted her head, curiosity in her eyes.

“I do not know.”

That stunned her for a moment. Caster carried on.

“Before this, I was… incautious--rash, if we’re being candid. Whenever I laid hands on knowledge or relics that promised power, I concerned myself... only with the immediate and the useful... how it would strengthen me, how I might wield it, where I could obtain it... As for the rest... the principles beneath that power, the hidden flaws... I left unexamined so long as it did not hinder me much. As for legends... and what lay beneath their words, I chose to ignore... In the end, that cultivated disregard became the oversight that undid me.”

Morgan leaned in, intent, reminded suddenly of her dreams. For Masters and Servants whose spirits are well attuned, the contract/connection/magical energy of their bond allows the Master to glimpse the Servant’s memories in dreams. And she...

“Fragmentary knowledge, reckless haste… I once stood so close to what I sought.” His words thinned to a murmur, burdened with a gravity that felt almost suffocating.

Caster let out a breath and went on. “I will not repeat that mistake. And for making me aware of the gaps I overlooked this time… I owe you thanks, Morgan.”

They exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

“Before I act in this War, I will first know everything. And the more I read…”

Anime, manga, games, light novels, and decks upon decks of Wikia printouts. Morgan’s eyes drifted over the table, taking in the heaps crammed across it.

“…the more suspicious this Holy Grail War becomes.”

Morgan sat up, brows furrowed.

“First, the incompatible frameworks that we talked about... Then... how did this War even come to be? Who convened it? And for what purpose? I suspect those answers point to something greater. But at the present, I have no way of seeking them.”

“And what about my prana? You said I’m a Muggle, which means I don’t have your kind of wizarding power. So are you drawing energy from me?”

Caster’s gaze flicked over her, opaque, as if she were a puzzle he had yet to solve.

“On that point… I am no longer certain...”

“Not certain of what?” Morgan demanded.

But Caster gave no answer, only turned back to the instrument.

“To reach any answers, the Grail War itself must advance further--and above all, we must survive our earliest encounters with other Servants... But the contradictions I perceive in the system here, the instability of power, make it impossible for me to entrust myself solely to the prana you provide. Fortunately--” Caster inclined his head toward Morgan’s phone. “That gave me a few ideas. It was then, I realized that this world brims with a vast reservoir of mana, left utterly unguarded, far more abundant than the Greater Source of this era from your tales could have offered. So I began seeking out ley-lines, places where such power might be conveniently drawn upon.” Caster’s gaze drifted, first to the instrument, then to the map spread across the table, its surface scattered with deliberate markings.

Morgan followed his gaze. Upon the instrument’s display, glowing veins stretched across the land--the ley lines, channels of magical energy flowing beneath the earth. On the map, the marked points corresponded to places where those veins converged--sacred sites. By seizing those plots and raising workshops upon them, Caster could draw endlessly from the power of the earth/planet itself.

“And in so doing, I discovered the third problem. Come.”

She leaned closer, recognizing the coordinates displayed--it was one of the marked properties near Cambridge.

And near that coordinate… are those roots? Or vines? Shapes like that, flickering in and out of sight, and the way they’re closing in feels… wrong.

“What is that? Some kind of plant?” Morgan frowned, horrified.

“What you’re seeing is merely the visualization of what I sensed. More intriguing, however, is that it is not material — neither on the surface nor affixed to mana. It may not even reside in this time or space. It is, rather--conceptual. To make it intelligible to you--much as I loathe the analogy--consider that thing you saw on the television the other night--what was it called--"

“The one you yelled at me to switch off? Doctor Who? You mean, like that crack in the wall?” Morgan admitted she was starting to get a bit scared.

“Yes. And I did not yell. I do not yell.” Caster beckoned her nearer. “You should be able to see...”

Morgan squinted. After a few seconds, she saw it: among the reaching branches, another thread--pale, luminous blue--seemed to hold the thing in check, tracing it.

“Is that one of the others?”

“That… we shall discover in time. What concerns you now is that you understand why those lands are to be bought.”

Morgan’s phone chimed, a tone set for her closest contacts.

She strode over. It was Mordred, inviting her out for a drink.

“I’m going out. You’re not going to lock me in, are you?”

Caster didn’t so much as look her way.

Morgan sighed, slipped on the protective pendant he’d made her, and picked up the glamor-glove with visible reluctance. “Do I really have to wear this? It’s not like anyone’s going to notice my hand in a crowd. Honestly, it’s uncomfortable.”

“If an error can be prevented, it must never happen in the first place.”

Do you really have such terrible luck? Morgan thought privately, but pulled the glove on anyway.

At the threshold, she paused, a question caught in her throat. In the end, she swallowed it, and left without asking.

Clearly worried about her, Morgan’s friends chose a bar with private rooms for the first time. That at least gave her a chance to breathe, to peel off the suffocating glove for a while.

The marks on her hand inevitably drew teasing from Will and Gilli, and even Mordred and Daegal couldn’t resist cracking a joke or two. Morgan brushed it all off lightly, saying it was just a tattoo.

Throughout the conversation, everyone carefully skirted around the subject of Ruther’s disappearance, doing their best to keep the mood light and make her laugh.

She had thought that pretending in front of her friends would be unbearable. And it was, though not as unbearable and very much easier than she’d imagined.

Maybe she did have some liar’s gene hidden in her.

Maybe she had Ruther to thank for that little inheritance.

She thought with a flash of malice.

After splitting up with the others, her sister Anna—Morgause pulled her aside for another round of drinks.

The two of them went to Anna’s usual haunt, found a quiet corner, and let the bartender send over something special.

Morgan waited.

Sure enough, after some small talk that went nowhere, Anna leaned in, her face serious.

“Morgana, we both know how you felt about Ruther. He controlled every detail of your life, bound you with rotten old rules, excluded and repressed minorities, and forced you to grow up in fear. Everything he did ran counter to the justice you believe in… not to mention what he did to Vivienne and Gorlois. He was a sanctimonious, selfish hypocrite of a tyrant. No one would blame you for hating him.” Noticing Morgan’s restless movement, Anna took her hand and squeezed it, steady and reassuring. “Now, my sister, I just need to know--does Ruther’s disappearance have anything to do with you? Is he… is he already dead?”

Faced with her sister’s clear eyes, full only of love and concern, Morgan found it hard to lie. Hard, and unwilling.

She nodded.

“Was it… was it you?”

Anna didn’t finish the question, but Morgan knew what she meant. Had she killed him herself?

Morgan opened her mouth, only to realize she had no idea how to answer.

It had been Caster who did it, but to say she had nothing to do with it…

Anna read her hesitation, and switched tack. “That tattoo on your hand — what is it? When did you get it? We all know you’re not into anime stuff. Or did you…” She drew a finger across her throat, “…cut yourself or something, when it happened?”

Morgan wavered for a long moment, remembering the question she hadn’t managed to ask Caster before leaving the house.

If she had the choice, she’d want someone she could share this with, someone to bounce ideas off, just so it didn’t all feel so crushingly lonely.

But who could she trust?

No matter how cooperative or harmless Caster seemed now, she had never once forgotten that she could not fully trust him. They were like flatmates thrown together by chance. Perhaps they’d be polite, even friendly. But you could never be sure--never know when one of them might slip something onto your plate the moment you let your guard down*.

And that was not even counting the rest of the Holy Grail War, the enemies lurking unseen.

Could she trust? Should she trust?

But if she couldn’t even trust her own sister by blood--then who on earth could she trust?

In the end, she took a long breath.

“Morgause, do you believe in the Holy Grail War?”

After the enchanted glove finally proved the supernatural was real, Anna gradually allowed the impossible to settle in her mind.

“So… it was your Servant who killed Ruther?”

Morgan gave a small nod.

Anna’s brows knit tightly, her lips pressed into a hard line. Her fingers idly stroked the stem of the glass before she tipped it back and knocked the drink down like it was water. A quick glance toward Morgan, then away again, her eyes taut with emotion she struggled to contain.

“What is it, Morgause?” Morgan asked, worry creeping into her voice. Her sister’s reaction twisted at her heart.

“Nothing. I’m just… worried about you.” Anna steadied herself, then seemed to steel her resolve. In the next instant she was once again the calm, unshakable elder sister Morgan had always leaned on, her amber gaze holding Morgan in place. “This is too dangerous.”

Morgan nodded. “I know, that’s why I--”

“No, you don’t.” Anna shook her head sharply. “Your Servant has already put you in danger. As long as you’re his Master, the other participants in this Grail War will come for you. And that’s not even considering the possibility of a Servant turning on their Master.”

Morgan agreed with a sober nod. “That’s why my first Command Seal restricted him from harming me.”

“And the others? The other Masters, the other Servants. We’re just ordinary people, Morgan. Against enemies with magic, we don’t stand a chance. Sure, we’ve toyed with magic in the club, but - that’s not our world! And from what you’ve described, even your command isn’t airtight.” Anna paused, emphasizing the words that followed. “Your wish is already fulfilled, Morgana. You don’t need him anymore.”

“I…” Morgan admitted she had thought about that before. But hearing it out loud made it impossible to dismiss.

Yet to betray Caster outright—

“What are you afraid of? Even if you ordered him to kill himself, you’d likely never see him again. It’s not as if he could take revenge.” Seeing her sister still unconvinced, Anna sighed and took Morgan’s hand gently. “I only want you safe. Afterall… we only have each other, Morgana.”

“I know.” Morgan forced a fragile smile. “I know you’re only thinking of me.”

The bartender arrived with a fresh dish of bar snacks, pausing their conversation for a moment.

“So, have you asked what his wish is?” Anna studied her sister’s face carefully. “No? I thought so.”

Morgan exhaled, sheepish. “No.”

Anna gave a wry, half-playful smile. “You never thought it might be world domination?”

Morgan froze. She remembered the dream, the raging black fire that consumed everything.

Anna caught the flicker in her sister’s expression. “So it is possible, isn’t it? Your Servant is a villain.”

Morgan didn’t want to argue, but she couldn’t help thinking of--

--that same black flame that had once smoldered in her own heart.

The endless anger. The venom that lashed out at everything. The loathing and contempt that had nowhere to go, that burned and burned without ever finding release… memories that belonged to Caster.

But they could have been hers.

In fact, she was almost certain that if Ruther hadn’t been killed so early, if she had been forced to go on enduring, she would have carried that very same fire.

She would have become something else, something made of malice and hatred.

If not for Caster.

So she shook her head. “I don’t know.”

She didn’t know which question she was answering. Maybe none of them.

Anna let the silence hang, idly sorting through the pile of nachos for a bit, then shifted to a more practical concern for her sister.

“What is he planning now? If he’s joined this Grail War, he must be moving toward something.”

Morgan rubbed her hands together. “He’s building a workshop. He wants to wait until the war progresses further, to gather some information he’s after.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.” Anna frowned. “You do realize how suspicious that sounds?”

Morgan lifted her gaze, her expression the same as when she was younger, when she sought her sister’s strength.

“It sounds very much like--” Anna turned her face aside, hesitated, then looked back. “Perhaps I’m being paranoid. Or unfair.”

“Don’t say that.” Morgan squeezed her hand before Anna could sink into self-reproach.

“It sounds very much like he’s just waiting for the chance to meet another Master… and replace you.” Anna’s wording was cautious, but they both knew “replace” probably wouldn’t leave Morgan alive.

Morgan said nothing. Her sister was right. Caster could easily do that. In stories, it wasn’t uncommon for a Servant to kill their own Master and make a new contract with another. He had never been satisfied with her. And though he wore a mask of courtesy, Morgan could still sense the deep-rooted disdain he had for “Muggles.”

  Sensing her sister’s turmoil, Anna excused herself to order another round.

When the new drinks arrived, she asked quietly, “So. His true name, what is it? This sorcerer who kills so smoothly and might wish to rule the world.”

“He hasn’t told me.”

Anna let out a skeptical, half-joking laugh. “A man who won’t even tell you his name.”

She shook her head. “Honestly, Morgan, from everything you’ve said, I don’t see a single reason to trust him, or to risk so much for him.”

Morgan knew she was right. She often thought the same herself. But to order Caster’s death now, to betray him like this… it felt wrong.

Morgan couldn’t tell if that “wrong” was from her infallible instinct, or the “girlish sentimentality” Ruther had always mocked her for.

“I… I’m not sure.”

Anna gave a crooked smile. “Do you know what you sound like?”

A dramatic pause--

“Like someone scammed by a toxic boyfriend, too stubborn to dump him.”

Morgan burst out laughing, the tension breaking. “Honestly? He is planning to spend a lot of my money.”

“Then isn’t that all the more reason to dump him before he really drains you?” Anna replied with good humor. Finally, her expression softened, and she leaned closer. “Listen, Morgana. I won’t force you to make a decision. Everything I’ve said is only from the standpoint of someone who loves you and worries for you. Whatever...whatever you decide, I’ll always stand by you.” Anna’s hand rested warmly on her sister’s shoulder. “You can always come to me. You know that, don’t you?”

Grateful, Morgan nodded and leaned into her sister’s embrace, savoring that rare moment of sisterly warmth.

Severus Snape (Team Lancer)

“Where have you been?” Snape lifted his head, displeasure etched into every syllable, as Loki strolled back after spending most of the day loitering about.

The din of the city outside was already more than enough to fray his nerves, and now the Lancer returned reeking of alcohol--worse, of perfume mingled with it.

Loki only shrugged, humming some tuneless melody as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Snape muttered a curse under his breath. “Bloody Norseman.”

So far, their search for other Masters had yielded nothing. Loki’s brand of mysticism, so uncannily reminiscent of Dumbledore’s maddening opacity, tested Snape’s patience daily. And the Servant’s habit of vanishing on a whim, relying on those winged shoes, hardly helped.

At least the other safehouses of the Order of the Phoenix were being established without incident. Still, it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord turned his attention to them.

Balancing between both sides, calculating how best to keep the Order’s losses to a minimum, had consumed more of his mind than he cared to admit.

If the boy had an ounce of sense, he would remain at Hogwarts where he belongs. But of course, sense has never been Potter’s strongest suit. He could only hope...

Snape pressed his fingers hard against his temple. Perhaps, after all, he needed a drink too.

Morgan Faye (Team Caster)

“I’m back.”

Morgan called out casually. The Command Seal prickled faintly against her skin, each pulse reminding her of the treacherous thought that had been fermenting in her mind. Instinctively, she avoided Caster’s gaze.

She could feel his eyes linger on her, heavy and sharp, as though he could peel back every layer of her facade.

For one suspended moment, she nearly yielded to the fear, to the doubt, nearly spent a Command Seal right there and then.

At last, Caster said, “It’s late. Go rest.”

Relief loosened the tight coil in her chest. She conjured up a flawless smile and replied lightly, “You too. Get some rest.” And with that, she slipped away.

Caster stood silently at his Master’s bedside, his eyes glimmering crimson in the dark.

He knew how simple it would be. He had done it countless times before.

One incantation. Six syllables. And every potential complication would vanish.

He turned the wand slowly between his fingers, lost in thought.

Chapter Text

05

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

Harry and Ron were polishing off their second drumstick when Hermione all but collapsed between them, hair a wild mess, arms full of books, eyes bleary with exhaustion.

“Arithmancy still rough today?” Ron teased, handing her a goblet of pumpkin juice.

Hermione gave him a grateful look, caught her breath, and glanced around.

“Where’s Arthur?”

Ron jerked his chin toward the far end of the table. Arthur was standing there with a plate in hand, hopelessly detained by a cluster of younger girls who had intercepted him mid-journey. “Over there. Looks like he’s about to dethrone you as the school’s most popular bloke, mate.”

“Thank goodness.” Harry glanced over with a crooked smile, looking up from the book he’d been reading.

“Don’t tell me Saber’s still tagging along to lessons with you,” Ginny said from across the table, brows arched in amusement.

“Of course he is. You wouldn’t believe how curious he is about magic. So. Many. Questions. For a second I thought we’d got another Hermione in our year.” Ron pulled a face.

“Hey!” Hermione elbowed him.

Ron yelped but wasn’t about to drop it. “Honestly, it’s like Hermione-itis—completely contagious. For Mer-- ah, whatever. Harry, do you really need to read while you’re eating?

Harry shrugged and shut the book. “Arthur’s curious about Merlin. I figured I could, you know, learn a bit more, give us more to talk about.”

“So that’s the reason you’ve ditched that favourite curse of yours? Because it happens to be Saber’s old fellow?” Ginny raised an eyebrow at her brother.

“Sort of. You didn’t see his face the first time I blurted it out. It was like he’d seen a ghost. Actually--no, he didn’t even look that rattled the first time he saw an actual ghost.”

“Or, maybe that’s because the one you used was ‘Merlin’s pants’?” Hermione happily threw Ron under the Knight Bus. “But yes, he really is interested in Merlin. The other night during practice he kept us talking for ages about the Merlin in our history, and how the Merlin he remembers differs from ours. Makes me kind of want to meet the man myself. Too bad it looks like he won’t be summoned this time.”

Harry nodded.

He still remembered fragments from his dreams--every single one of them touched by that dark-haired, blue-eyed figure.

Arthur’s fascination with magic, with history--Harry knew Arthur was, in the end, hunting for someone’s shadow in all of it. As though the more he learned, the closer he could draw to that person.

Harry glanced again toward Arthur.

“Oh no!” He shot to his feet and strode off.

“What?” Ron looked up, then smacked his own forehead. “Oh, bloody hell!”

“--You need only grace us for a little while, I promise, I won’t let you be disappointed--”

“Sorry, Professor Slughorn, but Saber and I already have plans. Thank you for the offer, though!” Harry shouldered into the knot of students, wearing his politest smile as he cut short Slughorn’s remarkably persistent invitation.

“Quite so. Grateful for the honor, but I’m afraid I can’t attend. Training and the like… I trust you understand.” Arthur let out a quiet breath of relief and, picking up where Harry left off, delivered it in his most regal, by-the-book manner.

Slughorn looked crestfallen, though Harry knew perfectly well how good he was at wielding his “poor old man” card to get what he wanted. Harry reminded himself not to fall for it.

“Enjoy your lunch, Professor,” Harry said through a fixed smile, and tugged Arthur away.

At last seated beside Harry again, Arthur exhaled deeply in genuine relief. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Don’t mention it. I know how persistent he can be.” Harry grimaced at the memory.

“So, how are you today?” Ginny asked, friendly as ever.

Arthur’s gaze flicked a little at Ginny. Ever since learning Mr. Weasley was named Arthur and had named his daughter Ginevra, the way Arthur looked at Ginny had been… odd; today it was better. “Fairly well. In fact, I’ve had a few more ideas for Harry’s training tonight.”

“No offense,” Hermione said, laying down her cutlery, “but will drilling Harry in physical combat really help in a Holy Grail War? I’d assume most enemies will be using magic.”

Arthur nodded. “Which is why tonight I’d like Harry to work on his non-verbal spells--”

Harry covered his face with a groan. Looking constipated over non-verbals between classes with no results was bad enough, now more after dark?

“This morning’s Transfiguration reminded me of how Merlin used to cast, how he did it quietly and secretly when he didn’t want me to notice. I think it might help Harry with his non-verbals.”

To Harry’s deeper despair, Hermione nodded vigorously. “Not telegraphing your incantation on a battlefield would be a real advantage.”

Ron’s expression was tragic. “Tell me we’ve got something else to do, Hermione. Please say we’ve got something else.”

“As it happens, we do.” Hermione flashed a foxlike smile and drew an invitation from her bag. “Slughorn invited me as well. Unfortunately, unlike Harry, I’ve no good excuse to turn him down. And you, Ronald, will be accompanying me.”

“Don’t call me that, makes me think of my mum.” Ron shuddered. Brilliant. A Blast-Ended Skrewt on one side and a slug on the other, did he really have to pick?

“Unless, of course, you’d rather I invited someone else. I’m sure McLaggen would be delighted--”

“Don’t even think about it!” Ron snapped, snatching the card from her hand.

Hermione looked thoroughly satisfied.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty!” “How fares Your Grace today?”

The Weasley twins materialized to flank Arthur, one on each side.

Arthur had grown used to the pair’s antics. “Well enough. What are you two plotting now?”

“Shouldn’t you be running your shop?” Ron protested. “How did you even waltz back into school?”

“A shop’s got nothing on a Grail War.” “It’s not every day you see King Arthur at Hogwarts.”

“And besides, dear baby brother,” “Hogwarts doesn’t seem to mind us as overage students, so why should you?”

They turned back to Arthur. “In fact, we were wondering if His Majesty might care to—” “—play another round of Quidditch?”

Arthur-Competitive Sports Enthusiast-Pendragon, was very easy to persuade. He nodded, about to say more, when something at the edge of his vision made him freeze; he sprang to his feet, hooked an arm around one twin, and blurted, “How about right now? Come on, come on!” Then he all but bolted.

George waved at Harry as he followed. “We’ll be off then, Captain.”

Ginny looked around, puzzled, then gaped. “Why is Saber… hiding from Hagrid?”

Harry gave a snort of laughter and nearly inhaled his pumpkin juice. Coughing it back out, he began to explain.

“You know how Hagrid is about magical creatures. Passionate would be… the polite word.”

His friends nodded.

“Well, Arthur’s got loads of first-hand experience with them. Seen a lot. So you can imagine how excited Hagrid gets when he finds someone else who knows that much.”

Faces around the table said “and therefore?” Harry pulled a face right back.

“The thing is, Arthur’s personal experience with magical creatures is… mostly about how to kill them.”

The table erupted in laughter, drawing looks from other Houses; they reined it in.

Ginny popped the last bite of pudding into her mouth, dusted off her hands, and stood. “Playing Quidditch with King Arthur sounds fun. I’m going to crash that.”

The trio chorused their goodbyes.

Harry watched the way she went. Students came and went from the Great Hall at the usual lunchtime pace. Everything was ordinary. Day-to-day life, save for the living legend at his side, seemed absolutely unchanged.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione, as always, noticed first.

“Nothing,” he said, distracted, then slowly pulled his thoughts back. “Nothing. It’s just…”

He prodded the wreckage of his trifle. “The Grail War’s been underway for a while now, and I feel like I’ve done nothing--”

“That’s not fair,” Hermione began, meaning to reassure him.

Harry shook his head. “I mean, what’s the Order actually doing? How far along is Snape in London? What’s our next move? Is there anything I can do besides sit tight at Hogwarts? No one’s told me--any of it. Everyone’s still keeping everything from me, just like before.”

His voice was getting hotter; Hermione shot a nervous glance around.

“Be patient, Harry. I’m sure once their base is ready you’ll be the one out moving and actively seeking targets. Setting a base takes time,” she said, soothingly rational.

Harry didn’t look soothed. He raked a hand through his fringe. “And I don’t think Arthur’s in fight-mode at all.”

Hermione wore a knowing smile that clearly hid something. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked.

“I don’t think Arthur’s as calm as he looks,” Hermione said, enjoying the tease. “If only you two could manage to be up at dawn.”

Seeing their curiosity properly hooked, she finally gave it up.

“Have you really not noticed? Arthur patrols the castle every morning before sunrise, and he’s out by the lake practicing with his sword at first light. Honestly, Harry, I thought you’d be a more observant Master.”

Harry blinked. He really hadn’t known.

Then he sagged. “Brilliant. Now I feel like I’m the only deadweight in this whole Grail War.”

Ron laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. Don’t load yourself down yet. It’s not time, and there’s no point fretting yourself sick. If you ask me, you’d be better off playing a few more Quidditch matches with Saber, build up that Master–Servant rhythm.”

Harry finally relaxed a fraction and managed a wan smile. “You might be right.”

Chapter Text

06

Cadmus Peverell? (Team Berserker)

“Though it does split our strength at each point, we believe that a rapid, simultaneous blitz across all fronts will ensure the most decisive strike against every last stronghold of the Order of the Phoenix,” Yaxley concluded.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes swept the plan parchment in unnerving silence. After a long, suffocating pause that made every Death Eater in the chamber quake, he finally set it aside. “Very well. See to it that you do not disappoint me… again.”

“Never, my Lord! You have my word!” Bellatrix cried, frantic with eagerness.

That, of course, drew a laugh from Berserker. The harsh, jarring sound made several Death Eaters spin around in terror, trying to find where it came from.

Voldemort merely murmured, “Dismissed.”

They filed out from the room at once (save Bellatrix, who had to be bodily dragged away by her husband).

When at last the chamber was clear, Voldemort turned his gaze toward a shadowed corner.

“I see... It seems even my wards cannot keep you out.”

Berserker’s voice came lilting and mocking. “Oh, how wounded I am. Here I thought we were allies. Imagine my heartbreak, finding out there’s a party, and I’m the only one not invited. Workplace bullying, Tom. Very unbecoming.”

“Do not call me that,” Voldemort hissed.

Strictly speaking, Berserker ought to have been present--an ally, after all--but his constant interruptions were intolerable. Voldemort, however, would not admit that aloud. It would only gratify him.

“Have you truly nothing better to do?” Voldemort asked with the faintest trace of weariness.

“What, like a fireside chat with that pet peacock? Honestly, I expected you’d be more direct. I don’t know--storm Hogwarts, blast through the wards, drag Harry Potter out by the scruff…”

Wonderful. Berserker had clearly slipped into one of his talkative spells--proof enough that he was bored out of his mind.

Wait...

“…Barriers don’t hold you,” Voldemort mused.

Berserker paused. Voldemort’s wards would never have held him, but no way he’d hand over the reason. “You could say that,” he drawled.

“Since you’ve nothing better to do than loiter about, perhaps… you can run an errand for me.”

“Oh?” Berserker perked up with interest.

“You will go to the Black family’s old house and fetch me a golden locket, marked with the shape of an S. You should recognize it... if you truly are Cadmus Peverell.”

“Mmh.” Berserker made a noncommittal sound.

“It is unlikely, but possible, that the traitor failed to destroy it. In such a case, he would have kept it close. Search the entire Black family home--tear it apart if you must, raze it to the ground if you prefer. Even if it is not there… I want every possibility ruled out.

“And another thing. Go to Hogwarts. The eighth floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy--”

“I know. The Room of Requirement.”

Voldemort stilled for a fraction of a second. He had believed himself among the precious few who knew of that secret. With feigned composure, he pressed on.

“Ask it for the Room of Hidden Things. There you will find a faded diadem.”

“Suppose I slip inside in Spirit Form. Have you given any thought to how I’m meant to walk out again with your trinkets in hand?” Berserker slouched lazily into the chair at Voldemort’s right.

“That will not be my problem.”

“I quit. I’m on strike.” Berserker tossed it out like a brat throwing a tantrum, yet the refusal beneath his drawl was deadly serious.

He had no idea what would happen if Voldemort reclaimed the remaining Horcruxes.

…And yet, even if he did not, his own life had hardly been spared by their absence. The shadows wreathing him coiled tighter, almost imperceptibly.

The sigil on Voldemort’s wrist began to burn. “I thought you would prefer I not waste a Command Seal.” The glow died away. “Very well. I’ll send others. But know this--” His voice was silken, but dripped with threat to both destinations.

Berserker’s haze stilled.

“…Fine. I’ll go. But I can’t promise your precious toys will make it back in one piece.”

He had never imagined that, in death, he would once again step foot into this house.

In his spirit form, Berserker suspended in the entrance hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Pitch darkness. Damp, dusty, the air thick with a sickly-sweet stench of rot.

Different, and yet the same, from the days when Kreacher had bustled about, keeping every corner immaculate.

Though Berserker had changed beyond recognition, the house still knew him. It let him in.

He had once endured a long, bitter stretch here, skulking in corners like a beaten dog, hunted by those he once thought of as friends…

He stopped himself.

Now was not the time to dwell on that. Oblivion Correction was torment enough; there was no need to invite more pain.

Drifting silently, he moved toward the cupboard that had once been Kreacher’s den.

He knew Kreacher was at Hogwarts now. The house stood empty.

And he knew as well, the locket had not yet been stolen by Mundungus Fletcher--

Then came the oddest sensation.

Passing through Hampshire*, he had already felt the flow of magical energy faltering, as though his supply were straining. But once inside Grimmauld Place, his strength swelled, more abundant than before.

Something was guiding him, pulling him toward the locket. And it was clearly not only because he still carried--

Berserker bent down, carefully lifted the locket from beneath a pile of rags and broken trinkets. It shivered faintly in his hand, resonating with something within him.

Perhaps he didn’t even need to sabotage this task. Berserker ponders. Perhaps carrying them as a pocket power supply would suffice.

Once the locket was in his grasp, he could no longer shift into spirit form. He walked straight for the door.

Crossing the hallway, the unnatural silence made him pause.

He couldn’t help but flick his eyes toward the portrait of Sirius’s mother. The old woman was cowering at the edge of her frame, trembling.

A cruel whim for mischief seized him. Berserker let the shroud of black mist peel back, baring a grotesque smile. Then he strode away, leaving Walburga Black muttering in terror behind him.

“It can’t be him…”

Hogwarts, like Grimmauld Place, welcomed him as though he were still a student.

It was class time, so the corridors were thinly peopled. To be safe, Berserker cloaked the black haze and adjusted his appearance, ever so slightly.

Once you had found something once, finding it again would only be easier.

But as Berserker stepped out of the Room of Requirement, his path was unexpectedly blocked.

“Harry!” A bright voice called from the far end of the hall.

Berserker turned, swiftly slipping the diadem up his sleeve.

Colin Creevey. He remembered the boy as he had last seen him, lifeless, among the rubble of Hogwarts.

The pressure of his presence softened. “Colin.”

“Harry--isn’t King Arthur with you?”

So. Harry Potter summoning King Arthur had already become a public secret at Hogwarts. Perfect.

“No. I had other business, so I came ahead.”

“How nice…” Colin said, starry-eyed, then seemed to remember himself. “Harry! I just wanted to say, good luck! Well...I was actually planning to write a full analysis of your summoning, but Professor Sinistra asked me to run an errand, so… next time, okay? Oh, Neville!”

Berserker’s eyes flashed sharp for an instant.

He had once hated Neville for standing aside in the moment of decision, but in the end, it was Neville who had risked his life to buy him an escape.

Seeing him again now was… complicated.

“Colin.” Neville nodded to him in passing, then looked directly at Berserker. “Harry! I thought you were down on the Quidditch pitch.”

“I was. But I came up early.” Berserker shifted casually, blocking the window that overlooked the field.

“Ah, I see. Hm… maybe it’s just me, but… I get the feeling you’re a little taller than yesterday*.”

“Shoes,” Berserker said offhandedly. And precisely because it was so casual, it rang utterly convincing.

Neville nodded, satisfied, though he lingered awkwardly, as though debating whether to speak.

Berserker was already rehearsing his excuse to leave when Neville finally blurted:

“Harry, I know… the D.A. isn’t active anymore. But… the Holy Grail War, right? If you need help, any kind of help, you know we’re still here. Always. Right?”

Berserker froze. The black mist roared up within him, threatening to erupt like magma. He forced it down, grinding it into silence.

At last, he faked a bright, easy smile. “Of course. Thank you, Neville. That means a lot to me.”

Neville flushed scarlet. “Well, anyway. That’s all. I’ll get going.”

“See you.”

Once Neville’s figure vanished at the far end of the corridor, Berserker glanced outside.

On the pitch, golden and black heads dove in unison, chasing a Snitch.

Maybe letting Voldemort kill him wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. At least then he wouldn’t have to go through all THAT. At least, to his dying breath, he’d still be… like this.

His fist tightened. The diadem’s metal bit into his palm. He ran through the secret passageways in his mind, then set off at a brisk pace.

Never, in death, had he imagined walking these corridors again as a student. Never imagined being treated… as though he were still Harry Potter. It was--

This feeling was--

Utterly revolting/nostalgic!

Morgan Faye (Team Caster)

“Morgana! Morgana, help me! She’s a fake… she’s a fake… fake… fake…”

A pitch-black room.

Her sister collapsed on the floor.

Blood...

Hair red as fire.

Morgan bolted upright, her long hair damp with cold sweat.

“Caster! Caster!”

Caster, who had been lurking by the bedside about to indulge in some “villainy”, had already dissolved into spirit form the moment he noticed her eyes flickering beneath their lids. Now he floated back in, deliberately late, before solidifying again.

“You had better have a very good reason for--oh!”

Morgan’s trembling arms seized him in a desperate embrace.

Caster froze as if struck, stiffer than iron, emitting sharp hisses (perhaps a curse). If she hadn’t been too shaken to pay attention, she would have thought she was embracing a nest of snakes.

Only when her breathing steadied and she released him, did Caster finally relax.

“Now. Explain,” he ordered coldly, with the air of one asking why she’d lost her mind.

“I think…” Morgan’s voice still shook, her thoughts racing. She snatched up her phone and fired off a message.

“Was tonight’s invitation your idea?”

Mordred’s reply was instant, clearly still awake, up to his usual night-owl habits.

what’s wrong?
uh … did you figure something out?
sorry
we were just worried abt you
didn’t mean to make a side group w/out u

Morgan’s heart pounded with each message, none of them the answer she wanted.

Just tell me whose idea it was.

we were talking abt how to cheer u up
then Morgause dropped this address
she said it’d feel less heavy if it came from a friend, so i was the one who texted
and yeah… thinking back, she was also the first to say you must’ve been upset…

Morgan killed the screen, drew a long, shaking breath, and pressed her damp eyes.

As she feared.

“Caster…” Her voice cracked. “I think--I think something’s happened to my sister.”

Caster conjured a chair and sat down.

“From the beginning. Everything.”

Morgan skipped lightly over her talk with Anna, but recounted in detail her outing, and then the nightmare.

“I wondered if it was after I saw her… but my gut tells me otherwise. And after I asked Mordred--I just... I don’t know anymore.”

“You believe the dream was real.”

Morgan nodded, still pale. “Sometimes… I get dreams. And later they all turn out true. This was one of them. I could tell.”

Caster looked anything but surprised.

“As I suspected.”

“…What?” Morgan blinked.

“You are not without magic. Well, perhaps more precise to say... you have all the aptitudes for it. The sensitivity... the link to magical forces... everything suggests you should wield magic.”

“But you don’t.” / “But I don’t.” They spoke in unison.

“Exactly.” Caster inclined his head. “A pity. You would have made a formidable Seer.”

Morgan’s whisper was dazed: “How can this be…” Then, shaking herself, she pressed on. “But what does it mean for her? My sister--”

“--Has already been taken. And the red-haired woman you saw--the imposter--is almost certainly another Servant.”

“Not a Master?” Morgan asked, then immediately shook her head. “Right. She was too perfect. If it weren’t for that dream… I’d never have suspected--”

“We have to rescue her.” Morgan’s gaze hardened, locking on Caster.

“No.” Caster said, voice icy.

Morgan straightened, stunned, bracing to argue.

But Caster’s tone remained calm. “You know Fate, so you should know a Caster’s strength hinges on their workshop. At present, ours isn’t set up yet to store mana. Rushing into battle now would be nothing short of suicide. However--”

Morgan kept her eyes fixed on Caster, unwavering, until he let a slow, wicked smile unfurl across his face.

“--that doesn’t mean you can’t take other measures of reprisal.”

He rose. “You pride yourself on your acting, don’t you?”

Realisation dawned. Morgan’s mouth curled into a smile just as wicked. “You mean--”

Caster dipped his head slightly, “Let us humor them in this little play--and see that they walk neatly into the jaws of the trap.”

“We’ll make them pay,” Morgan said savagely. “Won’t we?”

They shared the grin of co-conspirators.

Then, just as quickly, worry stole back across Morgan’s face. “But until then, my sister, will she be safe?”

Caster at first ignored the question. But as he reached the door he paused, flicked his wrist, and conjured parchment, ink, and tools.

“Arithmancy. Magic of numbers and probability. I’m no Seer; the results won’t be… as vivid.”

Relief softened Morgan’s face, breaking into the first true smile of the night.

Chapter Text

07

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

“And then I said to him, ‘Come on, take a seat.’” Arthur replayed the memory with an exaggerated flourish.

Harry burst out laughing, hiccupping mid-guffaw with a burp that still carried the tang of roasted meat. The two of them, dizzy and overstuffed, leaned on each other for balance as they crawled out from behind the painting of a bowl of fruit.

“So you actually ate rats? You and Merlin?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Indeed. Looking back, I brought it upon myself.” Arthur shrugged it off.

They strolled down the stone corridor toward Gryffindor Tower.

After training that evening, guessing Ron and Hermione were still busy at the party, they had decided midway to raid the kitchens. The house-elves, as always, had been absurdly eager to overfeed them.

Harry tilted his head back, slipping into thought.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur caught the shift in his mood.

“Nothing.” Harry answered absently, still thinking. “Just… well, it struck me. A Heroic Spirit… it’s someone whose life was crammed with glorious deeds, with adventures that became legends and stories. That’s what a real hero is supposed to look like, right? But me? I don’t know.”

He dragged a hand through his hopeless hair. “They call me ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ ‘The Chosen One’… as if that made me a hero, but for what? All for some blasted prophecy hardly anyone actually knows the words to? And I wasn’t even the only candidate for it! Who I really am, what I’ve actually done, what I’d have to become to fulfil this ‘destiny’--not a single damn person cares! And I’m not. I know I’m not. I have done nothing remarkable, and I’m not the sort of person who ever will. I don’t even want this damned fate — being forced either to kill or to be killed!”

A harsh little laugh slipped from him. “And you know what? Deep down, I know they think it too. That’s why no one ever bothers to tell me anything--what the plan is, what’s been decided, what’s actually happening.  Just like always! They never think I deserve to know. Everyone has their part, their plan, their place in all of this. Everyone except—hah—me! Hermione told me you’ve been training every day as well… You--you’re what a real hero looks like. Even born under a prophecy of your own! And me--I just don’t know.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he finished bitterly.

No sooner had the words left him than regret stabbed through. Of all people, why had he dumped this on King Arthur? If anyone deserved to bear his bottled fury, it wasn’t him.

But Arthur only laughed, clapping him on the back with the good cheer of a knight (with enough force to send Harry stumbling forward).

“Oh, Harry,” Arthur said warmly, still chuckling. “You put too much weight on yourself. I know the feeling, believe me. Before a tournament, I was ten times as anxious.”

“Let me tell you something else.” His voice grew quieter, more solemn, touched with a wistful fondness. “The first time I met Merlin, he called me a prat. Royal prat, actually.”

Harry’s expression amused him enough to go on. “And in hindsight, he was right. I wasn’t a hero. I thought I was at the time, but I wasn’t. Honestly, I was probably much worse than you. I didn’t know a thing about destiny--not until the very end, when I was already dying, that I learned of the prophecy, that I realised… magic had been beside me all along.

“Afterwards… maybe it was Merlin guiding me, I’ll never know how much of those deeds was actually his doing. But I still believe that doesn’t erase the choices that were mine--the battles I fought, the victories that became my so-called legend. None of it felt extraordinary while I lived it. In the moment it was just like what you’re feeling now. Stand up, fight, win, and that’s it. I never knew of any prophecy, and I never did a single thing for the sake of ‘destiny.’ I did them because I thought, because I believed, they were the right thing to do.”

He turned to Harry, blue eyes earnest. “And that’s what you’re doing too. Not because a prophecy commands you, but because you know it’s right.”

Arthur smiled again. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, how often you vanish into the library and Dumbledore’s office. You’re no burden, Harry. In fact, this Master-Servant pair has more in common than you think.”

Harry couldn’t help but return the smile.

He was about to shift the conversation onto something lighter, but the moment Harry opened his mouth, his words died.

Years of escaping death had honed a brutal instinct, and right now it screamed in his skull: Danger! Danger! Danger!

At the same instant, Arthur stopped too, both of them scanning the corridor. Harry’s hand closed stealthily around his wand.

The hallway, alive a moment ago with distant student chatter, had fallen into absolute silence. Even his own breathing felt deafening.

Drip.

Harry’s head snapped toward the sound. Empty stone, empty corridor, nothing more, but he would swear--

“Did you hear that?” he asked, glancing toward Arthur--only to find the knight had vanished. One heartbeat ago Arthur had stood at his side. Now, nothing.

Harry swallowed his unfinished words, tightening his grip on the wand, senses flaring outward, straining to catch the slightest flicker of movement. Every nerve was taut, ready to spring.

Drip.

Again.

The sound had shifted--first behind him, now behind him again, but from the opposite side.

It had circled him. And he hadn’t felt a thing.

Harry followed the sound, pressing toward the wall. It was too perfect, like the mechanical drip of a recording.

He raised his wand, stretched out trembling fingers, inching toward the stone wall. Two inches. One.

Rough, dry stone grazed his fingertips.

Relief began to slip in--

Drip.

Another sound. This time from further down the corridor, the darkness ahead.

This all feels a bit too familiar…

Harry quipped.

It was obviously a trap. But sitting around waiting for the axe to fall wasn’t an option either.

Trouble shows up, you deal with it. That had always been his answer to life-and-death. Servants might not be the same as wizards, but the logic still held.

He hated going in blind; the only way to get answers was to keep moving forward.

It wasn’t all that late; there ought to have been plenty of students still wandering about. And yet, as Harry made his way forward, he found himself utterly alone. Not even a ghost drifted into sight. That kind of emptiness could only be the work of a Servant’s interference.

The staircase ahead wound upward from the first to the second floor. A thin veil of mist spilled down from above. At the bottom it was only a light haze, but the higher it rose, the denser it grew, until the landing at the top was swallowed entirely.

With each step Harry climbed, the sound of water grew louder--what began as scattered droplets soon gathered into a steady patter, and then into the low rush of running water. By the time he reached the second floor, it had become the clear, continuous roar of a faucet left open.

No... Something was wrong. This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t an illusion--somewhere, water really was running.

Threaded through the sound of water came another noise: faint, distant, the sobbing of a woman. His first thought leapt to Moaning Myrtle. But no, the timbre was different.

Myrtle’s wails were shrill, piercing. This was lower, restrained, the kind of muffled grief that comes from an adult forcing back her tears, only to fail. A sorrow so deep it threatened to drown itself.

By chance, or design, the sobs led him back to the second-floor girls’ lavatory. Water was seeping out beneath the door. And that soft weeping came from within. The scene was almost laughably familiar.

Tightening his grip on his wand, Harry pushed against the door with its battered “Out of Order” sign.

The hinges creaked, and the crying cut off at once.

No one was inside. Not even Myrtle. Pale moonlight streamed through the fog-bound window, scattering into shafts by the mist.

Harry stepped forward, gaze sweeping across the burst pipes spraying water. Judging by the state of the pipes, the Chamber beneath must by now be flooding like a lake.

He kept his stance ready, every sense straining for the source of the voice.

Silence.

And then--

A sob broke behind him. Gentle though it was, it cracked through his skull like thunder. Harry froze.

Because he heard it.

His name. Whispered through tears.

“Harry.”

The voice was strange, yet achingly familiar.

“Mum…” The word slipped from his lips unbidden.

Unlike the howling nightmares the Dementors brought, this voice carried no horror, no chill. No, it... it made Harry sad. Filled by sorrow--endless, fathomless, bone-deep sorrow.

Like a mother torn forever from her child, never to watch them grow, never to hold them when they needed her.

Like a young life cut short, trapped forever in a single instant.

All the should-have-beens, all the might-have-beens. Heartbreaking.

And beneath it all, the kind of longing that could tear a soul to pieces. That longing called to him.

As though enchanted, Harry stepped closer, and closer still, toward the pool spreading across the floor.

Upon the water’s surface a face appeared: Lily Evans, just as he had once seen her in the Mirror of Erised. Red hair, eyes the same green as his, bright with intelligence, so very, very beautiful.

“Mum.”

The reflection smiled, warm and full of love.

“Come, my child.”

And in Harry’s heart bloomed a profound calm--death’s own peace, death’s quiet embrace.

Severus Snape (Team Lancer)

Another half-hour wasted trading pointless words with that insufferable Mad-Eye Moody--over the damned fire, no less--and the Order had finally, begrudgingly, agreed on a plan to move Harry Potter from Hogwarts to the Burrow.

Snape rolled his stiff shoulders, trying to ease the ache out of them.

That blasted Servant had disappeared again.

His fatigue deepened into irritation. He suppressed it--once, twice, and a third time--before allowing the quietest sigh to escape.

Tea, perhaps. He thought. Or something stronger.

He moved on without a flicker of change, every step measured, unhurried. At the turn of the corridor, he slipped into the blind corner, vanishing from sight.

The next second--

Thwip!

An arrow tore across his cheek, close enough to draw blood, and splintered into the plaster behind him.

Just a wooden shaft, etched with curious markings. A Muggle’s crude armament, so ordinary it was almost grotesque.

And yet Snape had no doubt at all--had his reflexes faltered by even a breath, that wooden arrow, so seemingly harmless to a wizard, would have ended him.

There was no need for deduction. Only one enemy could have loosed that shot. Archer.

The attack, while sudden, fell neatly within Snape’s own predictions. It was, after all, why he had consented to walk into London, as both a Death Eater and a member of the Order.

He activated the hidden trigger of the first ward (special against physical attacks) he had laid here long ago.

The air cracked as another arrow hissed forth. The ward met it, halted it--only for a few miserable milliseconds--before shattering into glimmering shards before his eyes.

Damn it. How? How was it finding him even within the blind angles?

To breach the first layer so effortlessly, there had to be a force bound to that shaft. Magic, perhaps… or something else entirely.

Gritting against the strain, he snapped his wrist and hurled a metal badge into the air.

The badge arced upward, only to be shattered by an arrow that very instant, the breaking metal snapping open the room’s second line of defense.

A heartbeat later, the barrier flared--only for the arrow to pass through it like mist and drive on toward him. His instincts as a seasoned spy saved him a second time, but his left arm was not so fortunate.

Able to strike through blind angles, to tear apart physical wards, and yet not wholly of magic either, for it can slip past the second layer as if it were nothing. Who in the hells was this Archer?

The disparity was staggering. Overwhelming. Is this the power of a Servant?

Snape knew the truth instantly: there was no victory here, not by his hand. His only hope lay in holding the line, stalling long enough for Lancer to return, long enough for survival.

--Stay alive.

He swiped the blood from his jaw with the back of his hand and shifted again, gliding through shadow. He needed to reach the point where the third ward had been laid.

That blasted Servant. Where had he vanished to?

He knew, with a rational precision, how little longer he could endure. The awareness unsettled him.

Would he truly be forced to spend his only Command Seal here, just to escape with his life?

Chapter Text

08

Arthur Pendragon (Team Saber)

Arthur raised his sword in one hand, shielding Harry with the other as he stepped forward. He scanned the corridor ahead with careful vigilance; finding nothing, he turned back and said quietly:

“Stay close.”

It was then he realised the boy who had been right behind him--a glimpse of black hair caught at the edge of his vision only a heartbeat ago--had vanished without trace, as if he had never stood there at all.

Though this was far from the first time such things had happened, Arthur still felt a flicker of unease, if only for the barest fraction of a second. He had never fared well against magical assaults; if Harry had come to harm because of that--

If Merlin were here--

He cut the thought short at once. Merlin was not here.

From a distance, a white mist rolled toward him without a sound.

Arthur tightened his grip on his sword and advanced cautiously into the fog. Of course it was a trap, but declining this ill-meant invitation would solve nothing.

Soon the mist swallowed him whole.

Inside the haze, there was nothing but endless white. No corridors, no stairwells, as though they had all been erased. Arthur had fallen for it often enough to recognise it now: these were little more than ghostly veils, tricks of sight. And if you trusted them, you’d end up stepping out a window or off a cliff that was still very much there.

He retraced his steps in memory, forcing every footfall to land with care.

The sound of water welled from afar. Damp mist seeped through the links of his chainmail and chilled his skin with clammy discomfort.

As he pressed on, the water’s murmur warped, mingling with something else: a distorted susurrus, half wind, half a creature’s grotesque keening.

Closer still, and the sound sharpened, forming the cadence of words, whispered endlessly, though never clear enough to catch.

Arthur knew the change was coming.

And right on cue--

“Arthur!”

The voice exploded behind him.

He mastered the instinct to flinch, swung his sword--and cut nothing.

Instead he faced the furious countenance of his father, Uther.

His memories had always painted his father in anger. Perhaps it was only natural; the last time he had ever seen him, Uther’s eyes had been seething with hatred and disappointment.

“Arthur, how dare you! You shame me utterly!”

Arthur met the phantom’s glare with calm, his gaze steady, eyes dark. “Yes. I know.”

One casual stroke of the sword, and the vision dissolved.

He walked on.

“Arthur.”

This voice made him halt. Familiar, yet almost unknown. A voice that ought to have filled his childhood, but in truth he had heard only once.

“Arthur, my child.”

“Mother.”

He turned, and there she stood: Igraine. Hair the same pale gold as his, eyes the same clear blue, her noble coiffure crowning a beauty both fragile and graceful.

“I miss you so,” Igraine said, stretching out her hand. “We have been waiting for you, all of us… but you never came.”

Arthur was not, in the strict sense, one of the dead. The shades of the Underworld lay forever beyond his reach.

He gazed at her. Their last meeting had been long ago, even by the measure of a king’s reign, and then came Avalon, where time was strange--both endless and fleeting.

Perhaps because in those final moments of his “life” his mind had been consumed by the truth of Merlin; perhaps because more than a thousand years had passed since. For now, as he looked again upon his mother, his thoughts turned only to--

What must Merlin have felt, when Arthur spat the words, “Those who practise magic are evil and dangerous”?

Looking back, Morgause’s illusions had likely been true. His father had schemed to gain an heir, sacrificing his mother with cold design, then lashing out in impotent rage to slaughter the innocent, all to bury his own guilt. And Merlin, to spare Arthur the brand of patricide, had forced the lie upon himself--branding magic as wicked in Arthur’s eyes. What torment must that have been, what anguish?

How many times had there been, when Merlin might have made magic “a good thing” for all to see? How many times, too, when he might have told Arthur the truth?

Arthur remembered Uther’s death again. Now, knowing what he knew, he could not believe Merlin had meant to kill him. If Merlin had wanted Uther dead, Uther would never have lived so long. Merlin need only have done nothing. More than anything, Arthur believed in Merlin that Merlin would never have killed Arthur Pendragon’s father. Which meant the truth had been plain: it had been Morgana’s trap.

And that--that had been the moment Arthur had come closest to Merlin’s truth. The first time Merlin had spoken as a sorcerer, and tried to tell him of magic itself.

“Magic is all around you. It is woven into the very fabric of the world.”

Now Arthur understood.

He wished he had understood sooner. He wished he had been given more to hear.

The wizards of Hogwarts had told him Merlin was dead. Their histories placed him briefly in their school, though Hogwarts was founded nearly five centuries after Camelot. By then, if Gaius had spoken true, Merlin was already the greatest sorcerer alive, no longer in need of schooling. Perhaps he had merely been close to the Slytherins, and children had wanted to believe they had such a grand alumnus. Or perhaps it was nothing more than a self-serving invention, wizards clinging false kinship to greatness.

Among Muggle tales, Merlin had been bewitched by love, for his pupil, the Lady of the Lake, Viviane, and sealed himself beneath stone at the bottom of a lake (the tales disagreed on where). Supposedly a kinder fate than death. But somehow, Arthur found it worse.

He did not know where Merlin was. Perhaps he had become a Heroic Spirit; he had no reason not to. Or perhaps… perhaps it had been no more than a dream, but in Avalon, Arthur had felt his presence...

“Arthur, come to us…” Igraine’s voice coaxed, soft and warm. “We miss you so. I, your father, Guinevere…”

Arthur dropped his gaze, turning his eyes aside. His hand hovered mere inches from her cheek, yet could not close the distance.

“I want to, Mother, truly I do.” His blue eyes shone with a depth words could not bear. She leaned closer, her smile tender.

“But I cannot.”

He stepped back.

“Not yet. Before that, I must see someone.”

“I owe him a foretold destiny. A fate shared between us both.”

The illusion twisted, features contorting as it lunged at him. Arthur’s sword flashed, and it shattered to mist.

Everything here reeked of déjà vu. He might have known little of sorcery, but his past trials told him plainly: the Servant assailing them was bound to the realm of the dead.

And such foes--shadows that could not be cut down, wraiths that could not be slain--were ever troublesome.

He could only hope the shades facing Harry would not be worse than these.

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

“No!”

The instant his foot broke the surface of the water, Harry’s willpower--so often his most reliable line of defense--jerked him free of the Servant’s mental grip.

But it was already too late.

He realized with a jolt that he couldn’t move a muscle.

Through the rippling surface, a ghastly pale hand had clamped around his ankle like a manacle.

The water’s surface shimmered--his mother’s soft red hair and kind green eyes melting away, leaving in their place the corpse-pale reflection of a Latin woman with dark, curling hair. The gray haze that clouded her eyes marked her for what she was: the dead.

A ghost.

The Servant that had attacked them was a revenant.

That hand dragged at him with an unrelenting strength, pulling him down. The shallow puddle he had stepped into--a few inches, no more--had become a bottomless abyss. And he was being hauled into it, helpless.

For one desperate second, Harry found himself absurdly wishing the basilisk were still alive, ready to come slithering up through the dripping pipes if he summoned it. That was the only method he knew of that had ever worked against something like this.

But of course… No such luck.

He jammed a Bubble-Head Charm around himself, and raked frantically through his mind for an escape. Every curse he could think of he fired at that hand, and when the water closed over his mouth he forced a few nonverbal spells out as well.

It didn’t matter.

When the water surged past his nose, panic swamped him.

Nothing was working. None of it.

Not the spells meant to drive the thing off, not even the charms to keep him breathing--none of it mattered against whatever power the Servant had bound into this attack.

Why?

Despair was beginning to settle in, dark and suffocating.

What else could he do? What had he done wrong? What should he be doing now?

The last shreds of light above were dimming as his eyes sank beneath the surface.

And then--

A blaze of white, sudden and absolute, cutting through the mist, drowning out the moonlight, piercing the water like the birth of a star.

The brilliance wrapped around everything, fragrant with the freshness of herbs and flowers, so overwhelming that for a long, strange heartbeat Harry could see nothing at all but white.

Then the grip on his ankle vanished. His whole body went slack with release, and in the next instant he found his feet planted once more on solid ground.

He blinked against the glow, turning toward its source--

Severus Snape (Team Lancer)

Damn it! He was a Potions Master, not a melee mage!

Snape cursed inwardly, even as his mind snapped into motion, running through the catalogue of spells at his disposal. “Speculum Omnia*!”

In an instant, the walls around him shimmered and turned into gleaming panes of glass. Mirror reflected mirror, splitting into a thousand angles until the entire chamber was filled with his image.

Perhaps it would slow Archer down, just long enough for him to trigger the third layer of defenses.

A sharp crack! splintered the air as one mirror shattered. In the same moment, Snape’s reflections winked out from all the others.

He burst from the blind spot, his movement swift, as he released a Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and, under the veil of smoke, slipped across the chamber. In the smothering black, the Hand of Glory lit his path, carrying him swiftly to the chamber’s third line of defense.

What had been hoarded for storming Hogwarts was now squandered on mere survival, and he felt not the faintest regret.

The protective ward flared to life.

“Zzzt—zzzt—”

A hiss, then a rasp, then the splintering crack of strained barriers.

The noise was wrong. Ill-omened.

Either Archer carried legends of breaking barriers and armor, or else he possessed something that went beyond sorcery, something edging into divinity.

Snape, masked by smoke, snapped again: “Speculum Omnia!”

Another wall rippled and became reflective. The new ward collapsed almost at once.

For a fleeting instant, sheltered by smoke and mirror-light, Snape tugged his pocket watch open. How long before that infernal Servant returned?

On the other side, Archer, evidently tired of being blinded, shifted tactics. In a single instant, dozens, scores, hundreds of arrows loosed in unison, saturating the smoke-filled space.

Checkmate.

The word formed bitterly in his head.

He had thought he understood desperation the night he begged for Lily’s life. But this--facing down the raw, merciless might of a Heroic Spirit with nothing but a mortal body--this forced him to taste that same helplessness once more.

On his hand, the last line of a Command Seal flared.

And then--

A roar.

So deep it seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth, so ancient it shook the bones of the house itself.

The rush of wind followed, scattering the storm of arrows as though they were no more than dust.

A dragon’s cry.

And in its wake, a lance wreathed in fire came hurtling down from the sky, burying itself in the rooftop of the opposite building.

Chapter Text

09

Severus Snape (Team Lancer)

The dragon’s shadow faded as the winds died away, taking with it the last traces of the Instant Darkness Powder. In their place, a figure materialised before Snape.

An old man stood there. Grey-white hair framed a weathered face marked by wisdom and time. Drooping eyelids lent him an air of weariness*, but his eyes, those eyes, could never have belonged to a human being.

“You’re a dragon,” Snape said evenly.

“Yes. I am,” the old man replied, and his tone was almost genial.

“You’re a Servant.”

“I am. Rider, Lancer’s Master.” The old man dipped his head. “Now, forgive me. I must take my leave. Lancer and Archer must be stopped.”

Before Snape could parse the words, the man dissolved once more into a shadow of wings and vanished through the shattered window.

Across the street, the rooftop was already a sea of fire.

Gone were Loki’s favourite Muggle clothes. In its place he now wore divine regalia: A cuirass of leather, a mantle that wavered between beast-fur and fire, drifting and flaring around him like a living pelt of flame. His red hair streamed wildly, catching the firelight as if it burned with a glow of its own. A horned helm crowned his brow. And in Dumbledore’s stolen blue eyes gleamed the cruel delight of mischief. His scar-seamed lips curled in a reckless grin.

Like the banked embers in a hearth; like the sudden spark from lightning striking dry branches; like the smouldering core of a forge; like the noxious inferno roiling in a volcano’s heart; like the crimson blaze of dusk burning all to ash...

For the first time, Snape understood with stark clarity: what he had bound to his will was a god--an existence wholly apart from humanity.

A force of nature. Untamed, unbound, and never to be mastered.

The black of Snape’s eyes grew darker still.

Now the flaming spear swept aside the eerie arrows once more, scattering them to the ground in waves of molten heat.

Just as the next clash loomed, the dragon’s vast body materialised between them, its colossal frame barring spear and bow alike. Arrows skittered harmlessly off scales no weapon could pierce.

“Easy, young ones, can we not put a stop to this?”

The flames ebbed, but Loki remained aloft. From the shadows, Archer merely slackened his bowstring.

“Now, my Master has certain information he wishes me to share with you--”

But before the dragon could finish, a man’s voice rang out from Archer’s concealment.

“No offense meant. But my Master insists I interrupt. And I quote: ‘Who does your Master think he is, daring to give orders to me!’”

The dragon actually laughed, deep and amused, before replying:

“Oh, I think you know my Master well enough. In fact, I daresay there are few indeed, wizard or Muggle, who would fail to recognise him.”

Arthur Pendragon (Team Saber)

“Arthur.”

Arthur spun around, expecting to see yet another phantom--but behind him there was nothing, only the thick shroud of mist.

“--Arthur.”

Arthur froze, suddenly aware--the voice was not coming from without. The voice was in him, threading through his mind before he’d even noticed.

Then, in a flash, an image--a white silhouette--flickered across his thoughts.

He tried to grasp it, to hold onto the shadow, to piece it together. But more voices followed, crashing through his head like a flood.

“Arthur…”

(Screams)

“Camelot has fallen--”

“I failed.”

“At best, two days.”

“No mortal blade can kill me.”

“I’m a sorcerer. I have magic.” “Burn the sorcerer!”

…

Like a mind teetering between sleep and wakefulness, thoughts leapt about wildly, uncontrollably.

Voices he knew. Voices he didn’t. Like a radio dial turned madly from one frequency to the next.

And every one of them was about death.

Arthur couldn’t think. He couldn’t focus. The noise was too much; he clutched at his head in agony.

For the barest instant, his eye caught the gleam of a pale figure reflected along his sword.

So he stopped fighting for his mind. In battle, even stripped of it, he knew he could still prevail.

He angled the blade, eyes straining for the next flicker of white, letting instinct take over entirely.

The din of death-laden thoughts buzzed like static, yet none of it dulled his reaction when the figure flashed again--he pursued without hesitation.

With the phantoms shimmering across the blade, Arthur trailed their mirrored course, until--

Splash!

At some unmarked moment the fog had slipped away, leaving nothing but darkness around him. And in that very instant, his step broke the silence, his boot sinking into water.

Water from where?

Amid the chaos of his thoughts, Arthur seized upon a few fragments of Hogwarts. Yet not one offered any sense of where he now stood. Only one truth stood out with piercing clarity--

It was coming!

The pale face of a woman surfaced in the water. Arthur’s sword cut down at once, silver edge arcing sharp and bright.

But the strike passed straight through her white-clad form. The water rippled beneath, yet the figure remained, untouched--as though existing in a realm the blade could never reach.

And in that moment, emotions long held back surged like overflowing filth: fear, confusion, panic, helplessness--

What to do? How to fight such a foe?

He had no idea.
    He knew now--foes like these had never truly fallen to him, but to Merlin, unseen.

Yet he also knew, with utter certainty, that he was the same as he had always been. Whether in ignorance or in knowledge, whether once or a hundred times, no matter how desperate the fight--he would face them all the same. And again, and again, and again--he would raise his blade, without hesitation, without faltering, without retreat.

The third time his sword cut through the phantom, a white light burst forth, blinding, devouring all--

Arthur felt as though the very air had been ripped from his lungs in an instant.

This light, this presence, it was so achingly familiar. Ever since he had come of age, it had never left his side--

As if drawn by something beyond himself, he turned--

The figure edged into view. And in that instant, Arthur felt a mad urge to turn away, to flee, to pretend he hadn’t seen.

It was a feeling akin to drawing near a long-lost home--only to find himself faltering all the more, precisely because he cared too much.

He’d heard so much these past days much about Merlin--about the Merlin he hadn’t known.

More than half his life had been spent with Merlin. But it had been only half of Merlin.

“Merlin has magic.”

“Merlin is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth.”

That truth had rapidly turned half his life, everything he’d known, to falsehood.

At times he’d almost been glad. Glad he’d only learned the truth at the very end of his life. In those last two days, truth and lies alike could be easily swept under the rug, for they could no longer carry any lasting weight (And it wasn’t so hard. On that final day, he had known he would not survive, and his mind was filled only with one thought: unlike him, Merlin had years yet to live. What words could he leave to make that life easier?).

Because the truth was, he had never known how to face it.

The greatest sorcerer--and Arthur’s manservant. The two didn’t fit. He had even asked Merlin outright, only to find the reply so absurd it left him feeling more lost than before.

In sleep, he’d replayed their years together, seen the signs of magic he’d missed--signs that weren’t even hidden that well. But more damning were the memories of how he’d treated Merlin.

Gods, Merlin had been right. He really was the biggest idiot in the world.

How could he face him now? How was he supposed to face him?

“The greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth.”

To wizards, Merlin was something near to Christ himself, a name they tossed about like an exclamation.

And Arthur Pendragon? A mortal king--ordinary, with no divine gifts, dead before his time, bereft of the very kingdom he was meant to protect. What right had he to be chosen, steadfastly, without reserve, by someone so great?

Now, with the white-lit figure fully in his sight, Arthur knew beyond doubt that--

The frame was the same--tall, slender, unmistakably familiar. His hair had grown longer since they last met. His grey-blue eyes, deeper now, held a wisdom tempered by time. No longer forced to veil his power, he stood wrapped in a certainty, a quiet strength. In his hand, a staff of bone-white, its carvings more intricate than the one Arthur remembered from Camlann. His robes were floral-white, with touches of deep indigo worked into their design, and a scarlet mantle draped over one shoulder. The colors cast his eyes into a clearer blue and deepened the aura of mystery that clung to him.

--This was who Merlin had become without Arthur. Who he could have become.

Arthur thought to himself.

And at last, he raised his eyes--

Across a thousand years, across all the unsaid words, across lies and deceptions worn threadbare by time, across everything they had lost, beneath the moonlight cast from Hogwarts’ high arches, like the last two relics of a bygone age, and yet like that very first meeting beyond the noise of the market--

Blue eyes met blue eyes.

“It’s been a while, my friend.”

The same form of address as when they first met, the same curve of a smile that had accompanied Arthur through half his life.

And suddenly, all hesitation, all misgivings, melted away as if they had never been.

Arthur laughed. “Took you long enough.”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, I couldn’t exactly leave the Master of a certain woeful Servant to fend for himself, could I?”

Neither paid much heed to the words themselves. Their eyes held fast to each other, as if nothing else existed.

Until Harry’s head poked out from behind Merlin. “Not to interrupt or anything, but, maybe, like, we should find somewhere a bit more private to talk?”

Chapter Text

10

Arthur Pendragon (Team Saber)

The Room of Requirement shaped itself into a quiet chamber for conversation, and the three of them settled before the false night sky it conjured.

“So you’re Merlin. The Merlin from the legends?” The words had barely left Harry’s mouth before he realised how familiar they sounded. Six years on, he finally understood how people must have felt when they’d first asked him that question.

Merlin arched a brow, smiling. “Yes. And no.”

“How so?” Arthur frowned.

“Well… it’s a little hard to explain right now. Perhaps when we meet Caster, it’ll make more sense.”

“You’re not Caster?” Harry blurted.

Merlin turned his left hand, revealing the red Command Seals inscribed upon the back. A glint of mischief lit his eyes. “Regrettably, no. Just like you, I am a Master.”

“But--”

Before Harry could gather his questions, Arthur spoke first. “You’ve never… you’ve lived on until now.” The unsteady lilt at the end betrayed the storm of his emotions.

“Yes.” The answer was simple. But the weight in those grey-blue eyes, heavy with a thousand years, chilled Arthur to the bone.

“You--” Arthur began, but no words followed. ‘You shouldn’t have’? Too harsh and egotistical. ‘That must’ve been hard’? Too small a thing to say. And so the words hung there, unfinished.

Merlin, however, seemed to need no completion. He understood at once, and answered Arthur with a smile--sorrowful, and full of emotions Arthur wanted desperately to turn from.

But he would not turn away.

The right moment, Arthur told himself. When the time was right, he would speak with Merlin, just the two of them. And then, perhaps… at last, he could say the words that had come too late, more than a thousand years ago.

“And your Servant…?” Harry pressed.

“Rider,” said Merlin. “My Servant is. And he’s in London now, making contact with other Masters.” With a light tap of his staff, an image shimmered into being--a modern rooftop, Lancer standing fierce, an oddly familiar dragon looming nearby, another figure lurking behind a wall. A tense standoff. “That is also why I came. There is information I wish to share with you.”

Merlin straightened in his seat, his manner suddenly grave. The other two instinctively mirrored him.

“This Holy Grail War is nothing but a sham.

“Its true nature is an invasion from another world, waged to burn this one as fuel.

“The moment a victor emerges will be the moment the world ends.”

Though startled, both Harry and Arthur’s first thoughts leapt at once to--

“What do we need to do?” / “What’s our next step?”

That reaction drew a flicker of amusement from Merlin, lightening his reply. “For now? Nothing.”

Then, he added: “My plan with Rider is first to halt the fighting between Servants, to minimise casualties and prevent the Greater Grail from activating. After that, we will gather as much strength as possible--”

“--to strike the invaders,” Arthur finished.

“Something like that,” Merlin said with a faint smile.

“And the ones who attacked us just now?” Harry asked, uncertain.

“Most likely Assassin. I only drove them off.” He paused. “My priority is to secure the two of you.”

Almost as an afterthought, Merlin added: “The Greater Grail requires at least five Servants to fall before the ritual reaches its first stage. For now, that means we only need to secure one more alliance.”

“Snape’s with the Order of the Phoenix. Convincing him shouldn’t be too hard,” Arthur reasoned. “And this Caster you mentioned?”

“Not that I have high hopes of winning Caster over,” Merlin admitted, looking faintly embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “But when I intercepted the intrusion, I felt Caster’s probing. If he’s dug this deeply into the leyline already, he must sense what’s coming, even if he doesn’t yet know what it is.”

“And the group fighting Lancer?” Arthur asked.

“Archer. Still unclear. Rider hasn’t sent word back.”

“Voldemort’s side is obviously impossible,” Harry added quickly.

“As for Assassin’s Master, the wish, well…” Merlin mused. “We can certainly try, but the chances of convincing them are slim.”

“You sound like you know exactly who they all are,” Harry couldn’t help but get curious. “If that’s the case--”

Merlin’s gaze lingered on him, enigmatic, before he smiled faintly and looked down. “Some truths, Harry, are not mine to tell.”

Harry fell silent. He was far too used to riddles by now.

Severus Snape (Team Lancer)

“That is the gist of it.” The dragon inclined his massive head, before once again assuming the form of an old man.

“And the proof?” Loki arched a brow.

The old man produced a crystal.

Archer still lingered high in the shadows behind the wall, yet Snape could sense another presence drawing nearer--something he could not see.

Inside the crystal, images burned: the world aflame, collapsing into ruin.

“A prophecy,” Loki remarked, recognizing it instantly with the ease of long familiarity.

“That is true.” The old man said genially.

“Prophecies can be forged,” Loki pointed out with a shrug.

“That is also true,” the old man conceded without irritation.

Loki scrutinised the old man, eyes gleaming with mischief. Though the response seemed to have confused Archer.

“I suppose you have only two choices then--believe us, or don’t,” the old man concluded.

Loki gave no answer.

Then, he twirled his spear idly between his fingers before saying, absently: “Even if you mean to bring the Grail War to a halt, I daresay not everyone will be so… accommodating. Whom have you convinced so far?”

“My Master is presently in talks with the Saber pair. They have already agreed to an alliance. The two of you here are among the first we’ve approached. Next, we intend to reach out to the Caster Master-Servant.”

“The Muggle girl?” Loki folded his arms.

Snape’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t realized Loki was still watching her.

“Correct. Though forgive me, how did you come by that knowledge?”

“Oh, if they truly didn’t want to be noticed, they should have stayed well away from the news media.” Loki gave a careless shrug.

“Back to the matter at hand,” the old man said gently, steering them once more, “what is your answer?”

Before Snape could respond, Archer’s voice drifted from the shadows:

“My Master says… they are willing to cease hostilities. But if you truly wish for an alliance, they should expect rather more proper demonstrations of goodwill.”

The old man nodded. “That will suffice. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Snape then saw Lancer’s form dissolve, the warrior’s armor dismissed, replaced by casual attire, no doubt having sensed Archer’s retreat.

Snape stepped forward at last, ascending to the rooftop proper.
“We are willing to--”

But Lancer’s arm shot out, halting him mid-sentence. “Wait.”

“My Master and I must discuss this further. I trust you take no offense.”

“Of course,” the old man inclined his head knowingly. “Once you reach a decision, inform Saber’s group. My Master will be with them.”

Only when Rider’s aura had fully receded did Lancer finally turn to Snape. His face was a thundercloud.

Snape suspected his own expression was not much better.

“Where were you?” / “Refuse him.”

“What?” Snape’s voice was incredulous; the anger was so thick on his tongue that it left him momentarily speechless.

The Servant’s mood seemed equally sour. He glared. “I said, refuse.”

“Why? You heard him. This concerns the survival of the world.”

Loki gave a sharp, sardonic laugh. “Fancy that. Severus Snape, the double agent of double agents, proving to be such a trusting soul.”

“If Rider’s Master truly is Merlin, I fail to see what he would stand to gain from fabricating this.” Snape’s brow was furrowed deep. “Potter’s Servant is King Arthur himself. If it is really Merlin, it can be confirmed easily enough.”

Loki rolled his eyes with flamboyant disdain. “Ah yes, because there’s absolutely no reason someone might pretend to lower everyone’s guard, then strike once they’ve all laid down their defenses.”

“Merlin--” Snape began, trying to rein in his temper.

“And I’m a god,” Loki cut across smoothly. “Is it so hard to believe that Merlin would manipulate the board that way to win?”

Snape inhaled sharply, veins throbbing at his temple. “Even if--if--there is the faintest chance he speaks the truth, that the Grail’s victory spells the world’s end, shouldn’t we, at the very least, consider it? If only to stave off that risk for now?”

“Trust is for children and dogs*.”

Loki waved his hand; the flames that had ringed them guttered out.

A silence lingered before Loki spoke again, softly, almost tenderly, his downcast eyes strangely gentle:

“You say: even if there’s the faintest chance the world could end. I say: even if there’s the faintest, slightest chance the Grail is real--should that not be worth fighting to the death for? Surely you, too, have a wish you would sacrifice anything to see fulfilled.”

Snape’s breath caught. Then he looked to his Servant, his gaze hardened into knives. “From the start, you never intended for Potter to win.” It was not a question.

And as though smoke had dissipated from a mirror, the trace of gentleness vanished, as if it had never been.

“Correct.” Loki lifted his chin haughtily. “That was the bargain with Dumbledore. I aid you, I clear away obstacles, and in the end the victory is mine. You will still have your wish--Voldemort erased. I will have what I desire. Everyone wins.”

“And what is your wish?” Snape’s tone was frigid.

“That,” Loki’s eyes narrowed, disdain curling in their depths, “is not for you to know.”

“For that, even the world’s destruction would not stay your hand.” Snape’s voice was colder still.

Loki gave a short, scornful laugh, tone tinged with impatience.  “You’ve read the tales. You know full well what my stance has been on the matter of the world going up in smoke.”

Beneath the slumbering city sky, the two held their ground, the silence between them taut as a bowstring.

For a moment, Snape even considered invoking a Command Seal, forcing this unruly Servant to heel. But no, the Dark Lord was far too powerful. Without the Command Spell, they would stand no chance.

At last, he lowered his gaze with a weary sigh, breaking their heated stare.

“Where were you?”

“I made it back in time, didn’t I?” Loki shrugged, all nonchalance, before vaulting back into the room with a careless wave. “What a mess of a day. You human--best wash up and get some sleep.”

Then he turned back, grin wide and toothy. “I promise to stand guard all night long. Will that let you sleep easier?”

Arthur Pendragon (Team Saber)

Merlin frowned, as if receiving some distant message.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, caught on immediately.

“It seems persuading the Lancer group has met with… complications. Perhaps it would be better if I went there myself.” Arthur knew that look well--the troubled, contemplative expression Merlin wore when something weighed heavily on his mind.

“I’ll come with you. Snape is a member of the Order of the Phoenix; we’ve dealt with each other before--”

“I’ll come too!” Harry cut in eagerly, not waiting for Arthur to finish.

At Harry’s outburst, Merlin turned to look at him. His gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable, before he gave a nod. “Yes… with you there, it would likely go more smoothly.”

“But what about the Order?” Arthur frowned. “They seemed to have planned something to move Harry elsewhere.”

“Ah, you mean their precautions against Voldemort’s attack? That won’t be a problem. With me here, nothing will happen to him.”

Arthur couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. He stared at Merlin until the wizard grew visibly uneasy.

“…What?” Merlin demanded.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied with a smirk. “It’s just rare to see you like this. Rather amusing, really.”

Merlin flushed, half indignant, half embarrassed, and punched Arthur on the shoulder. “Oh, shut up!”

“So, London then?” Harry asked, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“London,” Merlin and Arthur said together, firm and resolute.

Chapter Text

11

Albus Dumbledore (Team Lancer)

He kept dreaming the same dream.

A garden at summer’s end, overgrown with weeds, the leaves not yet touched with gold, only the faintest chill in the air whispering of autumn.

The blond boy vaulted the back wall and landed before him. That radiant, reckless smile--his heart leapt at once. Untainted, still untainted by… by what?

The boy waved the letter in his hand. “Aren’t we leaving next week? What’s so urgent that you had to call me here now?”

“Actually…” He bit his lip. Words came easily to him, always--but not now. “About the plan we made… I don’t intend to go through with it.”

In an instant, the boy’s expression turned frightening.

He had always known. Known that deep in the boy’s nature there lurked this side of him--this frenzy, this cruelty.

But that did not matter. He pressed on—

“You should stop as well. We both should. The dream is too wild, too cold. Who are we to sit in judgment over life and death, to say that one suffering is justified by some ‘greater good’? How many innocents must we betray, must we cast aside, to chase it?”

The words poured faster, more fluent with each breath.

“Have we truly thought of the cost? Not as gods on high, but as every soul who would be caught in it. Even so--could we still call it justice?

“What is it we are chasing? Is it truly the greater good for all wizards? Do we even know the lives of ordinary wizards, their wants, their needs? Or are we mistaking our little world, ourselves, for the whole? Is this really some higher calling for wizardkind--or nothing more than two arrogant boys, dreaming selfish dreams of power beyond their grasp?

“For such a dream… would we truly make others bleed in vain, cast away lives that might have been lived better, just for such a dream?

“For we should know--once that road is taken, both sides alike are doomed to wade through blood.

“Stop. Before we lose everything.”

The boy said nothing, his eyes dark, fixed upon him.

But it was done. The words were spoken, the deed accomplished--hadn’t he always wanted to say this? Always…?

With one last lingering look at the boy, he turned away.

The night air of late summer was already chill.

The fire in the hearth flickered low.

He laid a blanket over the girl’s shoulders. She did not stir. Her eyes were hollow, timid, yet still moved across the page as his brother’s voice recited the tale aloud.

“Tea?” he asked.

“No sugar.” His brother didn’t look up, but warmth and familiarity threaded the words.

A moment later, he brought two cups back and sat on the girl’s other side.

“Which story now?”

Lowering his gaze, he saw the book in her lap--the fairy tales he had marked with so many notes.

“The hairy heart one.” His brother yawned. “Why don’t you take over? Give me a rest.”

“All right.” He found the place where the girl’s finger had marked the line, just as the bell rang.

So he rose again.

Opened the door. The blond boy stood there.

A small bag in hand, the same he had carried into the valley. His eyes glanced aside, as if embarrassed.

“Great-aunt, she… well—” He seemed to reach for an excuse, then abandoned it altogether. “I’ll stay with you. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

And then the boy carried on, almost to himself: “We have time, plenty of it. Dreams can wait a little while longer. After all, with the two of our minds put together, it’s only natural we’d arrive at something better.”

Only then did their eyes meet.

And he smiled. Light, content, brimming with joy. As if nothing could ever mar this. As if all the beauty of the world had gathered here, in this one place.

And on it went, on and on—

Like a summer without end. Like an instant made eternal.

Perfect, unbroken, untouched. All that he loved, held in one.

But tonight’s dream was a little different.

Tonight, it seemed, he was not wholly himself.

The meadow spread green before him, the sky a pure, dazzling blue. Snow-capped ridges glimmered beneath the sun.

An arch stood ahead, raised by a spear, its wood-veined surface glinting like living metal--the gods’ Jarðarmen.

He turned to look at the man beside him. The bearded man gazed at him with both eyes, filled with joy, with expectation. Of course--this was before the sacrifice, before he gave one eye to the Well, before he hung upon the tree. But so near was that fate, he had nearly forgotten the face that once had both eyes.

And when he looked into them, his heart swelled with the same joy, the same… belonging. A wholeness he had never known before.

The man spoke--but dreams blurred the words, leaving only the mix of unease and exhilaration that filled him as he listened.

Together, they stepped forward, toward the arch.

Stop!

They bent low, passing beneath.

Turn back!

The spear’s shaft tore their skin, sharp, unyielding, and blood spilled at once. Yet he felt no pain. Only elation.

No.

The blood ran down his arms, mingled with the other’s, impossible to tell apart.

No, no, no!

Then they knelt together, knees in the blood-soaked earth, clasping crimson-stained hands.

Stop…

Before the eyes of the gods, they swore an eternal brotherhood.

Don’t…

Golden sunlight poured down, between ice and fire, among birdsong and blossoms--a summer without end, an eternal instant.

He should have woken. But he could not.

Loki (Team Lancer)

The scenery blurred past, the wind rushing in through the crack of the half-open window and whipping against his face.

He could feel the tether of energy between himself and his Master growing weaker. No matter. He had tapped into a leyline that stretched far enough, and with his own stores of prana, it would be more than enough to carry out this little excursion on his own.

“He…” The girl’s voice trembled, snagging on every few words until she could hardly push them out, her face blotched with fear. “He wants to kill me.”

Another hiccupped sob wracked her chest; her hands slipped on the steering wheel, the car lurching dangerously before she yanked it back into line.

Even Loki, for all his easy swagger, had to admit that one nearly gave him a heart attack.

His tone, however, was smooth and comforting, as though nothing at all had happened.

“It’s all right, Morganna. He’s not here. He can’t touch you.” Loki checked again--no trace of another Servant nearby. “Easy, love. Deep breath. Take your time. We do this one thing at a time.  I’m with you.”

Another sob shuddered through her; she pressed a hand over her mouth to dam the sound, then scrubbed it across her face, smearing away the tears that blurred her sight.

“You know I’ve been keeping in touch with you online these past few days…”

Loki nodded.

It had taken more than a little maneuvering. At first, she’d balked, too much guilt over betraying her own Servant. The girl had circled back on herself countless times, choked by the weight of betrayal. In the end, though, she let herself be persuaded: having someone else to stand by her side, to help her think through her choices, couldn’t be a bad thing.

Since then, he had been receiving real-time reports on Caster’s movements.

Of course, Loki wasn’t fool enough to take every word she gave him at face value. Yet what he learned from her and what he discovered himself continued to tally.

"And then, these days, I’ve been thinking… I just can’t stop…” Loki couldn’t help but think her head was just as tangled as her tongue. “Over and over... my mind just keeps going back, again and again, to everything you said.”

She gave a small, hiccupping sob: “About how… maybe he’s planning to replace me, planning to kill me.”

“And? Was it something he did?” Loki’s words carried a gentle lilt, but his eyes narrowed in sharp calculation. If it was only suspicion, he’d been planting that seed for days. Why this sudden spike in panic?

Hidden from her sight, his fingers twirled a knife in his left hand.

“He’s been gone a lot these past few days. I never know where.”

“You’ve told me that before.” Loki’s voice was warm, the encouragement of a caring “sister,” but beneath it, his own note bled through, a quiet warning.

“There was one time during, kind of like his solo performance… Did I tell you? He does this thing sometimes--when he thinks he’s discovered something brilliant, or pulled off something he thinks is genius. He can’t help but show it off. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes rambling at a skull? Or maybe he’s just so in love with himself that he can’t bear not to have an audience for his genius?”

This time it was Loki himself, not his mask of Anna-Morgause, who chuckled. Yes, he could picture it.

“Anyway, one time he said something about the leylines. That he felt… an anomaly. Like someone else was there. I think—”

“—That it could be another Master? Or a Servant?” Loki supplied lightly, though his eyes imperceptibly tracked every flicker of expression across her face.

The girl wasn’t lying.

Still, that didn’t explain today’s sudden panic.

His knife spun slower between his fingers.

“Mhm.” The girl nodded, biting her lip. “And then… last night. I know I shouldn’t have woken then. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was my instinct warning. But I woke up.”

She gulped down air. “And I saw him. Caster. Standing right at my bed. Just staring. Silent. Turning his wand in his hand. His face--nothing on it at all. And I knew. I knew that instant, he meant to kill me.”

Her voice cracked on the last four words, so she repeated them: “He meant to kill me. I know it. I’m sure.”

Finally she broke down, crying openly. “If I hadn’t woken… I don’t know. I might already be dead.”

Loki’s hand stilled entirely. His gifts let him detect certain things, and this time, yes--what she described had happened.

That would account for her hysteria. Still…

“So you think he’s found himself a new Master? Ready to slit your throat and defect?” Loki prodded.

How rich. The whole “Caster will switch Masters” story? Pure fabrication, nothing more than a convenient tale to sow distrust. That anomaly in the leylines had to be Merlin. And Merlin, if he was half the sanctimonious do-gooder bards made him out to be, would never embrace a Servant who’d slaughtered their Master. So then—

Unless… was the girl now hawking his own lie back at him?

Her head jerked side to side, frantic. “I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t care! Just… I can’t— I can’t stand this anymore! That man--that man is a monster! Even if he doesn’t kill me now--I’ll strike first, before he can!”

Her words came fierce, punctuated by the slam of her hand against the steering wheel.

Loki relaxed slightly. Paranoia, mistrust, divergent values--that he could believe.

“So you called me here to…”

“To kill him.” The girl nodded, still quivering with that spark of murderous resolve--then faltered, sheepish. “I know, I know… it’s not even hard. Just use a Command Seal and have him kill himself. But…” Her eyes flicked toward Loki.

As the dutiful, loving “sister,” his answer was obvious: “It’s nothing, dearest. I told you already--whatever you need, you come to me. That’s what sisters are for.”

Her lips tugged into a grateful smile, though the unease in her eyes did not fade.

What else was gnawing at her, beside murdering her own Servant?

“You’re taking me to his workshop now, aren’t you?” Loki probed. He’d fished for the workshop’s whereabouts before. She sought him out today with the exact news that she’d traced the site Caster was building.

The girl nodded, then hesitated, shaking her head. “Probably? I’m not sure. I think so. Except he also had me buy a bunch of other places, but when you look at the logistics, the money trails… they all end up leading here.”

The car rolled into Surrey as they spoke.

Loki frowned. No servant leaves a breadcrumb trail this clean by accident. Either Caster truly discounts his Master, so completely that he cannot imagine them posing any threat. Or else, he suspects betrayal, and left this spot as bait, merely a snare to draw her in.

“And, you know,” she added, fingers tapping the wheel, “my Servant thinks he’s a ‘wizard,’ too lofty for us ‘muggles.’ He’s hopeless with anything electrical. So I slipped a tracker on him. The last signal came from right around here too.”

Loki found himself recalling Snape, and that lot from Hogwarts. If Caster shared the same blind spots, it fit: ignorance of the “muggle” world, no understanding that logistics and funds could be traced, a belief that magic fouled up electronics. Easy enough for the girl to slip through the cracks. Plausible, even. And yet--to hide a tracker on a Servant, and remain undetected? That strained belief.

Loki let his gaze drift to the window, a flicker of recognition nagging at him.

Yes--when the Order had prepared to move Harry Potter, one of their backup sites had been somewhere near here.

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. A trickster’s memory never missed its mark.

Coincidence? Or had they chosen it with the leylines in mind all along?

He didn’t have long to wonder. The car swung in under a screen of trees, neat hedges parting to reveal a picture-perfect manor framed by symmetrical gardens.

The place lay silent, totally empty. Her car slipped in unhindered and came to rest at the front steps.

She produced a key, still marked with the law firm’s tag. The lock turned, the door opened, and Victorian finery spilled into view.

They crossed the threshold, moving past the hall, the drawing room, the ballroom, even a private cinema--until at last they descended into the sunken gallery.

Nothing. No spellwork, not a trace of sorcery, only the leyline’s natural murmur.

From the kitchen, the faint hum of appliances carried through. If the Caster she described were truly a wizard, he should have steered well clear of such things.

By then, the picture was plain: this was no stronghold, but a lure. A stage dressed to test how far his Master’s loyalty would bend.

Still, it was of little consequence. Tonight he wore the face of Anna-Morgause, the doting elder sister. If the girl had not yet exposed herself, the mask would hold. And should the game spiral into violence, he need only shed the disguise--Lancer striking from ambush, Caster caught unawares.

So he dismissed the dagger with a flick, turned with Morgause’s measured poise, and faced the girl. Except—

—her tears were gone. Along with them, every trace of fear, of fluttering nerves, of fragile doubt.

Her gaze cut into him, sharp as steel, no longer the eyes of a frightened child. They were the eyes of one who saw an enemy.

At the same time, he felt it: power surging from all directions, closing in on him as its center, sparked to life by the crackling grid.

What he had taken for the leyline’s natural flow, scattered and harmless, now revealed itself as part of the snare: Under the stimulus of an array that wove electricity into spellcraft, they roared into chain reaction, one surge birthing another, swelling, multiplying, unstoppable—

“Morgan Faye!” Loki’s eyes flared, venomous and bright, even as his lips curved in a wry, admiring smile.

He, the god of lies, the trickster above all tricksters, had been deceived by a girl. Deceived by a Morgan Faye.

And then the explosion swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

12

Merlin (Team Rider)

It had been nearly twenty years since Merlin last walked the streets of common people.

As he walked, he couldn’t help but notice the sleek little devices now in everyone’s hands. A far cry from the clunky mobiles he once knew. NFC payments, now that was clever, though not quite enough to do away with cards entirely. Merlin nodded to himself. Perhaps the world had not left him so far behind after all.

He only came back to himself when Arthur tugged at his sleeve, dragging his attention back to the drab concrete block of flats in front of them--Snape’s residence.

The house seemed painfully ordinary. Not a soul alive would look twice at the building, let alone link it with a wizard’s safehouse. But to Merlin’s eyes, traces of magic lay coiled around the walls, fine threads woven tight through its structure.

There were gaps here and there, damage from last night’s Archer attack, no doubt, not yet repaired.

It was this web of spellwork that had muffled the commotion to keep prying eyes away. That, and the Order’s extravagant measure of renting out the entire building.

Truth be told, Merlin hadn’t the faintest idea how he might persuade Severus Snape. From what he knew of the man, if he had intended to agree, his rational way of dealing with things would have led him to say so from the start; and if not, then… Well, perhaps Harry’s presence might prove useful after all.

At the head of the group, Harry knocked.

Almost at once, the magic in the whole building thrummed awake, a deep, humming vibration.

Quick reflexes. No wonder the man was suited to life as a double agent, Merlin thought with a silent chuckle.

Looking at Harry and Arthur though, it was obvious they’d noticed nothing at all.

“Who is it?” The voice from inside was ice-cold, unfriendly.

“It’s me,” Harry’s answer was no warmer, his tone strained. “Harry Potter.” And then, belatedly, he tacked on, “Sir.”

Merlin stifled a laugh. “Along with King Arthur and Merlin, Professor Snape. We’ve come to discuss an alliance. My Servant tells me you still have some reservations?”

The door wrenched open, though only a crack. Merlin was certain there was a wand clenched tight behind it.

“Potter should not be here until 3 days later.”

“So you do have a plan! Thanks ever so much for letting me know.” Harry shot back almost immediately. Merlin suspected it was pure instinct.

“Yes. I understand,” Merlin said lightly. “Still, I rather think with my power, fending off Voldemort’s assault is hardly beyond me.” He loosed a ripple of golden light, a casual show of strength.

Harry and Snape both flinched, however slightly.

Merlin was certain that by now, Snape’s doubts about his identity had been put to rest.

Sure enough, Snape drew the door wide. “Come in.”

“Would you like something? Tea?”

As they followed him inside, Merlin let his gaze wander. A minimalist flat, spare and unadorned--only here and there the faint gleam of mundane appliances, swapped for their magical counterparts. Simple, but convincing enough.

“Just water will do.”

Though the place had been repaired with magic, the evidence of battle remained plain to see.

They took their seats on the sofa. A tray drifted forward, four cups borne upon it.

Merlin came straight to the point. “If I may, about Rider’s proposal of alliance last night--what doubts trouble you still? Perhaps I might help lay them to rest.”

Snape took a long sip of tea, exhaled a weary sigh. “Your very presence here has already settled part of them well enough.”

He set the cup down and rubbed his brow. “The doubts aren’t mine. Truthfully, last night, had it not been for--I would have agreed.”

“So it was Loki who refused the alliance,” Arthur cut in, frowning.

Snape inclined his head. “I tried to persuade him. But Lancer was adamant.”

Something was wrong—

“Where is Lancer now?” Merlin demanded.

“In his room—”

Arthur was already in motion, bursting through the indicated door. Inside, a pajama-clad Loki sat gaming at a console.

But as Merlin’s incantation struck, the figure flickered, dissolved, leaving behind only a dead salmon flopped on the floor.

“That blasted trickster!” Arthur cursed. He turned, and saw Merlin’s eyes burning gold, gaze fixed far into the distance.

Then Merlin’s staff flashed into being in his hand. “He’s in Surrey. Already clashing with Caster. We must go.”

Morgan Faye (Team Caster)

Caster’s newly-devised sorcery flared so violently that when the blast came surging forward, Morgan felt a visceral stab of terror. For a moment, all she could think was: Perhaps he really means to kill me here.

Yet the spell tore past her without landing a blow. In the very next heartbeat, she sensed another presence at her back.

“Is he… dead?” Morgan asked tentatively.

The smoke parted under the sweep of the wind, leaving the floor ablaze in hungry flames. At the center of the explosion, amidst the inferno, a figure stood.

With a flick of his hand, the golden mesh of energy shielding him shimmered out of sight. Then he raised his head, blue eyes glacial as they locked onto Morgan. His red hair was disheveled, his clothes singed, but that was all.

In his hand gleamed a long spear, its tip glinting with a perilous light.

Behind Morgan, Caster froze--just for a fraction of a second. Too slight for her to notice, but for the trickster god, it was more than enough.

“You know me.” It was a verdict.

“More precisely, you know the man whose body I wear.”

“Who are you?” A feral smile tugged at his lips, every syllable dripping with malice.

Morgan turned anxiously toward her Servant, only to find Caster wearing the utterly forgettable face of a stranger, cropped beige hair and all, nothing at all like his true appearance.

Caster looked in no mood for conversation. Instead, the entire circuitry howled to life as one vast engine, driving power through every line until the atmosphere itself shook with the drone of appliances and the vicious crack of unleashed current.

Lightning flared across the chamber, casting Caster’s eyes into a sudden, blinding glare. From all sides the arcs coiled like serpents, lunging for Lancer--only to be devoured by the inferno that erupted before him.

The fire coalesced, rising into the shape of a colossal wolf that lunged for Caster’s throat.

“You gave little Morgana the word Muggle. Wizards like you usually choke the moment machinery’s involved. And still, you whip up a contraption like this in no time… what are you, some kind of prodigy?” Lancer’s tone dripped with derision. “Or did you crawl out of the future?”

The shattered current reformed into raw magic, weaving itself before Caster into a silver shield.

The flaming wolf slammed into it, scattering back into wild embers.

“Pseudo-Servant, why? Are you a saint? A god? …A god.” Morgan knew it, Caster had zero tolerance for being talked at.

Through the dying tongues of flame, Lancer’s spear shot forward, ripping through the silver shield with brutal finality.

—except it wasn’t the shield that broke. Wood splintered, canvas ripped, plaster sprayed across the floor, wall behind it pierced clean through.

It hit her only then. Caster had inverted the room around them, wrenching them into a new space.

From the ruptured painting, a vast serpent uncoiled, its fangs clamped tight around the spear shaft, then surged up its length toward Lancer himself.

“Not bad, kid!” Lancer jeered. He let the weapon go--and in the same instant, it was in his other hand. With a casual sweep, he sliced the serpent’s head clean off. “A wizard who knows Dumbledore, some kind of genius, maybe dreams of world conquest, a dab hand at murder… Shall I hazard a guess at your name?”

Lancer came on slow, each step measured, predatory, malice curling on his lips. The gap shrank--thirty feet, twenty, fifteen. Just short of striking distance, his head dipped--too late. The slain serpent had collapsed into a dark, glutinous flood, seeping into the floorboards. Corrosive, it ate away the surface, exposing pipes that Caster had long since sabotaged.

Gas hissed upward, filling the chamber. And Lancer was not naïve enough to believe it was mere household fuel.

“Let’s strike Severus Snape off the list first.”

His jesting cadence was obliterated by the roaring implosion of the volatile poison gas.

A breath later, he was gone--only to reappear as though he had stepped through space, materializing behind Morgan.

Before her scream could break free, the ground folded like a page turning, and Lancer was swallowed into the basement below.

Caster turned the floor transparent, narrowing his eyes as he observed their foe.

“A deity… bound to flame, tethered to a spear... Your Master is Severus Snape? How fortunate. Shall I hazard a guess at your name?” Caster’s words rang with frigid mockery, his cadence a deliberate echo of Lancer’s. “First, let’s strike Karna off the list.”

From below, the corpses Morgan had at great cost ferried in secret from some cavern* now lurched to life, massing like an army of the dead and hurling themselves at the Lancer in the center.

“Kagutsuchi? Agni? No… further west, perhaps.”

The swarming horde of Inferi, as Caster called them, closed in tight around Lancer, hemming him in so completely it seemed to cripple the space-jumping trick he had used to escape before.

“Hephaestus? Soranus/ Śuri? …Surtr*, no… Logi*.”

The endless tide of Inferi surged forward, harrying Lancer to the point of exasperation. He flung out fire in sweeping arcs, but quickly realized Caster had tampered with them: only a sustained blaze could eat through the protective layer clinging to their flesh. And under their master’s command, even their natural terror of fire was no longer there to exploit.

“Ah, of course... You’re a trickster. How could I have forgotten something so vital? Aren’t I right… Loki?”

The revelation seemed to exhilarate Lancer. Suddenly the basement blazed crimson, an inferno roaring out, and through it shone only Lancer’s delighted, vicious grin.

The surge of heat drove Morgan stumbling backward, almost to her knees.

“Ah, so you’ve quite the talent for falsehoods yourself. Did you train this little girl in the art?”

Caster seized Morgan’s wrist, and torrents of water swept in from every side, cocooning them in a sphere.

“No laurels are mine to snatch here--her talent shines without my hand. And besides—” His gaze dropped, watching the tide of molten fire Loki conjured surge beneath their feet, ready to burst through the earth. “The moment I saw through your little masquerade as Anna-Morgause, I knew I was dealing with a virtuoso of deception. And so… I gathered every shred of will, every ounce of cunning… to pay you the tribute you deserve. For surely you, above all, must know this: the greatest of lies—”

“—is the truth itself.” Loki finished, his tone bright with savage joy.

Yet just as the seething tide of flame was about to collide with the silver serpents coiling round Caster, an arrow split the standoff apart, shrieking through the air, driving straight for Morgan.

For a heartbeat, Morgan could almost see the arrow splitting through her skull.

This is the end.

With adrenaline sharpening every sense, the world slowed to a crawl. She watched, unblinking, as the arrowhead grazed past, severing strands of her hair before driving into the ground and tearing through a swath of Lancer’s flames.

Slowly, as her senses settled back into place, she became aware that her feet no longer touched the ground--Caster was carrying her into the air.

On the other side of the battlefield, Loki’s face twisted with fury.

He glared into the distance as if to tear someone apart.

“You again!”

Dolores Umbridge (Team Archer)

She owed it to Rider and Lancer, the dimwits, for presenting her with prey so simple and perfect.

How laughable! That a mere Muggle should dare seek spoils from the strife of witches and wizards.

Filthy, grimy, stinking little thing.

With her contacts in the Ministry, it hadn’t been difficult to track down the “news media” Lancer had mentioned. A few backroom dealings, the sort of maneuvering she would never admit aloud, and here she was now, standing at the ready.

Umbridge beamed with self-satisfaction as she gazed toward the distant manor.

“Kill her, Archer,” she commanded, her voice dripping with haughty finality.

Archer frowned. “You promised the Dragon you would cease fighting.”

“Are you trying to teach me how to behave, my Servant?” Her voice was all sugar, the smile sharp as glass, then she flicked her hand as though dismissing a fly. “That was merely a convenient little pretext, a polite delay to keep them quiet. Without it, how ever would we have slipped away yesterday to face this much simpler quarry? You may be a Muggle… an uncultivated barbarian, even--but surely, as a so-called historic figure, you can grasp something so elementary?”

Archer’s teeth clenched.

“In the end, dear, you are but a witch’s implement--hardly more than a wand with legs. So kindly follow instructions, hmm?”

Archer exhaled heavily, his hand tightening around the bow. He gave the barest of nods, rigid, then turned and walked farther away than necessary, refusing to look at his Master.

His gaze swept across the garden, skirting the hedges, slipping past the window frame, until it fixed, clear as day, upon the girl inside.

Forgive me.

He mouthed the words in silence as he drew the arrow to the string.

Chapter Text

13

Morgan Faye (Team Caster)

Before Morgan could even react, the world pitched again in a violent lurch of weightlessness.

Dozens of arrows came screaming toward her at once.

A marble goddess bearing shield and spear swept past her, intercepting them head-on. The impact shattered her form into a storm of stone fragments, shards grazing Morgan’s cheek and wrenching a startled cry from her throat.

More statues surged to life around them--sword-bearing goddesses, angels with spears, silver-armored soldiers, lions, horses, a chimera, a winged hippocamp… rushing forward like steadfast guardians, forming a wall between Morgan, Caster, and their pursuers.

“Hold tight.” Finding the way he had been holding her obstructive, Caster abruptly shifted her into a bridal carry, slipping past the statues as they surged outward while they hurtled toward the depths of the house.

“So that’s why you bought all of them—”

Caster shot her an incredulous look. “Why else?”

“…Aesthetic taste? What about that big one?”

“Leave it for now.”

On the other side, Archer’s relentless volleys forced even Lancer to split his focus. Batting away another rain of arrows, his gaze flicked at last toward Caster’s retreat.

“Hey! I’m not through with you yet!” Loki hefted his flaming spear, darting after them.

A raven exploded into splinters inches from Morgan’s nose. A heartbeat later, flame from Lancer’s weapon was almost licking at Caster’s hem.

“Out of my way!” Caster snapped, then from his mouth spilled a stream of harsh, hissing syllables.

The corridor, etched with serpentine patterns at either end, inverted upon itself, space itself transposing. Lancer was hurled back to the far side, laid bare before Archer’s aim.

Yet Lancer’s teleportation flared to life again--before the arrows so much as grazed his shadow, he was already behind Morgan.

The hiss returned.

“Ah—!”

An abrupt surge into the air, and the threat almost brushing against her, wrenched a scream from Morgan’s throat.

It must have been a formation Caster had laid down beforehand, now springing to life. A tremendous power seized them, hurling them upward as though through liquid, past ceiling after ceiling with dizzying speed.

Sunlight burst across her vision as they broke onto the rooftop, so harsh that she shut her eyes instinctively.

A spike of dread hit her. Up here on the roof, there was nothing, no cover at all. Any moment now, she thought, they would be torn into pin-cushions.

But when her eyes blinked open again, the stone guardians that had swept past her earlier were already surging through the garden below, converging on a single point.

That bought them a breath of respite.

Morgan bent double, trying to steady her breathing, only to hear a rustling swell from every side.

Thick vines erupted up the walls, racing from all directions, weaving into a tightening ring.

She glanced wildly at Caster, only to find him coolly raising his hand in command. At once she understood. This was his doing all along: the seeds their hirelings had scattered in neat rows at the base of the wall yesterday.

In moments, vines thick with years of growth cocooned the rooftop in a lattice.

One nearly snapped shut between them. Morgan darted forward, two quick steps to his side. “My sister—”

“We will.”

Heat slammed into them.

“Tch! I figured you were a dark wizard, but really--cursing every last one of them? That’s not power, that’s insecurity.” Lancer’s voice cut through the flames. Through the gaps, Morgan glimpsed vine stumps oozing black vapor, searing scars across Lancer’s body (though just as quickly, the marks melted away).

The reply came as a voice that resonated through the entire manor, echoing off walls and floors with no origin to be found: “Where is Anna-Morgause?”

Morgan grasped the ploy instantly--an omnipresent voice, impossible to pin down, muddying Archer and Lancer’s aim.

A thunderous crack ripped across the air. The very next second, an arrow was streaking through the vines as if nothing stood in its way, straight toward Morgan.

The vines stirred again, hissing as they lashed forward one after another, desperate to shield Morgan. Yet the arrow seemed almost sentient, hounding her without pause, even as Caster carried her swiftly aside. Each tendril it struck split open in a chain of brutal ruptures, snapping in succession like a line of grotesque dominoes. The curses clung to it in thickening coils of black, layer after choking layer, until, with a final hiss, they smothered the shaft and dragged it down.

Suddenly, a streak of crimson flared at the edge of her vision, hot enough to sear: “Behind you!”

Hemmed in on both sides, Caster had no choice but to let the spear’s momentum shove him away. His back crashed into the wall of vines, the pressure hurling him a good fifteen feet back. It spared him the killing blow and pulled Morgan clear of the strike--but his own arm caught the edge of the spearhead, a long, vicious burn seared into his flesh, small flames still licking hungrily along the wound.

“When you’re out of the game, perhaps I’ll tell your Master--if she’s still alive by then,” Lancer said with relish. “Annoying as Archer is, it seems right now, the simplest strategy is to join forces and take you off the board.”

Morgan’s eyes darted to Caster, and for the first time thought she caught a subtle trace of strain in him. “Should I…?”

Before she could voice the idea of using Command Seals, the burn seared open of its own accord, the charred flesh sheared away in one deliberate motion, leaving a raw gash that bled freely onto the vines and stone.

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Caster spat, his voice like ice.

“Tch. A prodigy indeed--never a moment’s peace with you, is there?” Viscous black liquid surged up, blotting out the glowing sigils, swallowing Lancer whole and plunging him underground.

Just when Morgan thought they could breathe again, another arrow came. Another relentless arrow. This one carried a power unlike any before, a force so absolute it was as if the whole sky bent its will toward seeing it strike true.

Caster carried her again through the air, But—

A surge of power tore open the sky, and in the blink of an eye, blinding light swept across the manor.

Like shadows before a floodlight, the curse-soaked vines were scoured away, purified into nothingness. The recoil flung Caster off course, yet still the arrow streaked toward them.

The world slowed.

By accident or by design, Morgan was flung from Caster’s arms. The arrow had traced along her hair, poised to pierce her temple--when that abrupt displacement twisted its path, driving it straight into Caster’s heart.

“No! Caster—!”

Her body tumbled past shattered rails, plummeting in freefall, hand still outstretched toward Caster. And already, a second arrow closed in...

Clang.

Before her thoughts could catch up, the arrow broke apart midair, dropping like a shattered reed.

A silhouette stood before her, metal catching the light in argent brilliance, hair blazing gold like sunlight itself. The radiance dazzled her vision, so sharp it brought her to tears.

Who—?

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

The moment he landed, Harry saw a girl, not much older than himself, plummeting toward the ground.

He hadn’t even gotten his wand fully up to cast Arresto Momentum before a teddy bear, towering several stories high, appeared out of nowhere and caught her neatly in its plush hands.

The girl froze in shock for a heartbeat, then suddenly broke into tears as she scrambled up onto the rooftop, dashing recklessly toward a crumpled figure.

Saber was still engaged with Archer in the distance. That meant Harry alone caught sight of it: a patch of unnatural red lurking in the girl’s shadow.

“Protego!”

Barely as the spell took hold, flames smashed against the hidden shield.

“Lancer, stand down!” Snape’s furious roar echoed from behind Harry.

But Harry barely registered it, he was already sprinting toward the girl.

“You all right?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face to him, eyes sharp with suspicion. Before she could answer, the fallen figure beside her stirred with a low groan, slowly propping himself up.

It was a perfectly unremarkable face. Yet when their eyes met, Harry felt a strange familiarity tug at him, as though he were a friend from a distant past, blurred and half-forgotten.

Then, without warning, though the man’s expression barely shifted at all, an icy chill shot down Harry’s spine and lodged itself in his skull.

He wants me dead!

Lord Voldemort (Team Berserker)

His pale fingers draped across the chair’s back, knuckles tightening until they shone with a spectral whiteness.

He stared through the window into the distance, unmoving. To a stranger it might resemble reverie; but to those who knew the Dark Lord, the stillness was more dreadful than fury, a silence steeped in rage. To disturb him now was to court annihilation.

The Dark Lord was displeased.

By dawn, Severus Snape should have reported to him with the Order’s plan to move Harry Potter. Yet now, with noon approaching, there was still no sign of his spy.

He had summoned Snape again and again through the Dark Mark. Still, there was no reply.

Something was amiss.

Something had happened, and the Dark Lord did not know what it was.

He did not like it. Not at all.

A timid knock at the door broke the silence. Had the room been any less quiet, or had he not been who he was, it might have been missed entirely.

“Enter.”

He swore, if it was not Severus Snape who stepped through that door—

“My L—” A squeaking, fearful voice poked its head in.

“Crucio.”

The shrill scream that followed was gratifying. At last, his mind felt calmer, soothed enough to tolerate the sound of fools attempting speech.

Then the squat figure stumbled inside, dragging itself upright with a whimper, eyes fixed anywhere but upon the Dark Lord. In a pathetic attempt at gratitude, Wormtail fawned, “Th-thank you, Master.”

“I do not recall summoning you, Wormtail,” Voldemort coldly pointed out.

“Y-yes, yes, Master, that is true. But—I—I have important news, something that must be told—”

“Then it had better be.” The words were smooth, almost idle.

Wormtail shook as though his bones rattled inside his skin. “Y-yes, Master. You see, since you assigned me to assist Snape… well, he no longer lives there, so I thought—suspected—and so I considered, what if I followed him instead? There is a flat, opposite his building, I managed to—”

“The point.”

Wormtail flinched violently. From the shadows came a chuckle--the Dark Lord’s Servant, that terrible Berserker. Wormtail shrank even further into himself, voice breaking as he rushed on:

“L-last night, Snape was attacked by Archer. An—and there was a dragon as well, perhaps another Servant. This morning, I saw Harry Potter visit his hideout with two companions—”

“Harry Potter is already in London?” Voldemort’s tone was quiet, perilous.

“Y-yes, Master, but—but soon after, they left together with Snape.”

“And by chance you know where they went?”

Pinned beneath the Dark Lord’s piercing gaze, Wormtail writhed, then croaked, “N-no, my Lord…”

“Then tell me,” Voldemort murmured, silken and deadly, “what use is this news to the Dark Lord?”

“I—I…” Wormtail’s tongue tied itself in knots.

The very next moment, salvation came in the form of Bellatrix’s wild shriek: “Master! Glorious news, Master!” She burst through the door without hesitation.

From Berserker’s direction, a curl of smoke drifted, dark and ill-tempered.

Voldemort ignored him. His eyes slid instead to his most faithful servant. “Yes, Bellatrix?”

Her eyes burned with feverish light. Within the limits of propriety, she pressed as close to him as she dared, words tumbling over themselves: “From Yaxley, Master--news from the Ministry! They detected Potter casting a Shield Charm within a Muggle manor house, in Surrey, in front of a Muggle—”

“The Trace,” Berserker sneered.

Bellatrix flushed scarlet, affronted, but also confused--here was the Dark Lord’s Servant, bound to his fate, not to be contradicted. Rage and restraint battled across her face.

Voldemort paid them no mind. His thoughts moved swiftly. “It is time to move.”

Then he turned, his red eyes gleaming, to Berserker. “The stage is yours… the hero who calls himself Cadmus, pitted against the fabled Once and Future King. Do not disappoint me.”

Berserker emerged from the shadows, the black mist bristling with restless vigor, and let out a derisive snort.

Chapter Text

14

Dolores Umbridge (Team Archer)

Umbridge was growing rather impatient.

For the life of her, she simply could not understand, how could it be this difficult to kill a mere Muggle?

When the little army of stone statues came charging in, she had, admittedly, been startled. Still, her Servant--despite being from some primitive, barbaric land, and worse, a lowly Muggle--proved useful enough in combat, cutting them down in short order.

Even so, the turn of events had surprised her. She had not anticipated interference at a time like this.

But—

It had also delivered her the most wonderful piece of news.

Yes, her contacts in the Ministry had alerted her at once. Now she had every justification to openly call upon Ministry resources--what did it matter if she was officially “suspended”?

When power could accomplish something so cleanly, why should she ever soil her own hands?

Harry Potter. That insolent Muggle girl. Neither of them would be permitted to remain stumbling blocks on her path to success.

Merlin (Team Rider)

Merlin had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d just made a mess of things.

He swore to himself he’d only meant to provide the others a place to land--never in his wildest imagining had he thought his magic might indirectly cause Caster to take an arrow.

Still, considering who Caster was, surely he wouldn’t die so easily… would he?

And so, before Merlin’s feet even touched the ground, he saw—

Lancer and Snape locked in a deadly standoff; Arthur and Snape moving in tandem to block Lancer’s advance on the Caster pair; dangerous light flaring around Caster, ready at any moment to snatch Harry’s life; Arthur splitting his attention, trying to shield Harry as well; Morgan clutching Caster’s hand, shouting at the top of her lungs, “He saved me!” as if to clear some terrible misunderstanding; from the distance, more arrows wreathed in the power of the heavens bearing down on them…

“Enough!”

A roar, woven with dragon-tongue and threaded with the laws of the world, shook the air. The earth answered, and for several heartbeats even time stood still.

And at last, it stopped them all (even the arrows hung frozen before clattering harmlessly to the floor).

Merlin descended to the rooftop under the weight of every eye.

“Enough,” he repeated, this time softly. He turned first to the two who did not yet know him. “I am Merlin. Forgive me for not choosing a better moment to introduce myself.”

Then, he turned his thoughts to how he might draw out the Archer pair lurking in the distance.

As it turned out, he need not worry. A sharp crack like a car backfiring split the air, and Umbridge appeared with several wizards in Ministry uniform.

“You have broken your word to me,” Merlin said low, his gaze pinning Umbridge.

Her eyes skittered, sliding away from Merlin. She affected a sweet cough before turning to Harry.

“A-hem. Mr. Potter,” her syrupy voice chimed, “how very long it’s been. These gentlemen have something to say to you.”

She simpered as one of the uniformed men stepped forward.

“Mr. Potter, at precisely eleven fifty-five this morning, you cast a Shield Charm in a Muggle inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle. This constitutes a severe breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. In addition, you have received multiple official warnings for previous offences of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. In light of present circumstances, and for your own safety, the Ministry has resolved to take you into custody, where you will be afforded strict protection.”

On the other side, two more Ministry wizards drew their wands, moving toward Morgan. She instinctively ducked behind Caster--who, after a calculating pause over what use her lost memories might serve him, remained where he was, shield-like, in front of her.

Harry caught the movement, and fury etched itself plain upon his face. “And what if I refuse?”

“Then we shall be compelled to employ certain legal measures,” the wizard replied coldly.

Harry’s knuckles whitened around his wand.

The other two Ministry men, realizing they could not bypass Caster to hex Morgan, let their wandtips flare dangerously, spells seconds from being loosed—

Thump!

Merlin’s staff struck the ground. Suddenly, none of them, not even Umbridge, could move a muscle.

“Release us at once! You dare attack a senior Ministry official?” Umbridge shrilled, though her voice rang thinner than her words.

“This is your chosen path?” Merlin’s voice trembled with suppressed fury. “To hide behind a corrupted law, to wield power as a bludgeon?”

He knew he should not let it take hold of him. He had lived more than a thousand years; he should no longer flare up like a hot-headed youth. Yet the images would not leave him--magic hunted into hiding, the days of concealment, of fear, of kins slain for nothing but their gift. He had endured Uther’s purge. He had endured the witch-hunts. He had endured Salem. Must he still endure, here, in the year 2017? How much longer was he meant to wait?

“Even you, Merlin, cannot simply flout wizarding law!” Umbridge declared, chin tilting up in hollow defiance.

“Can I not?”

Merlin had long since mastered the art of vanishing his own magic, so thoroughly that, even a millennium past, Morgause and Morgana could stand before him and never know what he was. Now, however, he let it spill forth unhindered.

“The International Statute of Secrecy was drafted in 1689, during the Salem witch trials. And how did you justify it to yourselves then? That it was to protect wizards.

“But in truth? Across most of the world--outside the dominion of Western dogma--where were wizards persecuted? How many cultures lived in harmony with magic, before your so-called ‘International’ decree smothered them under its arrogance? China, Japan, Indonesia, Polynesia--I could name them for hours.”

His voice shook with fury. He forced a breath.

“Yet you did not care, did you? From your vantage of ‘we are the world, we are civilization, we are the standard,’ those lesser cultures were nothing. Everything must bend to the rules you decreed. Consider your Standardized Latin incantations across the globe--So when you tore magic out of the world it once belonged to, you told yourselves it was only right, didn’t you?”

His staff groaned like a splitting oak, gold bursting from the carved veins. A globe shimmered above him, places dimming where he named them.

“And after that, the so-called Muggles surged ahead--racing through science, reshaping the world, casting off the shadows of religion, and before long, they became those who rule the planet*. They grew rational. They questioned what had been. They were finally able to see magic for what it truly was. And what did you do? You declared, from on high, that the law now existed to protect them. As if—

“A law three centuries old, upheld without question, treated as holy writ. All the while you blinded yourselves with this fallacy, you wallowed in your delusions of grandeur. What a mockery!”

Arthur’s gaze was fixed upon him. He had never before seen Merlin speak so boldly before other magic-wielders. That gaze made Merlin flush inwardly with shame--but he could not falter, not now.

“Your towers are built on rotten beams. Compared to the Muggles you scorn, your world is hollow and stagnant.

“Have you never wondered why, within a single century, the world has borne not one but two Dark wizards of such vast influence*? I do not condone Grindelwald’s nor Voldemort’s methods--but I condemn even more those who opposed them only to defend a stagnant ‘order.’ You ought to have treasured what they signified--signals history itself placed in your hands.

“The old path is broken. Change, or die.”

His words fell like a curse, and the wizards before him shivered despite themselves.

“Even without the Grail War, your Phantasm would still collapse. Whether on the inner side or the surface, the end is the same. Not because of fate, not because of some tragic failure at a single point in time. No, this is the harvest of your own poisoned seeds.”

The vision above showed the world’s decline in luminous clarity.

“So yes. I, Merlin Emrys, will not bow to your Statute of Secrecy.” His staff cracked against the stone, scattering starlight. “Hear me: there are only two paths ahead. Either the Holy Grail War runs its course and the world burns beneath alien conquest--or I will see it changed. Magic will return to this land. Albion will be born again, where old and new may stand together.”

“…The prophecy,” Arthur murmured faintly at his side.

Merlin steadied his breathing. It had been long indeed since he had let himself be so swept away.

Then his eyes, cool and cutting, swept over the Ministry wizards. “Now. I believe you should leave.”

Released from his spell, they scrambled to Disapparate in abject panic, leaving only Umbridge, glowering though her face betrayed her fear.

“Dolores Umbridge,” Merlin said, deciding to leave his power unhidden, “you owe me an explanation.”

“I owe you nothing. I promised to cease fighting. I did. I never promised more than that. If you assumed otherwise, that is your mistake.” Her chin jutted defiantly.

Merlin regarded her pettiness in silence, then shook his head.

“Then I am to take it you do not believe me. You do not believe the Holy Grail War is a fraud orchestrated by another world for conquest. You do not believe its victor’s wish would mean this world’s destruction.”

Umbridge held her tongue, head high, neither admitting nor denying.

Merlin sighed and released her.

“Go. And do not make me meet you again as an enemy.”

Lord Voldemort (Team Berserker)

He was already here when those Ministry lackeys appeared. So, yes, he had of course heard every word Merlin had spoken.

Convincing him, however, would take more than rhetoric; he wanted proof.

And besides…

Nothing Merlin had said ran counter to his own designs.

What he sought was Harry Potter’s death--his death alone.

Ah—yes, and the Muggle. It had never even crossed his mind that one of them might stumble into such a contest. No matter. She could be cleared away in passing.

A master or two less would hardly decide the outcome of the Grail War.

As for the Apostle’s talk of the Third Magic, or of the Holy Grail War heralding the world’s destruction--such matters could be revisited later. He had no particular fixation on it.

Which meant he was perfectly free to kill them first, and listen to Merlin afterwards*.

So he turned to the Servant at his back.

“Go. Kill them. Potter, and the Muggle--you may choose which first.”

A heartbeat later, the Servant was gone.

Chapter Text

15

Tom Marvolo Riddle (Team Caster)

Had he known the day would sour into this farce, he would surely have taken a draught of Felix Felicis before setting out.

Not an addiction--merely the cool, rational acknowledgment of just how abysmal his luck could be.

At some point, heavy clouds had gathered above the manor, dimming the sky until it felt nearly like nightfall.

The very instant the first snowflake touched the rooftop, a Servant appeared at the far edge. Swathed in a haze of ominous black mist, it sprang forward, driving straight toward Saber. The knight raised his weapon to intercept--only for the strike to veer aside at the last second, a feint, driving straight for Caster instead.

A curse hissed through his mind as Caster flung Morgan into a protective sphere, before taking to the air to slip past the Servant’s descent.

The ominous black mist drove into the roof like a spear, stone bursting skyward only to crumble into dust midair, leaving a gaping hole straight through to the floors below.

From the distance came Snape’s voice: “It’s Berserker! He’s here!” But Caster could spare no thought for him.

The Servant recovered instantly--even as the first strike missed, it had already spun with an unnerving agility, black mist trailing in a scythe’s arc as it slashed toward him again.

A serpent, conjured from the spray of shattered stone, lunged up to intercept.

Through the narrow gap left by the mist cutting cleanly through the serpent’s neck, Caster vaulted upward. The rooftop devices were nearly spent; and this foe was clearly close-combat oriented. To be dragged into melee was the bane of a magus, he needed a new ground--one bent to his art.

No sooner had he taken flight than the Servant was upon him, the black miasma propelling it skyward as it came crashing down on him with relentless force.

A bear’s paw the size of a wagon wheel swept up to swat it down. The Servant scarcely blinked--with a flick of the hand, the bear’s arm was sheared off, tumbling end over end. And poor Teddy wheezed as the air rushed out of him, sagging pitifully until he crumpled into a heap of sad, wrinkled vinyl.

The Servant, unimpeded, dived straight for him.

Caster shot Morgan the briefest of looks. Even in that fraction of a second, she caught it perfectly: “Sorry! I swear I’ll never buy the inflatable one again!”

His own arm wound still bled freely, crimson dripping into the garden below.

And the garden answered.

Blood-soaked earth writhed, as if awakening.

The hedges were the first to rebel, snapping from their neat rows into a barricade of impaling stakes, every branch honed to a murderous point, lunging forward like Vlad’s forest of pikes to skewer the intruder.

In an instant, the garden was no longer a garden but a sea of green lances. One cluster shattered, only for the next to crest forward, relentless as a breaking wave.

Using the reprieve to pull back, Caster studied his opponent.

Then his eyes narrowed.

There was no mistaking it... the traces of magic. The residue of a spell clung that scar along the branches--Diffindo. Then…  Impedimenta. Afterward… Reducto...

   Even if every strike was shrouded in that black haze--perhaps a quirk of class, perhaps something else (Mad Enhancement? No… every incantation was laced with reason, with calculation, with refinement. Lower grades of madness do exist among Servants, yes… but this one… this one, he knows*.)--the pattern was unmistakable. Without doubt, the Servant was a wizard in life.

The Servant, nettled by the ceaseless thrust of thorns, flared with irritation; the black haze erupted outward in a storm of blades, cutting across the garden like shrapnel.

“Sectumsempra—” … but how? … unless…

Flame followed, the garden swallowed in black-edged fire.

He set the suspicion aside; there was no time to dwell. If his foe was indeed a wizard, then—

The buried cables beneath the soil throbbed at his command with a savage hum, swelling until it broke into a jagged roar. Electricity howled, arcs of white leaping, then knitting into a whirling ring of violet-blue. Gravel and dust shuddered, dragged rattling into the current.

Snow hissed into steam as it touched the field.

The Servant moved to strike it down, but the incantation faltered, disrupted by the electromagnetic field. No second attempt followed.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the Servant vanished.

Not Disillusionment--he had seen that failed casting before. What, then… a Noble Phantasm? A skill? A relic?

All at once, blades of blackness tore through the air with a ringing clang. Against the snow-laden sky, the widening gash stood out stark and merciless, driving straight for Caster.

And not only the blades--there was that power, pressing in on him, palpable as a weapon. No curse, no spell, yet reeked of ill omen… like the abyss of death fixing its gaze upon him. What was it?

No time—!

Caster hurled the arcs into a lattice, a net of lightning, bracing it before him.

Power crashed against power, locked in a deadly struggle for a few suspended seconds, then burst apart in a violent explosion.

The shockwave hurled both of them back several yards.

No respite. Against such an enemy, every heartbeat spelled death.

As if bound by some invisible thread--or by some fleeting accord, or sheer accident--they unleashed their magic in unison.

The spells collided in the center with overwhelming force, binding and entwining, the air quaking beneath their power. Across the point of contact surged a resonance--vast, inexorable--until golden sparks leapt forth.

Of course.

With ruthless precision, Caster drove a second surge of power straight into his own spell. The forced collision ripped the lock apart, detonated in a violent bloom, smoke churning with the thickening snow until the garden was nothing but white and grey. For a moment, no one could see the two below.

Silence.

A smothering silence stretched across the manor.

The dust fell at last with the snow, leaving only the faint sound of flakes drifting down.

The two Servants stood a few yards apart in the scorched-black garden, gazing at each other like statues held still.

Time seemed to stall--then move again. Laughter burst out at once from both sides, shaking the still air.

A high, cold laugh; a shrill, hysterical one. Neither carried even the ghost of mirth.

“Didn’t I say so? Fate loves me,” said Berserker.

“Your Noble Phantasm might deceive a less discerning eye,” Caster replied, his voice hoarse but unnervingly calm. He hoped his face betrayed nothing--he had always been adept at control, ever since his schooldays at Hogwarts--but now, for the first time, he felt his composure tremble. “Yet we both know you are no Berserker. It’s almost poetic… I may even grow sentimental. Perhaps you could help me decide--should I feel more delight, or more insult? For I confess, I am ravenous to know… what happened, to make you into this?”

He spoke in mockery, but his expression was barren of joy. “Tell me--was it betrayal by your beloved friends? Or perhaps a cherished mentor’s knife in your unguarded back? Or was it the rabble you swore to protect, casting you aside the moment it suited them? Tell me…

“Did your precious, vaunted Love grant you salvation, when you writhed in the depths of hatred?”

“Oh, you’d just love to know, wouldn’t you? Shame you keeled over first--collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Does seeing me like this burn more than spitting on your grave? …Oh, wait. Do you even have a grave? Can’t quite recall. Maybe they just left you out to rot.”

Berserker shot back without mercy, and before Caster could muster a reply, the black haze around Berserker shifted, his hand moving as if to draw a wand. “Come to think of it, there’s something I’ve been wanting to try—”

“You dare—”

“Oh, you know I dare.” Berserker’s voice rang with a joy that was hollow as a bell.

“Expelliarmus!”

And so it was--a harmless spell, nothing but a schoolboy’s trick, cut through the leaden sky, threaded between falling snow, and with a searing green brilliance tore through the shield Caster had conjured in haste, burying itself mercilessly in his chest.

Pain… nothing but pain.

For the second time that day, he tasted it--the agony of death--of being ripped apart from his own body. Was it the torment of the flesh? Or the torment of the soul? Ripped… shattered… bit by bit. Weak… powerless…

Never again.

Never.

Perhaps only a moment had passed, or perhaps an eternity. Slowly, his senses began to return. The weight of flesh came back to him, heavy, real.

And with that return came the flood of fury, boiling through limbs that still throbbed with pain.

“Harry Potter!”

He shouted in fury, his voice pulling the magic through the stones and rubble of the manor, sending it crashing through the walls.

Leaning on his still-aching limbs, he stood.

His second Skill, stirred by the torrent of his emotions, began to surge dangerously. So he stopped trying to hold it back, letting the terrifying aura spread out, saturating the air.

In life, there existed those who did not fear the Dark Lord. Then there were those who claimed they were not afraid of him, but when they heard his name, they still trembled, subconsciously avoiding speaking it aloud. Both were the rarest among the rare, while most people…

But rest assured, even those in the first category occasionally find themselves perplexed. Merely hearing or uttering the name sends shivers down one’s spine, as if its mere mention could make nightmares come true in the next instant, devouring them whole. What on earth must that feel like?

Now, they could experience it firsthand--that chill rising from the depths, cold enough to freeze a summer day; that dread of being watched by something unseen, its gaze upon the nape of one's neck; that constant unease that any moment of lowered vigilance would be seized upon. Like sheep in a pen under constant surveillance, their feeding, taming, or slaughter hinges entirely on another's whim--a single name.

This was the power of his second Skill.

Amidst this terrifying presence, Caster once more stood tall upon the earth.

His eyes gazed coldly across the field.

Then, like paint washed away by rain, the disguise peeled off, revealing his true visage beneath the open heavens:

Slightly long black hair, cat-like crimson eyes, cheeks slightly hollowed, and a simple black robe that hung about him like drifting smoke--a beauty beyond compare, worthy of an author's most elaborate and repeated descriptions.

On the other side, as if responding to this candour, the black mist that had constantly swirled around “ Berserker ” dispersed along both flanks, swept away as though by a fierce wind.

“My apologies,” came the utterly unapologetic tone, “I simply couldn't resist. After all--I am an Avenger.”

And beneath the dissipating haze, his true form was laid bare before them all:

Dishevelled hair carelessly tied into a ponytail; a lightning-shaped scar across his forehead; spectacles askew from poor storage, doing nothing to dim the eyes as chilling as a Killing Curse. His body was tall and lean, though the gloom and malevolence etched upon his face rendered him almost unrecognizable--there was no mistaking who he was.

He met Caster's gaze with calm composure, lifting his chin as a fearless smile spread across his face.

“Come to think of it, I do prefer this face of yours after all.”

Chapter Text

16

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

They followed Merlin into the garden.

Harry felt as if he were walking on clouds. Since the moment Berserker (or rather, now Avenger) and Caster had revealed their true forms, he’d been enveloped in a sense of unreality.

Of course, he had imagined that the Servants in this Holy Grail War might include people he knew or recognised. But imagining it and actually seeing it with his own eyes were two very different things, especially when…

At this very moment, it was hard for him to decide which was more absurd: the fact that a Heroic Spirit version of Voldemort had been summoned by a Muggle, or the fact that Voldemort’s Servant was none other than Harry Potter himself.

Meanwhile, he began to seriously consider the meaning of the term "Heroic Spirit," specifically the philosophical question of “the essence of a ‘hero’”.

A dull throb in the back of his head told him that the living Voldemort was also present, and despite the Occlumency barrier, Voldemort, like him, was likely caught off guard by the bizarre unfolding of events. Lord Voldemort was in a most foul mood.

Sure enough, from the far end of the garden, deep within the shrubbery, Voldemort emerged in silence. His face was grim, his eyes locked on the other version of himself.

Merlin greeted Avenger and Caster warmly, then clapped his hands together: “Excellent! Since you've both had your fill, perhaps we might now turn to the matter at hand.”

Caster, however, seemed entirely oblivious to Merlin's words, returning an unreadable gaze to his other self.

Eventually, it was Caster who first averted his gaze.

“I’ve seen you before,” Caster stated flatly, waving his hand to release Morgan from that ridiculous sphere.

“Indeed,” Merlin with measured humility. “Since we’re on the subject, I'm afraid I must borrow your Logos system. To gain your trust, I’ll have to show you something more concrete.”

Caster narrowed his eyes, his tone smooth, “How long have you been watching?”

Merlin scratched the back of his head, looking somewhat sheepish. “Since… the beginning? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I just wanted to keep up with the situation. I have absolutely no opinion on the matter concerning Ruther. You don’t need to worry about me judging you or anything like that.”

Arthur, who had been standing nearby, gasped in surprise, “Ruther? What do you mean?” But no one had time to address him.

Merlin lowered his gaze. “In the past, I judged… allowing what I mistakenly believed to be a predetermined future to obscure my true feelings. And as a result, I made irreversible mistakes. Not anymore.”

Caster said nothing, Harry could not fathom what was going on in his mind. After a moment, Caster turned and began walking toward the manor house.

And so, this bizarre group--a group held together by Merlin's formidable power and the fragile understanding that they couldn't kill each other just yet--followed Merlin's cheerful lead, toward the direction Caster had indicated.

Within the shadows obscured by vines, a brick wall parted, revealing a hidden staircase behind it.

It was whilst walking up the stairs that Harry noticed, at some point, Loki had slipped away without a sound.

And also, somewhere along the way, Voldemort had moved up to stand beside the other version of himself.

“Lord Voldemort, Servant to a Muggle Master. You’ve answered a Muggle’s call.” Voldemort's tone was calm and unruffled, as though he held no particular stance on the matter.

But Harry, who shared his emotions, knew full well that Voldemort was seething with rage as he spoke. By posing this question, by offering the other a chance rather than casting a spell or resorting to more extreme measures, he was acting purely because the addressee was another version of himself.

Caster seemed well aware of this, yet his tone remained equally flat: “She is no ordinary Muggle. She is—"

“The reincarnation of Morgan le Fay.”/ “The reincarnation of Morgana Pendragon.”

Merlin’s cheerful voice chimed in, echoing Caster’s words.

The Muggle girl named Morgan wore an expression of utter disbelief, likely hearing this for the first time.

“Yes. I believe you’ll get your answers once I explain,” Merlin added.

By then, they had reached a pair of double black doors.

Even without drawing closer, Harry could feel it, that ominous breath of power. Anyone who dared approach recklessly would likely meet with terrible misfortune.

Caster stood before the doors, yet made no move to open them.

Instead, it was the Muggle girl, Morgan, who stepped forward. Seeing Caster hesitate, she pricked her finger and smeared her blood across the door: “Chaldea.”

Upon hearing the password, Merlin sent a curious glance at the Master and Servant.

The black doors swung open, revealing the chamber beyond.

The room was crammed with storage cabinets and countless magical instruments. With no windows, it seemed dim, permeated by the faint scent of potions. Even here, the signs of the earlier battle showed themselves--in places the walls were cracked and broken, the wind sighing through the gaps.

Caster gave a wave of his hand, and the ceiling flared with light, simulating a natural sky. It reminded Harry of the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

At the room’s center stood an instrument larger than a globe yet smaller than an astronomical observatory.

Merlin halted before it, then turned to face them all. He hesitated, and for a moment wore the shy, uncertain expression of a young man not quite sure how to begin.

At last his gaze settled on Caster and Avenger.

“I believe you’ve both noticed rather obvious anomalies... particularly concerning your memories.”

Caster proved cooperative, likely eager to drive Merlin to his point. “It has been nineteen years since my passing.”

The other Harry merely shrugged, unconcerned. “Don’t look at me. I’ve no idea what year I died.” After expressing his casual attitude toward his own demise, he added, “But it's true--in my memory, all events in this world leading up to the Holy Grail War belongs to the years 1996 to 1997. Not 2017.”

Merlin nodded in agreement.

But Caster was not content to leave it there. “This specific time--2017--and the events unfolding now… are they connected to what happened at the Temple of Time?”

Again, Merlin cast him that particular look, then he smiled faintly. “Perhaps we should begin with the tales of two worlds.”

With a wave of his staff, the image of two Earths shimmered into the air.

He pointed to one of them: “In this world, Merlin was born during the reign of Vortigern. At a young age, in order to escape death, he laid bare his gift of magic, foretelling the strife of the White Dragon and the Red. He served Vortigern and then Uther in their time, and by his hand Arthur Pendragon was born. He became Arthur’s guide and mentor, together, they forged an age in which magic and the mundane might dwell side by side.

“In time, a distinct wizarding system emerged. The ancient arts gave way to the new, the intricate to the simple. There is nothing amiss in that--for progress and evolution ever move along that path, and it is inevitable.

“But as the people they called ‘Muggles’--ordinary humans--hurried forward on the strength of industry and science, advancing faster with each passing age, the wizards, who had endured long centuries of oppression, chose, just as that oppression was beginning to wane, to break away and set themselves apart from their non-magical kin.”

In the planetary imagery created by Merlin, little wizard-figures, carrying packs upon their backs, walked away from little Muggle-figures.

“Having withdrawn into their hidden paradise, the wizards found themselves without foes. Their small and scattered folk could live self-sufficiently with ease. Yet in the absence of peril, in the absence of need, they lost the very fire that drives progress and evolution. Compared to the astonishing leaps of ordinary men in the past few centuries, the wizarding world remained stagnant, mired in stillness.

“What little change has stirred may be found in healing, perhaps, and entertainment. Yet, among wizards with their generally longer lifespans, truly groundbreaking medical advances in any given century could be counted on one hand. And the diversions they craft with magic only in trivial, minor aspects, no match for the flood of books, of print, of moving pictures and games that the Muggles have unleashed.

“Undeniably, it is a life of peace and ease. But for magic itself, it is nothing less than a calamity. The spells mastered by an ordinary wizard have dwindled sharply in but a few decades; across the span of centuries, the decline is nothing short of tragic. Lineages of specialized craft, houses of specific traditions, schools once rich with inheritance--dwindling, fading, falling to silence. The line between wizard and Muggle grows ever fainter.

“Do wizards still strive to understand the world through magic? To comprehend how magic weaves every detail of material and immaterial existence? Do they still chase its possibilities? Not merely based on experience and coincidence, but as a systematic, shared, and open body of knowledge.

“And if the day should come, when the internet, electronic currency, and all the myriad tools of Muggle science find their way into their lives--what then, I wonder, will become of them?”

In Merlin’s vision, a wizard struggled furiously with the lid of a tin can.

Harry frowned. The tone of it all…

He carefully observed the reactions of the two Voldemorts. But neither seemed affected, and no intense emotions seeped through from the other side of the Occlumency barrier.

“Meanwhile, as Muggles gained mastery over technology, their living spaces expanded. Less and less space remained for magical creatures to dwell. This world has no ‘Reverse Side’ to which they might retreat. Thus, we see that aside from those coexisting with wizards or kept as pets, truly wild magical creatures have become exceedingly rare.”

Merlin's projection began to show the migration and gradual extinction of magical creatures.

“Wizards and magical creatures--this world’s only two carriers of Phantasm--are both gradually losing their hold upon it. The Phantasm of this world is heading toward death.”

Then Merlin turned his attention to the other Earth.

“In this world, Merlin was born much later. He came into being during the era when magic faced ‘the Great Purge,’ roughly the same age as Arthur. To survive, he had to carefully conceal his abilities. Completely different parents, different circumstances, a different future--yet certain events were destined to unfold because history demanded it. This world reached a turning point, a fixed locus in its history. It was both real and symbolic; both present and prophetic. It marked and determined the course of this world for the next thousand years.

“A Camelot where magic and men lived side by side. An Albion where magic and the mundane breathed as one.”

Merlin breathed a long sigh.

“But I didn't know that back then. None of us did. Because of my weakness… because of my negligence…”

The vision from the second Earth swelled, and Harry saw Merlin standing behind Arthur, head bowed, his hair cropped short, clad in the plain garb of Muggles.

“Before magic could return, before everything could be set right, Camlann happened.”

The final battle between Arthur and Mordred flared across the image.

“Then, like an avalanche, everything spiraled uncontrollably and irrevocably toward destruction. It was the ruin born of that turning point, a conceptual destruction that none could avert.

“The beings of Phantasm that made up the fabric of the world grew ever fewer. Some fled to Avalon, the sole remaining realm of Phantasm in this world.

“By the year 2017, there were scarcely any sorcerers left alive, and no new ones could be born. That is why Morgan Faye, though the reincarnation of Morgana and blessed with every aptitude for magic, possessed no power beyond that of an ordinary human.”

Merlin lowered his head.

“In exchange, the dwindling Phantasms poured their existence into what remained. Into me, into Avalon, into Excalibur--we became conceptual vessels, bearing unprecedented power as the sole containers of ‘the entirety of this world's Phantasm.’ Yet that was all.

“All things that bear form must one day perish. When we too cease to exist, Phantasm itself will vanish from this world.

“Such is the divergent yet identical fate that befell these two worlds.” Merlin waved his staff, revealing a third planet. “Until, on an Earth in another world, through sheer accident, someone observed these two realms and the energy they contained--energy they themselves could not harness.”

 “Surely you can sense that in both of the first two worlds, magic follows similar laws:

“Magic dwells within the soul--proof being that a soul which takes on a new vessel retains the same magical strength, and that a soul reborn in another body still carries the aptitude for sorcery. Casting magic relies more on will than knowledge or technique, which is why many young wizards can wield magic even before learning any spellwork.

“At the same time, it is a power that can, to some degree, be inherited. Parents who are wizards are more likely to give birth to children with magic.

“So we may say that… in those two worlds, magic is a force born of the fusion between soul and body, leaning more upon the soul than the flesh.

This does refute Slytherin's theory of blood purity, Harry thought.

“But the third Earth is utterly different. It mirrors their history in appearance, yet its foundation is another law entirely.”

Merlin singled out the third planet.

“In that world, any art that might conceivably be reproduced by human technology of the time is classed as magecraft, while only that which transcends possibility is true magic. Take the Severing Charm--Diffindo. A gunshot can tear something apart just as well. So in that world, it would count as no more than magecraft.

“Extracting magical energy relies on innate aptitude known as ‘magic circuits.’ The practitioners of that world, called magi, draw energy from two sources: the Greater Source/Mana, the life force of the planet; and the Lesser Source/Od, the life force of the magus themself.

Merlin waved his hand again, and scenes of destruction appeared on the third planet.

“Fourteen thousand years ago, a decisive event struck that Earth.

“From the wandering star descended a White Titan, which annihilated all: wilderness, lifeforms, civilization. Almost all upon the surface was razed. In its final defence, the planet’s inner core forged a Divine Construct--the holy sword, this world’s Excalibur.

“Yet in so doing, the planet’s lifeblood was consumed, causing the mana supplied by the Greater Source to the Earth's surface to wane*.”

Merlin then pointed to the first two planets.

“These events never occurred in our two worlds. Thus, they remain filled with abundant, limitless Mana that cannot be utilized by those worlds themselves.”

A C-shaped emblem formed by two intertwined branches appeared midair.

Merlin turned toward the Caster Master-Servant: “The Incineration of Humanity, the battle at the Temple of Time--that was merely the beginning. What followed was a far madder ambition.

“And when they observed these two worlds, governed by similar rules, they drew up a plan. A contingency for reserve energy they might never even need.”

Harry felt fury flare at the edge of his mind, mingling with his own rage.

How arrogant must they be, to look upon worlds with people in them, and call them nothing more than firewood?

“Though magic exists, the humans wielding this power in these two worlds know little of it, at least, not the kind that touches the laws of the world itself. Even one such as Caster,” Merlin glanced at him with a faint note of apology, “only touched the truth after sensing the abnormalities on a planetary level; and only by the legendary attributes bestowed upon him as a Heroic Spirit could he construct the Logos System. Moreover, the planets themselves possess no inherent defense systems. Against an invasion of this scale, these worlds are utterly defenseless.”

At Merlin’s signal, Caster activated the Logos System. The current world and the Texture of its rules appeared before everyone's eyes. Alongside it came vine-like strands, restrained by a blue-white radiance.

“These two worlds--though we may also refer to them as universes to distinguish them from Nasuverse*'s Parallel Worlds--share laws and events so close that they can be fused with ease. Just a gentle nudge, and they fuse of their own accord.

“But those behind this cannot reach across the gulf (3→1+2) to draw directly from the Greater Source. This is not even a question of the Second Magic*. These are realms governed by entirely distinct cosmic laws, existing beyond the original framework of distance. Even the first glimpse of them was sheer accident. Their only option is to use the fused world as fuel--to burn it.

“To accomplish this, they must open a stable channel between this universe and the other, and reach the fused world in full. By approaching the thing that, within the fused world, is akin to the Root, the scale of what can be harvested--or from our view, destroyed--grows vast, no less than the Incineration itself. That is why they require the Greater Grail, why they needed to contrive the conditions of a Holy Grail War.

Merlin took a deep breath.

“When the two worlds fuse, when the power of the third world brushes against them, a new layer of laws spontaneously spreads across it the surface. And with that, opportunity is born. With the Holy Grail War established, both Counter Forces awaken, and the Throne of Heroes manifest--the power of resistance is born.”

“This is where it all began...” Arthur murmured.

Chapter Text

17

Harry Potter (Team Saber)

Caster walked toward the Logos System. He first pointed at the vine-like tendrils: “These are the invaders yet to take root in this world.”

Merlin nodded in confirmation.

Then Caster gestured toward the blue-white force: “And this… is your power.”

Merlin confirmed once more.

Caster frowned slightly, thinking aloud: “That explains the temporal displacements. To ensure a more stable fusion of worlds, minor alterations are inevitable... It also explains why Morgan is able to provide me with magical energy. The energy of a Heroic Spirit does not stem from Magic Circuits, but from the magic bound to the soul... Magical energy derives from the soul--an utter contradiction to the Nasuverse system. But of course... since there was never any intent for long-term continuity, compatibility was never required. As long as it sustains the completion of the Holy Grail War, that is enough.”

Merlin produced a crystal, placing it before Logos as he raised his staff. Thin silver threads of light poured from it, weaving into the Logos like cobwebs. The imagery projected by Logos shifted abruptly: the conceptual tendrils that had previously floated above the world's surface, now sank into the planet’s skin, clinging tight. Everything was engulfed in a crimson glow, all traces of life upon the planet vanished.

“Through a crystal drawn from the birthplace of Magic, Logos can be temporarily granted the capacity to calculate future events--functioning much like the Near-Future Observation device of Sheba. Not prophecy, which may be falsified, but deductions based on the Logos system. This, is the result of that computation.” Merlin explained, then retrieved the crystal with another wave of his staff.

Truth be told, witnessing this brought a strange sense of relief to Harry's heart. Compared to a destiny where one must either kill or be killed, the idea of saving the world was almost refreshingly simple, straightforward, and genuinely inspiring.

He’d gladly undertake the world-saving missions ten times over rather than ponder how to destroy Voldemort, or how to avoid being destroyed by him!

A brief silence fell over the room.

Then, Voldemort--who had remained silent until now--spoke: “You say you intend to use this opportunity to restore Phantasm to the world... Tell me--how do you purpose to achieve it?”

Caster followed with a sharper, more technical question, his tone deliberately withholding any judgment:

“Though I'm uncertain how you define ‘Phantasm,’ according to the history and rules of the Third World--that is, the Nasuverse--as human civilisation advances, planetary laws shift accordingly. The retreat of the Mystery is inevitable. Do you intend to defy planetary necessity?”

For a moment Merlin’s expression faltered, his face going blank. Then, lowering his eyes, he showed a fleeting bitterness. His voice softened:

“Perhaps I do.”

“But allow me at least a defense of my actions,” Merlin added with a faint smile.

“First, we must reaffirm: even before the fusion—” Merlin shook his head—“even after the fusion, many rules existing in the Nasuverse are either absent or altered here.

“In the world of Fate, the planet alters its very laws to match the cognition of the lifeforms inhabiting their surfaces, reshaping physical principles into the most suitable conditions for their survival.

“In our world, planetary laws have never changed, and they never will. This is one reason why they cannot even utilise the fusion world for experimentation, only as fuel--ours is a world that cannot be Bleached(白紙化*).

“The texture* covering the surface is not native, but a new phenomenon brought forth by the invasion, and as Caster observed, not yet wholly compatible. It envelops not only the planet's surface but also the surface of the human world constructed by existing rules.”

Merlin adjusted the observation angle of the Logos System, and the layered structure he described unfolded visually upon the planet's surface (the planet’s surface → the planet's inherent, immutable texture/laws and all that’s built on it → the texture enabling the Holy Grail War → the invader's tendrils).

“Within our planetary laws, there inherently exists a rationality that accommodates the simultaneous existence of both magic and science.”

Merlin paused to gather his thoughts, carefully choosing his next words:

“If in Nasuverse, Mystery is something that weakens the more people know of it, something that vanishes as human knowledge strips away its enchantment--the vanishing of the miraculous before the relentless march of human understanding... then the ‘Phantasm’ of our world might be described as... The potential and vitality inherent in entities that serve as vessels for the magical side. Under the laws governing them, these entities possess the capacity for continuous iteration, evolution, and flourishing... thus forming a conceptual force upon the planet.

“In other words, it is the abstract ‘life force’ that enables magic and all related phenomena to exist, mutually nurturing the planet.

“The more prosperously beings that wield magic thrive, the more vigorous their force of evolution becomes, the stronger the Phantasm of the planet grows; and the stronger the Phantasm of the planet, the more beings capable of wielding magic may be born.”

Merlin fidgeted with his fingers, growing uneasy:

“Beings who wield magic already include a portion of mankind...

“While in Fate’s world, Phantasmal Species retreated to the Reverse Side, in these two worlds where Phantasm fades, they faced only extinction.

“It was only after fusion, when the laws overlapped, that Avalon became the Inner Sea of the Planet--a sanctuary for phantasmal life.”

He bit his knuckles, self-condemnation thick upon him.

“Perhaps I truly am being ruled by sentiment. But I cannot--They deserve better than annihilation.

“This is my failure... It is mine to rectify...

“So even if it truly means going against the course of the planet, I will take that gamble!”

Then, Merlin drew a deep breath, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and began outlining his plan.

Harry thought he needn’t have looked away at all. For if Merlin looked upon the expressions in the room--even, no, especially those of the two Voldemorts, who revered magic above all--he would realize that what everyone sought to accomplish, what everyone acknowledged, did not stand against him.

Perhaps this was the shadow of certain long-standing experiences? Harry wondered.

“When we destroy the Greater Grail, we can use the energy present in that moment to alter the present rules.

“We will exchange a portion of the world’s Mana for the ‘life-force’ of Phantasm, and weave part of the current overlaying texture into the planet’s inherent laws--like the Inner Sea of the Planet. Thus, when phantasmal beings unfit for surface life return, there will be somewhere for them to go.

“Within the multiple worlds’ laws currently operating in concert, I was born both of Phantasm itself and of Gaia. I can do it.”

“…I suppose the other one* will assist you as well?” Caster’s sudden voice made Merlin start.

Merlin's evasive gaze snapped back in surprise.

“The incubus,” Caster said, unbothered. “Your magic carries the fragrance of flowers... doesn’t fit the stories. Must be the worlds bleeding into one another.”

Merlin finally laughed again: “Yes... yes, that's it! Thankfully his personality hasn’t rubbed off on me, though.”

Harry frowned and asked the question he'd been wanting to ask for ages: “What are you talking about? (to Caster) And how do you know all this?”

Morgan tapped his arm and handed him a mobile phone. After unlocking it, she looked rather vexed and exclaimed, “Caster, honestly! Help me out, I can’t get a signal.”

“In other words, there are at least two with Grand Caster qualifications involved here,” Caster ignored her, though Harry noticed the signal icon flash alive on the screen.

Merlin pondered for a moment. “Perhaps 1.2… maybe 1.3…”

Finally seeing the game’s start screen, Harry groaned. He couldn’t read Japanese. Fortunately, Morgan began whispering the plot to him in English.

“Even so, you still seek an alliance? You are perfectly capable of just destroying the Greater Grail yourself.” Caster pressed, his questions always carrying an intimidating weight.

Merlin shifted his gaze awkwardly. “True enough. But... if I choose to destroy the Holy Grail, I cannot divide my focus to alter the rules at the same time...”

Arthur stepped forward then, his expression complicated as he looked at Merlin. His lips moved soundlessly before he finally spoke.

“Before we… parted ways, you told me you were born to serve me. I had my Camelot. This time, let me be the one to aid you.” His words were grave, as though voicing a vow meant to endure a thousand years.

Merlin’s eyes seemed to glisten faintly.

Avenger leaned against the wall, arms folded, speaking with lazy indifference: “Doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead. I’d still be of use to you. And you know that.”

Merlin gave a troubled smile.

“Yes. But… if I can spare the Servants from vanishing, I will. The Greater Grail need not be awakened. If too many are lost… Even if Excalibur is one of the ‘Vessels of the Entirety of This World’s Phantasm,’ it is not the Holy Sword itself. For us, that could prove troublesome.”

Hearing himself included naturally in Merlin’s “us,” Arthur could not help but feel a spark of joy. Such treatment had rarely been his during their magical adventures in life.

“Then… shall we call this an alliance?” Merlin asked the group at last.

“Hold on!” Morgan cut him off. “Until I find my sister, I will promise nothing.”

Her eyes burned as she turned on Snape. “I take it Lancer is your Servant? He abducted my sister.”

Snape staggered back as though struck, then his face hardened. “I fear I know nothing of this. For that, I apologise.”

Morgan drew breath to press him further, but Merlin interjected: “I might be able to locate her.”

He closed his eyes, golden light shimmering beneath his lids.

When he opened them again, he said, “She’s at Spinner’s End. Professor Snape’s former residence.”

Snape’s face grew darker than the storming sky outside. “I’ll take her home.”

Merlin stroked the crystal, beckoning Morgan to look. By then, Snape had already Apparated to his house, beginning his search for Anna-Morgause.

“Archer is lost,” Harry lifted his head as the other him spoke lazily. “We still have Saber, Caster, Berserker, Rider, and Lancer--though I doubt he’ll be swayed. Assassin hasn’t shown. More than enough players remain.”

“Give me one reason not to end you where you stand,” Voldemort said coldly.

His other self merely shrugged indifferently: “There is no such reason. Except that it would knock you out of the Grail War. Doesn’t bother me either way.” He glanced, almost deliberately, at Caster.

Caster showed no reaction whatsoever.

Voldemort said nothing further, but Harry could sense a surge of fury churning on the other end. He could not help but feel a touch of admiration for the other version of himself.

“Assassin has appeared,” Harry finally found his chance to speak, unable to resist sharing this information with his counterpart. “Back at Hogwarts, they attacked me and Saber.” He gave a detailed account of the ambush.

“My spells didn’t work,” Harry concluded somewhat dejectedly, “Do spells just not affect Servants?”

The other Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Sounds like La Llorona. Magic don’t work… you were probably hit by her special attack. You’re a minor, after all.” Avenger grinned wickedly.

A cold draft seeped in through the damage left by the earlier battle, and Morgan, standing beside Merlin, shivered.

By then, Snape had already found Anna-Morgause. He was altering her memory and would soon return her to her home.

“Perhaps,” Merlin suggested considerately, “we could find a better place to continue this conversation?”

“A safe and neutral ground, perhaps,” Arthur was the first to agree.

Harry weighed his options. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was no longer the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. In a sense, Bellatrix might even be able to step inside it now. Perhaps that made it neutral enough…

At the same time, he noticed Morgan whispering eagerly to Caster, her eyes shining brightly*.

“The Black family home?” Harry proposed. For a fleeting moment, his other self’s expression soured--so quickly Harry thought he might have imagined it. That gave him pause. “Or perhaps…”

“Hogwarts,” Caster cut in.

Snape had just stepped through the door in time to hear this. The last time Harry had seen Snape so utterly lost his composure, was last year during Potions class, when Neville had blown a cauldron right under his nose.

And as if to deepen the blow, Voldemort endorsed the other's suggestion: “The reasoning behind the choice is sound... If Assassin chose Hogwarts as their hunting ground, it must be that they have no means of reaching, or are unaware of, other locations...”

Merlin looked as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, he kept quiet.

“To draw the Assassin out, Hogwarts is most fitting,” Voldemort turned to Merlin. “Whether to continue this Grail War or to parley with our foe, the prerequisite remains the same... a meeting. Is that not so?”

Avenger’s lips curved with a knowing smile, yet said nothing.

Snape, however, spoke in a voice barren and dry: “In other words, we are to use Harry Potter as bait. Have I understood correctly?”

It was Arthur who answered, the clinking of his silver armour echoing as he shifted into readiness: “It’s no great matter.”

And so it was settled.

Harry knew full well Voldemort hadn’t been persuaded. From beginning to end, he had never voiced an explicit intent to ally. He might rage at the thought of someone coveting his world, but such anger alone was not enough to shake Voldemort's objective--to kill Harry Potter, to eliminate the only possible threat to his dominion foretold in the prophecy. Especially when those two goals did not appear mutually exclusive.

Harry glanced at his other self. He believed Avenger understood this too.

And yet, Voldemort remained a formidable force. In a fight to save the world, standing against him now would only end in disaster for everyone. Arthur, Avenger…

Harry made a silent resolve.

He’d try to win Voldemort over. Even if it meant telling him the whole prophecy.

Chapter Text

18

Harry Potter[Alter]（Team Avenger）

Regardless of what others might think, casting the fatal Disarming Curse at Caster wasn't a spur-of-the-moment whim.

No, the reality of the situation had spiraled far beyond his expectations--two Voldemorts walking the world at the same time? This was nothing short of a nightmare.

When he died, when Alaya* approached him, he had of course thought there’d come a day when he’d cross paths with Voldemort again. After all, everything he had done at King's Cross Station had been his own choice.

But he hadn't imagined it would be like this, and certainly not with two Voldemorts.

To ensure things went smoothly, to make sure neither of the “Dark Lords” got any bright ideas, a bit of deterrence was necessary.

Avenger observed Caster in the distance. Potter had raised the question of whether Morgan, being a Muggle, could make it through the Hogwarts wards. And Merlin, for his part, seemed equally uncertain.

Before they descended into debating whether the group should crawl through underground passages or swim across the lake, Caster produced an obsidian dagger*, likely infused with the power of his Noble Phantasm. Using it to breach the barrier would allow them to enter Hogwarts directly via Apparition or some other form of teleportation.

Avenger frowned.

But another peculiar matter preoccupied him more at this moment:

Voldemort could easily use a Command Spell to force him to commit suicide, then kill the Muggle girl named Morgan, and bind himself (Caster) instead. But he hadn't done so.

Perhaps Voldemort didn’t realize that a Servant without a Master could form contracts with other Masters--hell, a single Master could even bind multiple Servants, as long as there was enough magical energy.

But Caster must have known.

So why hadn’t Caster exposed this?

A strange feeling stirred deep within Avenger. It was the same feeling that had driven him to make that decision back at the station, but it was different. No, it was very different... He could clearly distinguish between the two. It wasn't hard.

As Caster, Voldemort’s last encounter with Avenger had to be at Hogwarts, before Voldemort was about to kill everyone he cared about.

Regardless of why Caster didn’t expose this “game,” he shouldn’t hold too many illusions about the non-existent humanity of the Voldemorts. After all, he knew him well enough--too well, in fact.

That was precisely why he kept deliberately provoking his Master, kept his distance (and, admittedly, entertaining himself in the process).

He knew what Merlin said was true. Otherwise, he wouldn’t even be here.

It was just—

Apart from himself... Two Servants with their original bodies still alive appearing at the same time in a Holy Grail War. He found it hard not to wonder if there was some special reason behind it.

Maybe it was to bring Voldemort into the “Save the World” business? Avenger thought, amused.

Though he couldn’t come up with any other reasons for the moment, if that was the case, he wasn’t sure Alaya would get what they wanted.

For the living Voldemort, sure, he’d be angry that the Apostle had deceived and used him, he had a far more personal goal that he had held onto for much longer. Voldemort would never let go of it.

Avenger could certainly choose to make Voldemort realise his very purpose was flawed, but...

He glanced over at Potter, who was discussing the specifics of their plan with Arthur and Merlin.

This wasn’t a secret for him to reveal. This wasn’t a choice for him to make.

As for Caster, he had answered the call with his wish in mind. Even knowing his Master was a Muggle, he had not returned to the Throne of Heroes out of anger. Such a profound wish would not be easily altered. Though Avenger could probably guess what that wish was.

In the distance, Potter followed Snape out of the room.

Snape would proceed to brief those at Hogwarts (which, of course, implicitly included the Order of the Phoenix, though Voldemort didn’t seem to mind, or show any intention of involving the Death Eaters in this matter*--as expected).

Potter, on the other hand, would head to the Great Hall during dinner, making sure as many people as possible knew of his presence at Hogwarts, taking the first step in his role as a willing bait.

Merlin would go ahead to the lake, a spot far removed from where the students gathered, particularly at night, ensuring their safety to the greatest extent possible. Morgan seemed to have taken a great interest in the so-called “The Banquet Of （Three） Kings,” and the others probably figured that it would be enough to draw Assassin’s attention. Merlin had been tasked with preparing the venue.

So, before the banquet formally began, the rest of them had a little time to kill.

Interestingly, apart from Snape, no one else (even Potter, to Avenger’s surprise) seemed to think there was anything wrong with allowing two Dark Lords to roam freely in the school. As a double agent, Snape, naturally, wasn’t about to speak up.

Avenger stretched lazily.

It seemed like the perfect time to test Caster’s stance on things.

Avenger found the spirit-form Caster in a side chamber off the Great Hall. The room was empty, and he suspected few in the school even knew of its existence. And the only two who understood its significance were now standing in it.

This was where Voldemort's corpse had once lain.

Upon his arrival, Caster immediately materialised.

“What are you here for?” Caster asked coldly, not bothering to conceal his impatience.

Avenger dramatically clutched his chest. “Are you not pleased to see me? How terribly hurt I am.” He stepped inside and closed the door. “Why aren't you with your Master? You seem awfully protective of her.”

Caster shot him a warning look. “She’s with King Arthur. She wants to learn about her legendary brother.” Not willing to waste time on more pointless circles, Caster added sharply, “What do you want?”

Avenger shrugged nonchalantly, curling his lip. “Just catching up. Is that not allowed?”

As Avenger wandered around the room, Caster moved cautiously, making sure to always keep a defensive stance facing Avenger. “I’ve nothing to discuss with you.”

Of course, Lord Voldemort, as arrogant as he was, wasn’t a fool. As a Servant, Harry Potter had perfectly countered him in every respect. Unable to vent his hostility through blunt force, Caster could only hope to drive the other away through attitude and words.

Saying this might make Avenger seem cruel, but, frankly, he reveled in it.

“I know what your wish is,” Avenger said abruptly.

Caster remained silent, his eyes fixed on him.

“That obsidian dagger, you prepared it to infiltrate Hogwarts and kill Harry Potter, didn't you? It would be so easy for you now. But you didn’t use it.” Avenger continued, unhurriedly, “You crafted that artefact, but in the end, you chose not to use it. Because you believe that even though you could, the act itself was unnecessary. When your wish comes true, all the things you’ve done will be rendered null and void--like they never happened.”

The standoff between them now reminded him of their final confrontation at Hogwarts, and a smile crept onto Avenger's face:

“You want to win. But rather than victory handed to you, you believe that a victory you’ve earned yourself is the only true victory. So your wish is—

“To return to the very beginning, to the past, and change the outcome.”

“So what?” The reply bordered on sheer insolence, sounding more like something Avenger himself would say. Wait, could he really have been corrupted by him?

But never mind, Avenger was confident in his ability to deliberately provoke people (Special Attack against Voldemort): “Shame it can’t happen after all.”

“What does it have to do with you?” Caster immediately realized he had fallen into a trap of meaningless words, so he quickly changed his tone. “If you’re here just to gloat, you can leave.”

“Oh, don’t be like that--let’s just have a little chat. After all, who here has any shared memories with you? Who else can you talk to about--your death?”

“No need. However, if you’re planning to talk about how you became an Avenger, I might deign to listen.” Caster hurled the words back with venom. “... Speaking of which, you call yourself an Avenger... The manor house is quite close to your aunt and uncle's residence, isn’t it? The very source of your childhood misery. Yet you act as if they don’t even exist... Is it because of your absurd hero complex? They’re ‘defenseless weaklings,’ so your noble sentiments forbid you from taking any revenge? Or perhaps deep down you harbour a masochistic streak, capable of enduring any treatment? ...Just so you know, even if I’m not an Avenger, I wouldn’t hesitate to pay them back, every single one of them--including that dog who dared to flaunt itself over a wizard’s bloodline...”

Caught up in malicious delight, Caster took a moment to realise Avenger had gone quiet. Turning to look, he saw Avenger’s face filled with astonishment. This was not the emotional response he had anticipated, and doubt began to creep in.

After a long pause, as though finally accepting a certain truth, Avenger murmured, “He wouldn’t have told you that, so...”

“You are a complete soul?” Avenger sounded more like he was speaking to himself than posing a question. “What exactly is this Saint Graph/ Spiritual Foundation*...?”

Finally, his eyes regained their sharp brilliance. In two quick strides, he was standing in front of Caster: “There’s something I’ve been wanting to try—”

Caster took a sudden step back, the brief flash of shock likely the closest thing to fear Voldemort would allow himself to show. Clearly, he was recalling when those same words had been spoken last.

Avenger, of course, realized this. He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, even if I wanted to try the Disarming Charm again, what could you possibly do?”

Then his expression turned grave: “You asked me if love granted me salvation when I writhed in the depths of hatred--now I answer you: it saved me, but it also damned me beyond redemption.”

Before Caster could react, Avenger seized his wrist with an iron grip.

Golden energy began to flow between them, coursing along the points where their “skin” touched. An unprecedented, interconnected sensation passed through their Spiritual Foundations, through their souls... This was something only they, as Servants, could achieve.

With the touch, the shared soul surrendered every memory stored within...

The final memories of Harry Potter [Alter], the last fleeting moments of a short life.

Chapter Text

19

Harry Potter[Alter]（Team Avenger）

The development of this timeline was off. Of course, it wasn’t so off that it became a Pruning Phenomenon. No, the Proper Human History still permitted its continued existence.

It wasn’t until he made the contract with Alaya that he realized how things were supposed to unfold--or perhaps he preferred to believe that that was how things were meant to be.

It all began with Severus Snape’s death.

In the past he had lived through, Severus Snape hadn’t survived long enough to pass on his memories to Harry Potter.

Amid the agony and confusion of the countdown, Harry met Aberforth, and informed him of the grim news about the Elder Wand's change of ownership. Aberforth, being perhaps the person who understood his brother the most in the world, comforted Harry. He was convinced that since Albus Dumbledore had already been cursed long before, with little time left to live, and had not been entirely unprepared for the attack, it was highly probable that Albus had chosen to die on his own terms and had arranged for his death. Aberforth then reminded Harry to think back on everything he’d seen that night as a direct witness.

After reflecting again, Harry deduced, based on what Ollivander had told him about wands and their allegiance, that the true master of the Elder Wand was probably Draco Malfoy, not Severus Snape.

Thus, as it had happened in another world, Voldemort was killed by the Killing Curse cast from a wand that didn’t belong to him, and the Battle of Hogwarts came to an end.

Everything was back on track. The trio, who had missed an entire school year, returned to Hogwarts with their juniors from the following year group. The young, sweet romance they had been forced to abandon when their very survival hung in the balance was now back on the table.

Aside from the temporary appointment of an Auror to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, all other subjects were taught by familiar professors, with familiar courses. Attending classes, practising Quidditch, homework in the library, preparing for NEWTs, going on dates with Ginny, outings to Hogsmeade, feasting on grand meals in the Great Hall... No headaches, no nightmares. The scars of battle remained in everyone’s hearts, but their ordinary, everyday lives were enough to soothe them.

He felt an unprecedented ease and contentment. For the first time, he looked forward to the future with hope (no longer perpetually bracing for his own untimely demise). For the first time, his future seemed full of infinite possibilities (no longer confined to the prophesied fate with Voldemort).

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Harry, a special task force was handling the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. By the time it came to Severus Snape, the former Headmaster of Hogwarts who had fought on the opposing side, it was already after the start of the new term.

During the settlement of his estate, they discovered a will in Snape's vault. This will referenced a memory stored within the Headmaster's office safe, and specified that Harry Potter should be the one to view the memory. They found the key to the safe on Snape’s body.

Perhaps it was because of their long association, Kingsley and Arthur Weasley had always harbored doubts about whether Snape was an enemy or an ally; perhaps it was because the person designated to view the memory in the will was none other than the highly significant Harry Potter, they had to be extra cautious. In any case, before deciding whether to hold a funeral for Snape, Kingsley and Arthur viewed the memory beforehand.

Emerging from the Pensieve, both men fell silent.

Then, with wartime efficiency, the Order of the Phoenix convened an emergency meeting in the Headmaster’s office. As the Acting Minister for Magic and the guiding figure of British wizarding world for the foreseeable future, Kingsley believed it was necessary for others to be informed as well, so that decisions could be made together based on shared knowledge.

When the memory was shown to the Order, a major division occurred.

Kingsley and his supporters, though sympathetic to Harry’s situation, believed that eradicating evil was necessary. This was the required sacrifice, and Harry would surely understand.

Molly, leading those who cared deeply for Harry and considered him family, adamantly disagreed. They felt that in such a time, they should not sacrifice a child who had already borne too much.

Others caught in the middle (Molly cast a disappointed glance at her husband), suggested that perhaps, in this relatively non-urgent period, they could find a way to resolve matters without sacrificing Harry.

All this should have remained a debate within the Order of the Phoenix. If it hadn’t been for that unassuming beetle...

Life after the war had not been kind to Rita Skeeter. The victory at the Battle of Hogwarts had once again propelled Dumbledore’s reputation to new heights, and her books had been facing considerable boycotts and criticism. The shrewd reporter knew she couldn’t live off her old successes forever, so naturally, she had to find new topics to write about.

So when she heard words of discord within the Order of the Phoenix, she was over the moon.

Then when she actually pressed her ear to the window, listened to everyone’s words, and saw the memories being projected... Fate always favours the prepared!

-------------------------------------

The garden was choked with weeds. Broken glass gaped from the windows. Dust smothered the steps, cobwebs claimed the corners, and damp had gnawed away at what was once a splendid ceiling.

Harry could scarcely breathe. Memories, dreams, visions--all flashed before his eyes in a dizzying rush.

It ought to have been a perfectly ordinary morning: walking into the Great Hall, greeting friends, sitting opposite Ginny, tucking into a pancake drenched in syrup, owls swooping in with the day's newspapers...

Those damned newspapers!

As had happened so many times before, all eyes turned to him. At first, they had shrugged off the headline as nothing but another bit of sensational rubbish. But then as they turned the pages, came the photographs, the evidence...

In the distance, he saw members of the Order of the Phoenix approaching. But not just them. Aurors from the Ministry of Magic, too.

The first curse flew from the wand of a boy who’d lost his mother in the final battle. Before Harry could react, a hunt against him had begun.

They fled, clumsy and desperate, into the Room of Requirement.  But it was not safe. Among those attacking him were people who had long sought shelter in that very place, none knew its secrets better than they. And besides, everyone knew where the tunnel opened out.

It was Aberforth who helped them. He had never cared for his brother’s secrets, his grand plans, his talk of the greater good, and suchlike.

Neville faltered at the door, nearly cost them everything. Only thanks to Ginny did they manage to escape in the end.

And this time, Ginny had come with them.

For a fleeting moment, he'd felt joy, but now he wanted nothing more than to go back and punch himself in the face, then pack Ginny up and send her right back there.

If only she had not come… If only she had stayed behind...

Yet he still found himself clinging to those days.

Once again, they began their wanderings through forests and wilderness. But unlike before, this time they had left in haste, without preparation. From time to time, they had to slip into towns to gather supplies

At first, Ginny had found it novel--this life of Harry Potter’s that she had always imagined but never experienced. After a while, when she set up the protective charms around their camp, she worked with more skills and numbness than her brother ever had.

Just like Ron and Hermione, they fell into a kind of “old married couple” state, living day by day in constant danger. Maybe the bridge effect really held some truth. Harry felt, perhaps for the first time, that he had truly opened his heart to Ginny. He told her things he never would have said at school--about the prophecy, about his multiple encounters with Voldemort, about Tom Riddle’s past and the similarities between them, about the Horcruxes and their hunt for them…

They thought such days would stretch on forever. But before despair could set in at the endless repetition, the DA coins changed. An invitation to meet.

They remained cautious. After all, who knew who lay on the other end? It could well be a trap.

They arrived at the agreed location early, hiding beneath the Invisibility Cloak.

Upon recognising the familiar faces of their former classmates, they breathed a sigh of relief. Dennis Creevey, Seamus Finnigan, Lavender Brown, Michael Corner, Dean Thomas, Anthony Goldstein…

But relief soured quickly. As they waited for Harry and his companions to arrive, these former DA members began to argue. Should they persuade Harry to go quietly to the Ministry to die? Or attack him outright and hand him over the Ministry for execution?

Harry couldn’t recall how they had slipped away. But they must have left some trace, because soon afterwards, they were ambushed while buying supplies in a distant Muggle supermarket.

At first, they tried to reason with their attackers. But—

Harry squeezed his eyes shut in agony. The flashing light of spells still burned behind his eyelids.

The shattering of glass, the crash of plastic, the patter of fleeing footsteps, the screams of terrified Muggles--it was a buzzing roar inside his skull.

Spells hammered in from every side, he could not keep up. Before he could react, Ginny darted in front of him—

Then he saw it: the green light that was meant for him, strike Ginny squarely in the chest. Her long red hair fluttered in the air from her lunging, her brown eyes, always sparkling with wit and mischievous cunning--now filled with terror.

The girl who had shared a tender kiss with him in the tent mere hours ago lay there, fallen on the cold, tiled floor of a Muggle supermarket. Dead.

Harry thought he was losing his mind. Perhaps he already had.

He knew exactly what he had done. In the moment when fury and hatred consumed him, his mind had never been clearer.

Sander Williamson*--the Auror who had hit Ginny with a “legal” Killing Curse.

Philip Patel*--the Auror who had been aiming the same “legal” curse at Hermione.

He remembered their names, he remembered their faces, he remembered every expression they wore—

As he killed them.

He had killed.

Not by accident, but by choice. A choice born out of hatred.

He felt something inside him shatter.

But there was no time for hesitation. In their panic they had fled again to the Forest of Dean. Visiting the same place more than once was unsafe, very unsafe.

Before they had time to grieve, they needed to find a place--a place unknown to the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry of Magic, or one they would never expect them to go.

That place suddenly came to Harry in that very moment. There was nowhere more fitting.

So here he sat, in the place where Voldemort had first used a wand to commit murder, his breath rasping like an old bellows.

Inside the sitting room, by the warm fire, Hermione and Ron clung to each other, struggling with the grief of losing a sister.

But Harry could not stay with them. He would not.

He had never felt so filthy. He had done what those who believed in him thought he would never do.

“Behold, here sits the great Harry Potter… For a ‘hero’ who once swore never again to let others die for him, you’ve done quite the job, haven’t you? Truly the ‘Boy Who Lived’... Or was your ‘you won’t be able to kill any of them ever again’ meant solely for me?”

Hallucination. That was what Harry told himself when he heard the voice.

It made sense, given where he was now. His brain conjuring Voldemort’s voice was perfectly normal.

But the voice pressed on.

“Still, I must admit, this love is rather remarkable. At least it saved your little life, didn’t it? So very ‘tragically beautiful’--I almost begin to wonder if fate itself has singled me out with malice.”

Harry’s anger blazed, burning hotter than his self-loathing for killing.

“Answer me this, Harry Potter…” the voice was soft, almost amused, “When she too died to shield you from the Killing Curse, why did those people’s curses not rebound? ... Was it because her love was not deep enough? Or was your Mudblood mother specially favoured by the world, while the rest were unworthy of equal treatment? Ah… then I understand… why I miscalculated back then. After all… only repeatable, verifiable phenomena can be called laws*, right? The rest is nothing but the ravings of madmen--religion, superstition, delusion.

“Luck, coincidence, rare chance… You’ll learn soon enough, Harry Potter, that there is no such thing as poetic justice in this world. In the face of power, your love is nothing.”

Don’t listen don’t listen don’t listen--it’s all hallucination!

Don’t let him provoke you! Losing your temper at your own hallucinations is just foolish!

Anger... If only he'd controlled his temper back then, perhaps—

“All hallucinations, Potter? Don’t tell me you are shaken this badly… You merely dispatched two men who intended to kill you anyway. They were outmatched; you struck first. Simple as that.”

“Like I killed you?” Harry thought he must have gone mad, arguing with a phantom Voldemort. But he was too furious. If that voice had had a body, he'd have punched it already.

The voice faltered, then slid smoothly on: “You did not kill me. I was undone by my own oversight, killed by chance and circumstance, nothing more.”

Harry gave a short, sharp laugh: “Keep telling yourself that. It won't change the fact that you're dead and I'm alive. Funny, really--after everything you did for immortality, you didn’t even outlast Dumbledore.”

The days at Riddle House dragged on, tedious and dreary.

For many days after that, he heard no more of the voice.

Chapter Text

20

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Harry had no idea how he had stumbled through those days in the Riddle House. He suspected Ron and Hermione felt much the same.

Of course, he had never truly believed the voice was only a hallucination. He wasn’t that foolish. Once the conversation ceased, he'd quickly pieced it together.

Those people had been right. He carried a fragment of Voldemort’s soul within him.

Because he had killed, because his own soul had been torn, that wretched, broken shard had at last awakened from its long silence, able now to speak to him.

How utterly laughable!

After all the horrors had finally subsided, after everything had begun to fall back into place, just as he was once more feeling the sweetness of life, just as he first dared to hope for a future, to truly possess a future--they told him he was never meant to survive. His task was to die.

Was he afraid of death? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But far stronger than fear was anger.

Why? Why always him?

Had he not given enough? He had never chosen this fate! From beginning to end, he'd lived within someone else’s choices, someone else’s arrangements!

Those who had the power to choose had already decided everything before he could say or do a single thing. And all that was left to him was death, or death!

A fierce resentment welled up from the depths of his heart.

If Voldemort had chosen Neville instead of him, if Voldemort had chosen not foolishly trust a prophecy he hadn't even heard in full, if Snape had not chosen to snitch (and with incomplete information at that), if Trelawney had not blundered into uttering that cursed prophecy, if Dumbledore had chosen to interview another Divination teacher or to conduct that interview somewhere else like in his office--everything would have been different!

He would have had a home, a proper childhood. Perhaps even a little brother or sister. He would have known the neighbours in Godric’s Hollow, taken tea at Bathilda Bagshot’s. Perhaps he would have befriended the Weasleys sooner. Sirius would have taken him to things that made his mother frown, while Lupin would have guided him kindly in mastering his power...

Perhaps someone else would have risen to defeat the Dark Lord. Every tyrant meets their end at someone’s hands. But that person would not have been him.

Perhaps he and his family would sacrifice themselves in the process, but it would have been their own willing choice. No one would have dictated his life; it would have been wholly his.

If only—!

If everything he had gone through was the destiny forced upon him because he was “chosen,” then—!

He could picture what would have happened had he learned the truth in the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts.

When so many lives hung in the balance, when he knew he had the power to end it all, he would have chosen his own death willingly, without hesitation.

If only it had been then. How much better that would have been!

But not now—

Not after he had been given a hope he had never known. Not when everyone was beginning a new life.

Not when no one, but those who had fought for his right to keep living, had been made to suffer.

What had they done wrong? What had he done wrong?

All he wanted was so very simple, he thought.

He could die. Death was not what he feared. But not like this, not hunted down like a beast, not butchered like cattle.

No. He would go to his death standing tall, by his own hand, his own will.

Hermione and Ron understood this. Ginny—Ginny understood it too. That was why they had stayed by his side, supporting him, all these months.

So why? Why did something so simple seem so impossible now?

It was supposed to be him, not Ginny—

She should never have died to save him. None of this should ever have happened...

And now, with his soul fractured by murder, was there anything in him left worth saving?

He sensed another presence drawing near. Yet to say it drew near was inaccurate; they had long since grown together, inseparable. That only brought him an even fiercer tide of rage.

Before Harry could voice his anger, the radio crackled to life.

He set down the newspaper.

The page showed interviews with Elphias Doge, Tiberius Ogden, and a few others from the older generation who had briefly crossed paths with him.

“I’ve met him,” Doge stated in the article. “He’s a good kid. Regardless of how the papers choose to portray him now, he’s undoubtedly a good kid. Very brave.”

“He has shouldered burdens far beyond his years. As elders, we ought to show him greater understanding.”

“We’re asking a child, barely out of his teens, who’s already devoted his entire life for the wizarding world, to lay down his remaining youth.”

“Put yourselves in his place. Give him time and space.”

“He’s made the right decisions for the wizarding world more times than we can count. We should place more trust in him.”

Familiar voices came through the tiny speaker. But unlike the excitement they had felt the last time they stumbled upon the radio frequency*, this time they were all silent.

“Harry, though we don't know where you are right now, if by chance you're listening, there are some things we wish you could hear.” It was Lee Jordan's voice. Harry had never heard him speak in such a tone before.

“Harry, it's been a long time, I hope you’re well.” Kingsley’s voice followed, sounding a little worn. “First off, I hope you’ll accept my apologies. A significant part of why things have come to this point is down to my negligence.”

“And then, about what happened in Inverness...” Kingsley paused, “It was an unfortunate incident caused by a breakdown in communication. Don’t blame your classmates. They only wanted to help, but… some uncontrollable things happened. We… the Ministry is willing to offer amnesty to all involved, as per wartime standards.”

The three of them frowned.

Harry knew well that many “good” wizards had killed during Voldemort’s reign. Hell, he had been reprimanded for using a spell too “merciful” when they moved to the Burrow. But...

The truth was, Harry couldn't care less how the Ministry's laws would sentence him. In the end, they all wanted him dead, no matter what.

Sure, the Ministry’s actions seemed to preserve his reputation, but that also meant Ginny's death would be swept under the carpet. To him, he would rather—

“Dumbledore last said to us, to me and Remus, ‘Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him.’ No matter what he meant by that at the time--even if I'm the only one left who heard it now--I still believe it. I believe you’ll make the right decision in the end.”

A derisive snort echoed in Harry’s mind. 「He's feigning retreat… to force you into choosing death through moral coercion. You caught that at least, right?」

「Shut up.」

“Harry, I...” Mr. Weasley’s voice sounded hoarse, and Ron straightened nervously beside him. “My daughter—” His voice caught, “She chose to protect you with her life. Right up until the end, she believed there was a way for you to survive. We do too. The war is over. We have all the time in the world to find a way to free you from him. Come back, Harry--let us help you. You don’t have to do this alone. Let us grown-ups help you, for once. Please.”

Then, as though unable to bear it any longer, he abruptly left the microphone.

“Harry, oh, Harry…” Mrs. Weasley’s voice followed, tremulous with tears. “I lost a child. Another one--taken from me. So, please, Harry, come back. I won’t let them hurt you, I swear--come back, let us protect you. I can’t—I can’t lose another child. Don’t make me lose you—please...” The rest of her words were swallowed up by her sobs. They heard what seemed to be Fleur's voice gently soothing her away.

“Harry, Bill and I have already started looking for a way to separate Voldemort.” Fleur said.

“That’s right. So whether you choose to come back, or stay in hiding until we have something concrete, we’ll respect your decision. But,” Bill took over from his wife, “stay safe.”

“Hey, Harry!” George’s voice rang out, sounding as cheerful as ever, though it was impossible not to miss the absence of another similar voice. “Don’t make it so hard on yourself, okay? Worst case, you just get a few extra things on your head, right? Picture this--when we go out, you’ve got some extra bits, and me with something missing from—Ouch, Mum!”

After a flurry of background noise, George returned: “Anyway, there’s nothing we can’t handle. We’ll sort it out.”

Harry wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t.

“That’s it, Harry. When you’ve made up your mind, reach out to us, alright?” Lee Jordan finished.

Then the broadcast ended.

Before the broadcast started to loop again, Ron silently switched it off.

Hermione and Ron both looked at Harry, but neither said a word.

An inexplicable sense of irritation bubbled up inside him.

“I need to think, alone,” he muttered, and with that, he left the warmth of the sitting room.

The unattended Riddle House stood dilapidated and damp. Harry wandered aimlessly through the large house, the mold-covered wallpaper following him like a shadow.

「Interesting…」The voice in his head spoke again.

「No one asked for your opinion.」Harry snapped irritably.

But the voice ignored him. 「Oh, perhaps you were too engrossed in your teary-eyed sentimentality to notice… Let me, Lord Voldemort, kindly remind you… At present, across the entire wizarding world--save perhaps the Weasleys, though they are blood traitors, they are the only ones who show some semblance of decency--everyone, including those you once called ‘allies,’ are trying to morally blackmail you into choosing death.」

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he walked into a room that seemed once to have been a grand drawing room. It contained some paintings and books, but everything had decayed, and the sofa had long since lost its original shape.

「Of course, we don’t need to worry about what everyone else thinks, do we? They tried this trick on you two years ago, and it didn’t work. You've never given a fig for their moral condemnation, but…」The voice in his head suddenly turned cold.

「Tell me, boy, you're not seriously considering death, are you?」

Harry gestured to a dusty photograph on the mantelpiece. A blonde woman, young and smiling, stood beside Tom Riddle Sr. “I’ve seen her before--she was your dad’s girlfriend, wasn’t she? Cecilia, wasn’t it? Still displayed here. Looks like if not for your mum's love potion, they might well have married.”

「You are considering it.」

Harry looked up. The portraits of Riddle men hung in the centre of the room.

“I’ve heard the Riddles weren’t exactly popular in the village--snobbish and rude, the kind of people everyone was glad to see gone. Is this your grandfather? Seems like he had quite a temper. Maybe you inherited that from them. Then again, your maternal grandfather and uncle weren’t exactly charming either.”

「You don't actually believe your decision is selfless, do you? Don’t tell me at this point you are still clinging to your ridiculous saviour complex… You can’t even bring yourself to save yourself--how could you possibly think you can save anyone else?」

Harry lifted his wand and began to doodle on the portrait of Tom Riddle Sr.

「The broadcasts are designed to exploit your weaknesses, to force you into submission and make you surrender, to stop fighting and simply walk to your death. That said, even I have to admit, there are people who sincerely believe there’s another way and are fighting for you to live… You think you’re being a hero? You think you’re saving others, sparing them trouble? Wrong. You're nothing but a hot-headed boy--arrogantly trampling on their genuine feelings.」

“Are you talking to me about ‘genuine feelings’?” Harry sneered.

「Just because I don’t believe in it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it… How many times has Lord Voldemort's success depended on those ‘genuine feelings’ people thought they'd hidden so well... I've seen far more than you, boy.」

“And now, you’re ‘exploiting genuine feelings’ to prevent me from ruining your final vessel. Don’t pretend you care. It doesn’t suit you.” Harry said impatiently.

“This is my decision. Mine alone.

“It’s got nothing to do with anyone else.”

Faced with schemes, oppression, condemnation, and attacks, Harry Potter would resist to the bitter end.

But love, love would make him willingly lay down everything.

Just now, as the broadcast ended, even in the dim, damp room, he felt once more a warmth akin to sitting by a hearth on a clear Christmas Day--not physical, but purely spiritual.

A crack opened in the cloud-laden sky, casting a beam of light.

Enough.

That’s all he needed.

He had fought his battle, he had made his stance. Now it was time to stop.

To continue would be pointless. He had lost far more than he had gained, and the future promised only further loss.

This mad rollercoaster ride could finally come to a stop. It was time to rest.

With dignity, voluntarily.

For those he loved, and for himself.

“Hermione,” he said, pushing open the sitting room door, “Could you send them a message for me?”

Chapter Text

21

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

The meeting place was set at the Tonks' parents' house.

It couldn’t be helped; whether it was the press or other groups, too many people were watching the Weasley family’s movements. The Burrow and Shell Cottage were simply too conspicuous.

As soon as the trio arrived in the yard, Mrs. Weasley rushed forward, pulling them into tight, desperate embraces.

She held each of them, examining them carefully, as if trying to memorise every slight change, or perhaps, as though afraid she might miss a single new injury they bore.

Then Mr. Weasley emerged, soothing his wife before ushering everyone inside.

The house was packed with people. With Charlie abroad, the rest of the Weasley family was present, along with Kingsley, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, and other members of the Order of the Phoenix, as well as school friends like Neville （now graduated）, and the house’s original owners—

When Harry had last been here, they had been a complete family --grandparents, soon-to-be parents, and an unborn child. Now…

Harry’s eyes lingered on Andromeda Tonks, who was coaxing little Teddy to eat in the corner. And there was Teddy himself, with his mother’s favourite pink hair, which turned green after he reluctantly ate a sprout of broccoli.

The assembled guests greeted Harry one by one, clearing a space for the three children at the centre of the table. Mrs. Weasley handed them cups of hot tea.

As the initially stiff atmosphere gradually warmed, Mr. Weasley spoke up: “So, Harry, what are your plans now?”

Harry took a sip of tea, allowing its warmth to spread through him, calming his agitated nerves, before he spoke. “I can accept death, but—”

“No! I won't accept it!” Mrs. Weasley cut him off abruptly before he could finish. The calm, cheerful façade she had worn slipped away as if it could no longer be sustained. “You’re still a child—you can’t—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she choked on her words.

Fleur shot Harry a complex look before rising to gently soothe her mother-in-law, guiding her into another room. Andromeda and little Teddy followed, leaving the others behind.

「Listen to her… a mother’s advice. As Dumbledore's golden boy, don’t you sing the praises of maternal love?」the voice in his head said unpleasantly.

「Stop trying to use her. It won't work,」Harry said dryly.

「Stubborn… as ever.」

“We’re still looking for other options. The situation isn’t urgent yet, we still have plenty of time to find another way. Harry, perhaps you might reconsider?” Bill urged politely.

On the other side, Hermione gripped Harry's wrist nervously.

Harry shook his head, pulling a stack of newspapers from his pocket. “Are you sure about that?”

Mr. Weasley took the newspaper, unfolded it, and his face immediately darkened. It was today's Daily Prophet. Within mere days, peaceful persuasion had escalated into a war of words, with increasingly harsh criticisms of Harry gaining the upper hand.

The Prophet had always aligned itself with the Ministry, so the shift in the paper’s tone could only mean one thing.

“You’re in trouble too, aren’t you?” Harry asked, his eyes on Mr. Weasley and Kingsley.

Mr. Weasley sighed, “A few minor issues, but nothing to worry about, Harry. We’ll sort it out. The most important thing right now is you.”

Compared to him, Kingsley appeared somewhat more level-headed: “I won’t sugar-coat it, Harry. The situation is difficult. Everyone is desperate for certainty--certainty about when Voldemort will be defeated for good. But don’t feel too pressured. Whatever decision you make today, we can use it to reassure the public. If you’re willing to give the researchers more time, we can work to buy that time—”

“It won't be necessary,” Harry said.

Mr. Weasley seemed to want to continue persuading him, but a knock at the door interrupted them.

Kingsley and Mr. Weasley went to investigate.

“Hey, Harry, can I have a word with you? Alone.” Neville suddenly spoke.

Harry felt a little puzzled but followed him to the far side of the kitchen.

Neville looked uneasy, fidgeting nervously. Just as Harry's already dwindling patience was about to run out, he finally spoke: “About what happened in Inverness... I... I should start from the top. After you went missing, some of us--former DA members--realised we might reach you through the fake Galleons we used back then. Ginny always carried one.”

Hearing Ginny's name again in this conversation made Harry's blood boil.

“But before we went ahead, we needed to figure out what exactly our goal was in meeting you. There was a massive row. Seamus and the others thought we had to get rid of You-Know-Who, and they figured you leaving was just some temporary lapse in judgment—”

“A lapse in judgment? I almost got hit with a Killing Curse, by the hand of a fourteen-year-old kid! I was like a stag in open season. Oh, guess who bagged Harry Potter first!”

Neville looked uncomfortable, his face reddening. “I get it, Harry, I—I just... anyway, Seamus and the others thought we might be able to persuade you to voluntarily contact the Ministry and—”

“Turn myself in?” Harry sneered.

Neville awkwardly scratched his head. “That's not quite the right word, but… Of course, there were those who opposed it, like Lee Jordan, who stormed off. They believe there must be another way, one that doesn't involve dying.”

Harry frowned, noticing something. "And what about you? What’s your position?"

“Me?” Neville paused, seemingly taken aback by the question. “I... I didn't state my position at the time.”

Harry gave a cynical smile. “Oh, let me guess. You thought it was best if I just went quietly and died, got rid of Voldemort once and for all, but out of some sense of politeness, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it outright, so you just pretended it wasn’t your problem and let everyone else handle it. Am I right?”

His anger flared up again. “You know, don't you? That if you’d warned us then, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe Gin— maybe Ginny wouldn’t have died.”

Neville looked as though he’d been struck, his eyes full of hurt.

After a long silence, he murmured slowly: “You’re probably right t--you're right, I…”

But just then, Hermione and Ron burst in.

“Mate, we’ve got to go, the Ministry’s here!”

Only then did Harry and Neville notice the commotion outside.

Through the kitchen window, they saw two groups of people in the front yard arguing fiercely, some already drawing their wands.

Harry recognised the wizard leading them--Gawain Robards, the current Head of the Auror Office.

“How did the Aurors know we were here?” Hermione clearly recognised him too.

“Oh no,” Neville muttered under his breath. Following his gaze, they saw Hannah Abbott standing behind the Aurors.

Neville looked deeply unsettled. “I was with her when the message came through. I thought it was okay for her to know, after all—”

Hermione chastised him, frustrated. “Her mother was killed by Death Eaters! What were you thinking—” She quickly grabbed Harry’s arm, trying to lead him to a safe spot where they could Apparate.

But it was already too late. A red spell smashed through the kitchen window, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces, some shards embedding themselves into the wall.

Several Aurors stormed across the yard, heading straight for the kitchen.

The side door to the kitchen was clearly no longer an option.

Hermione shoved hard at Harry’s shoulder, trying to push him further into the room, attempting to see if there was a chance to escape through the front door.

“Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus!” He heard Ron casting spells from his right.

A “Diffindo” whizzed past his ear, blasting open the cupboard behind them.

They moved towards the living room as swiftly as possible, only to find several Aurors already fighting with others in the entrance hall. The numbers were clearly not in their favour, and it was obvious that they had come prepared. As soon as they saw Harry, three of the Aurors broke away and headed straight for them.

"Impedimenta!" Hermione and Ron shouted in unison.

The three Aurors, trained as they were, quickly blasted through their spells with something stronger. The impact forced Hermione and Ron back a few staggering steps.

Neville, who had been trailing behind them, leaned into Harry’s ear. “Mrs. Tonks mentioned there’s a secret passage in the basement.”

“Lead us!” Harry and Ron said at once.

They continued to retreat, casting spells one after another, the sounds of shattering glass and explosions ringing in their ears. They dared not pause for breath; any momentary lapse would allow the incoming barrage of spells to find their mark.

“Alahomora!” The trio covered Neville as he unlocked the basement door.

Hermione, now held up by the three Aurors, had no chance to escape. With no time to waste, she urged Harry and Ron to go ahead.

Just as they opened the door and began to descend, two more Aurors leapt over the back fence, charging directly at them. The open door blocked Harry and Ron's view, and likely Hermione's too. Red and purple lights shot straight into her back. Then three more spells hit her, their colours mixed in mid-air.

Hermione went stiff and collapsed, before she could even make a sound.

“Hermione, no!” Ron yelled, trying to rush to her, but Harry and Neville held him back, forcefully pulling him inside.

“Colloportus! Salvio Hexia! Protego Totalum!” Harry swiftly cast three spells upon the door before the five Aurors could burst through.

Ron looked dazed, and seemed to want to lash out at Harry. But Harry and Neville didn't give him the chance.

“Where’s the passage?” Harry demanded urgently.

“I don’t know! I only know it’s there!” Neville looked just as frantic. “We’ll find it--just keep searching!”

Just as they finished checking three of the five large cupboards in the cellar, the door to the basement suddenly made a creaking sound, dangerously threatening to burst open.

They exchanged nervous glances before accelerating their search.

At last, beneath a pile of large crates, they found a trapdoor. But at the same moment, the basement door exploded.

Amidst the deafening blast and billowing smoke, Harry and Ron toppled the crates aside, forcibly blasted the door's lock with a spell, and yanked up the heavy door panel.

As they looked back, they saw Neville flash them a quick smile.

“No.” Harry realised what he was about to say.

“I’ll cover you,” Neville declared, leaving no room for argument, then added, “I’m sorry.”

Neville hit Harry and Ron with an Air Blast spell, sending them plummeting through the trapdoor. The hatch slammed shut above them.

The last things imprinted on their senses were the image of five spells striking Neville in the chest as he persisted in casting a spell to conceal the entrance, and the sound of Kingsley bursting into the room.

Chapter Text

22

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

They spent several days moving hastily among forests.

Then Harry noticed that something was seriously wrong with Ron. The loss of Hermione, the lack of any news about her, was tearing him apart--restless, irritable, snappy, anxious. It was becoming almost as bad as it had been when he was wearing the Horcrux.

Harry wasn’t one for a calm temperament himself, and he too needed time and space to process what had happened to Hermione.

If things kept going this way, this two-man squad would surely end up murdering each other. Harry thought bitterly.

It was possibly a terrible decision. He might regret it. He might have walked them straight into a trap.

But looking at it from a different perspective, the most dangerous place could also be the safest. After all, everyone who knew this place’s secrets was now gone. Besides, only here could they keep track of the developments in the wizarding world, though he remained uncertain about the safety of venturing out.

In any case, a few days later, they found themselves here, at the place Sirius had lived for a long time during his time on the run--the Shrieking Shack.

It was their third week in the Shrieking Shack. Although, it felt like they’d been there for half a year.

Twice a week, Harry would sneak into the village under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak, scrounging up old newspapers and listening to the gossip. But sometimes, he wished he hadn’t.

There was no good news.

In fact, Harry was beginning to think the Ministry was deliberately taunting him through the Daily Prophet.

The attack at Tonks' house had made the papers the day after it happened, and dominated the front page for a full week.

As Harry had suspected, the Ministry had questioned and impeached Kingsley. They claimed Kingsley’s decision to contact the Order of the Phoenix rather than inform the Ministry was dereliction of duty, a remnant of Dumbledore’s anarchistic tendencies, and an act of disrespect and disloyalty to the Ministry’s authority. Until Kingsley completely understood his position and cut ties with his past, he would never be trusted as the Minister for Magic.

Meanwhile, the Order of the Phoenix had, naturally, lost control over Hermione’s interrogation. According to the Daily Prophet, a team of experienced Aurors was secretly questioning her and would use all means necessary to bring Harry Potter to justice. But after that, the Daily Prophet didn’t give any further solid information, so it could be presumed they hadn’t gotten what they wanted from Hermione.

Of course, this didn’t stop the likes of Rita Skeeter from resurrecting her revolting rhetoric from the fourth year, and spewing her venom across the pages.

“As I reported years ago, Harry Potter and the recently apprehended Hermione Granger are inseparable. Clearly, they share a relationship far more intimate than mere friendship or even romance.”

“Miss Granger, as I’ve described before, is a plain but ambitious young woman. She’s cunning, knows exactly how to manipulate those around her to get what she wants. Even I, the humble author, have been a victim of her manipulations.”

“Years ago, I revealed that Harry Potter was unstable and possibly dangerous, clearly affected by You-Know-Who. It is difficult to say how much of his behaviour stemmed from his own volition, and how much was dictated by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. In fact, based on Potter’s cowardly escape and his current life on the run, we may well conclude that Harry Potter is not the ‘Saviour’ we have been led to believe.”

“Both Potter and Granger carry dark traits, which is likely a result of their mutual influence.”

“The Ministry of Magic believes they can lure Potter out by questioning Hermione Granger. But I, for one, am not optimistic.”

“Among the victims of the tragic Inverness incident was seventeen-year-old Ginny Weasley, who, according to my sources, was Harry Potter’s current girlfriend. Despite this, Potter callously murdered her.”

“How could anyone capable of such an act ever be trusted to willingly surrender for the sake of their friends?”

Other such articles followed, with titles like Harry Potter--Hero or Coward?; Hermione Granger--Expert Intervention, Interrogation Ongoing; The Lie of ‘The Boy Who Lived’; The Longbottoms--Martyr’s Family or Traitors?; The Future of the Wizarding World in the Hands of a Mad Boy? Never Again!; Dementors Return! New Members Join Interrogations!; Harry Potter--Saviour or New Death Eater?; The Ones Who Defeated Him?; Harry Potter! The People Demand You Step Forward!; When Will Potter Show His Face?--The Boy Who Abandoned His Friends…

At first, Harry burned with rage at the papers, but over time, he grew numb to it. It wasn’t that the articles no longer angered him, or that he had become emotionally indifferent.

It was just that, between the two of them, someone had to keep a cool head, to be the rational one.

As for Ron… with Hermione’s absence, his state became steadily worse.

He frequently fell into an almost frenzied, extremely angry mood.

At times, that anger was directed at others. He’d throw his arm around Harry’s shoulder, shouting curses at everyone, wishing them all dead, swearing that, even if they all died, he would still lay down his life to protect Harry. In his fury, he would even declare that even if the entire world perished, Harry should survive, because Harry deserved to live, and those ungrateful fools weren’t worth dying for, and so on.

At other times, his rage was directed at Harry, or perhaps at himself. This usually happened when he thought of Hermione or Ginny. He’d stare at Harry with an unsettling, chilling gaze, his eyes bloodshot, cursing why Harry wouldn’t just die. Why couldn’t he just die quietly? If Harry were dead, none of this would have happened, and Hermione could come back… At such times, Harry would leave the room of his own accord, heading elsewhere to restock supplies or gather information.

But truth be told, Harry himself didn’t understand why he was still alive, why he hadn’t just walked into the Ministry and ended it.

Perhaps it was because he knew that the Ministry, no longer under Kingsley's diminished authority, couldn’t offer him the dignified death he had hoped for. They would only offer him the kind of death the masses would relish.

Yet when he realised his “surrender” could secure Hermione’s freedom, could he still selfishly hold on to what he wanted?

“He’s willing to die.” “He’s running, hiding from those who want him dead.” Such seemingly contradictory actions would baffle any stranger.

To the average person, everything Harry had done up to this point must have seemed utterly pointless, a waste of energy, nothing but trouble for everyone involved, making life miserable for all concerned for no reason…

Why not give up? Why not stop?

Harry would ask himself this time and again.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he gave up now, if he surrendered to those who had been hunting him since that morning at Hogwarts, who had set all this in motion, it would feel as if everything they had done until then was for nothing--as if Ginny’s death and Hermione’s suffering had meant nothing. Could he really bring himself to do that?

So he had no choice but to carry on.

Voldemort, however, was thoroughly enjoying the current developments.

The mere fact that the Ministry and the Aurors’ sudden intervention had thwarted Harry’s plan to seek death through his allies was enough to satisfy Voldemort. He was particularly relishing the spectacle of friends squabbling and brothers turning against one another.

During the first weekend at the Shrieking Shack, Harry began learning Animagus transformation under Voldemort’s tutelage. It was mainly for the purpose of traveling. Patrols were tightening across the land, and with the current powers in place, it was only a matter of time before Dementors were deployed again. It would be safer for them to be prepared in advance.

With Voldemort present, Harry didn’t need to worry about his mind turning into that of an animal.

As the days quietly passed into the second month's end, Harry finally succeeded in transforming for the first time.

When he saw his full animal form for the first time, both he and the shard of soul inside him went silent.

「Harry Potter… your daddy issues never cease to amaze me.」

“Shut up. I’m quite sure it’s got nothing to do with that.”

「Your Patronus is your father’s Animagus form, and your Animagus bears a striking resemblance to your godfather… Avoidance is very un-Gryffindor of you, Potter.」

In the room, a black wolf the size of a bear shook its glossy coat, its piercing green eyes glinting with displeasure.

Harry knew it wasn’t the reason Voldemort had suggested. Well, perhaps a little bit--after all, living on the run, hiding in such a place, how could he not think of Sirius?

But it wasn’t entirely that. He sensed something, an omen, something that seemed to arise from his deteriorating mental state, a premonition—

A lone wolf.

Perhaps it was his choice to be alone. Perhaps he was destined to be alone.

He didn’t want to say it aloud, because saying it would make it real; as if uttering it would hasten the inevitable end.

He imagined, in another universe, he might, no, surely would have a completely different Animagus form. But this Harry Potter--this hunted, despised, cursed Harry Potter… he could only be this.

“So does that mean I can cast spells without a wand now? I remember Sirius used to do it.”

「Even without Animagus form, wizards can wield magic wandless. Why do you ask?」

The black wolf abruptly shifted back into human form. Harry shrugged. “Nothing. Just wondering.”

「…」

The spring of 1999 arrived quietly, and with it, Ron’s negative emotions began to spiral*.

Harry found himself avoiding staying in the Shrieking Shack more and more, especially to steer clear of Ron during his particularly bad moments.

It was on one such day, as they passed The Three Broomsticks, that Harry felt someone was following him. The shard of soul confirmed the suspicion.

So, he abandoned his usual safe routes towards the Shack and instead made his way down a winding lane, leading out into the wild countryside that surrounded Hogsmeade, heading towards the rocky foot of the mountain.

It was a path Sirius had once shown them during their fourth year. As he walked along the winding, steep, and stony trail, Harry realised his earlier thoughts had been correct--four paws truly made this journey far easier.

And as they broke free of the crowd and entered the open wild, he immediately recognised the follower--Luna Lovegood.

He had no idea how she’d recognised him. Perhaps it was her extraordinary intuition, or perhaps Aberforth had let slip a little hint to her (Aberforth always left intact food beneath discarded newspapers, and he certainly wasn't foolish enough to believe that was mere coincidence).

Inside the dim, cool cave, as Luna walked in, Harry reverted to his original form.

“Hello, Harry!” she greeted in that dreamy voice of hers, as though they had merely bumped into each other in the school corridor.

“Luna, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I thought you might want to know.”

“Know what?”

“Hermione’s at St. Mungo’s,” Luna said evenly, as if she were talking about the weather.

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

“My dad told me, I think it was Mr. Weasley who told him. They said the Ministry used Veritaserum on Hermione, but she’s clever. It made her tell the truth, but only the unimportant things. Then they tried Legilimency on her. The Ministry seemed very surprised, wondering where she'd learnt Occlumency…”

From him, Harry thought. Hermione really was clever. She had only learned the principle from Harry, read a few books, yet taught herself the technique in such a short time.

“It's hardly surprising. The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy. It's only natural they couldn't get information out of Hermione, right? The new acting Minister for Magic is probably a vampire too, though I think it might also be that, like Cornelius Fudge, they’re too bothered by the Nargles--oh, and they’ve brought the Dementors back. Did you know?” Luna said in her ethereal voice.

“I know. The Daily Prophet didn’t miss that.” Harry said coldly.

Luna nodded absently: “It didn’t work. Even so, Hermione’s in a bad state. They’ve kept her locked up.”

Luna frowned: “About a week ago, they found Hermione’s parents. You know, those two tooth healers.”

Harry didn’t correct her.

“The Ministry seems terribly disappointed. Hermione's parents were very supportive of you, of what you and their daughter chose to do. So they've turned on the parents to pressure Hermione.”

Luna said this with her strange calmness, but it only made Harry angrier.

Hermione had gone to such lengths, enduring the terrible heartache of erasing her parents’ memories, so they wouldn’t ever remember they had a daughter, so they could start a new life far away.

She had done it so well. The Death Eaters hadn’t found them.

Then, just when the war was over, when everything should have settled, just when she thought her friends were all that remained and her parents could safely come back to her, those who were supposed to be on her side did what the Death Eaters couldn’t.

Harry felt sick to his core.

“…Anyway, she broke down. It could be physical, it could be mental, or maybe both. Everyone was watching them, and the Ministry didn’t dare act rashly, so they sent her to St. Mungo’s. That’s how it was.” Luna finished, before looking at Harry with concern. “How are you and Ron? Everything okay?”

Harry, still seething with anger, forced a bitter smile. “Not great, but alive.”

Luna nodded, looking genuinely pleased that Harry was still alive.

Then they talked a little more about other matters: how Neville had also ended up at St Mungo's after his attack but was now recovering, under house arrest with his grandmother; how Kingsley had been suspended pending investigation; how Mr. Weasley’s position had been subtly demoted; how old classmates like Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were campaigning for Hermione's freedom…

Then, the voice in his head spoke again: 「Potter, let her carry a message.」

「What do you want now?」Harry asked dryly.

「I want you dead,」Voldemort said, sounding rather amused.

It was a blatant lie. No one probably wanted Harry alive more than Voldemort at that moment.

Of course, Harry could imagine countless ways Voldemort might dispose of him. Perhaps he ought to try harder, to be suspicious, to doubt more. But recent events had made him trust this illegal resident in his mind, though perhaps that trust was nothing short of suicidal.

It was because he no longer cared whether he lived or died. That’s what Harry told himself.

「Alright, what’s the message? Tell me.」

Luna left with a note, covered in strange characters no one could understand.

Chapter Text

23

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Luna’s actions were swift, and by dusk that same day, they received a reply--a wisp of black smoke. Voldemort had taught him how to decipher it.

When they followed the instructions and arrived at the edge of the Forbidden Forest near Hogsmeade, two tall, thin figures were already waiting.

As Harry drew near, he felt as though he had crossed some invisible barrier. This explained how, as the Ministry’s second-most-wanted criminals after Harry himself, they dared to remain in such an open, public place--Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange.

Harry removed his Invisibility Cloak, gripping his wand tightly, his eyes locked onto every movement of the brothers. The life on the run had clearly not been kind to them--they looked gaunt, haggard, and exhausted.

They, too, were wary, their bodies taut, their faces cold, but their eyes burned with a dangerous kind of fervor.

Harry didn’t know why Voldemort had contacted these two, but whatever their business was, he was ready.

As Harry approached within social distance, Rodolphus reached into his pocket.

Harry’s wand tip twitched slightly.

Rodolphus caught the movement and raised a hand in an appeasing gesture, before offering a wand with both hands.

Thirteen and a half inches, yew wood, phoenix feather--the twin to Harry’s holly wand, Voldemort’s wand.

“By the Dark Lord’s orders, we bring this to you,” Rodolphus said.

Harry carefully extended his hand. As his fingers brushed the yew wand, he felt the same strange warmth he had the first time he held the holly wand. In his other hand, the holly wand hummed with delight.

Harry tucked the yew wand away.

Rabastan Lestrange opened his mouth as though to speak, but then fell silent.

Seeing Harry put the wand away, Rodolphus nodded.

“Then our task is complete. We’ll draw the Aurors’ attention. Don’t head north for the time being.” Rodolphus said coolly, before turning to leave with his brother.

The last thing Harry heard, carried on the wind, was a faint “Take care.” It was probably Rabastan. And Harry knew it wasn’t meant for him.

「They didn’t need to do that,」Harry said emotionlessly.

「My orders to them were only to deliver the wand.」

Harry's footsteps faltered for a moment. Then he continued towards the Shrieking Shack.

As soon as Harry stepped through the door, he felt something was off.

Sure enough, when he pushed open the door, he found Ron sitting by the hearth, the fire long gone, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the empty grate.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out. I brought the paper. And meat pies. Your favourite.” Harry held up the paper bag.

“Oh, really.” Ron snorted.

At the familiar tone, Harry felt his temper rise. He dropped the bag on the floor with a sharp motion. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

Ron finally turned his head to look at him, his eyes wild with long-suppressed madness. “Tell me honestly--have you heard anything about Hermione?”

Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure telling Ron now was a good idea. Ron might do anything.

But just as Harry understood his friend, Ron knew him too.

Ron sneered. “So, you know. But you didn’t think it was worth telling me, huh?”

Harry reined in his anger. “I haven’t said anything yet, don’t twist my words.”

“Alright,” Harry said, running a hand through his messy hair, taking a deep breath. “Promise me you won’t interrupt, and you won’t overreact.”

“Why would I overreact?” Ron scoffed, his voice laced with bitterness.

Harry shot him a glare. But he really shouldn't have kept this from Ron.

“...Hermione’s at St Mungo’s.”

“What?”

“Don’t interrupt me! She’s at St Mungo’s. They've been messing with her--Veritaserum, Dementors, Legilimency… Then they kidnapped her parents.”

“And you thought you’d just keep this from me?!”

“I didn’t! I was going to tell you! I only found out today. You have to give me time to think how to break it—”

But now Ron’s attention was fixed entirely on the news itself. He leapt up, pacing the room in agitation.

“This shouldn’t have happened--none of this should have happened.” His eyes blazed at Harry. “If it weren’t for you!--We should never have run in the first place! Why did we run? All of this--everything was a mistake from the start!”

“Sorry to disappoint you that I didn’t stay in one place waiting for someone to finish me off.” said Harry flatly, voice stripped of all feeling. “I thought when you came with me you knew what I was after. If you’ve changed your mind—”

“I thought I knew! But now? Do you know what you want, Harry? Do you know what you’re fighting for?” Ron roared, his words stabbing at Harry like knives. “Ginny—is—dead! Dead! My sister! Who’s next? Hermione? She’s already in hospital, Merlin knows what they’ll do to her!”

Ron shouted, halting his pacing and fixing Harry's eyes so he couldn't look away: “And what about us? What are we even doing here, day after day? Is there an end to this? Any meaning? Or have you never even considered it, just grinding through each day until everyone trying to protect you dies one by one!”

Harry felt pain searing through every part of him. Everything Ron said was true. He could not deny a single one.

“Didn’t you say you were ready to die? What’s the holdup? Waiting for someone to set the stage for you, so you can die like the great Saviour?” Ron spat. Then he faltered as he realised what he’d just said.

“Sorry you think that. In that case maybe I’ll just—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Ron bellowed, roughly cutting across him. “What I mean is, either you die, or you let all those ungrateful bastards die. You've got to do something!”

“If you won’t, then I will. St Mungo’s, was it?” Ron straightened his robes and strode past Harry.

“What are you doing?” Harry grabbed his arm.

“Getting her out.”

“Are you out of your mind? There are Aurors everywhere!”

“I don’t care!” Ron screamed hysterically. “I don’t—bloody—care! She’s suffering! She’s suffering because we failed! I can’t—”

Harry stood frozen, watching as his best friend--his first friend--slid down to the ground and broke into ragged sobs, his arm still clutched in Harry's grip.

Ron was right. He thought. This couldn't go on.

Unlike with the Horcruxes, back then he could still convince himself this was a journey to save everyone. Now, all the pain and suffering sprang from himself--from Harry Potter.

They would suffer all this simply because they had offered Harry Potter friendship and affection.

Or perhaps this was the price of loving Harry Potter. Anyone who came close, who gave him affection, was doomed to grief, or even death.

He didn’t know what he would do if something happened to Ron too. He couldn’t bear that cost.

This journey now belonged to Harry Potter, and Harry Potter alone. It was his--call it weakness, stubbornness, obsession--but it was his. There was no reason for others to be involved, no reason for others to pay the price. It wasn't fair.

Harry looked at Ron, shattered and sobbing, finally collapsing under the weight, and whispered in his mind: 「Stupefy.」

The sobbing ceased.

He couldn't help but marvel once more--this Animagus was bloody well spot on.

Harry left Ron in the entrance hall of Hogwarts.

He couldn’t take him back to the Burrow; it was almost certainly swarming with Aurors by now. This was probably the safest place for Ron, other than the Burrow. Harry trusted Professor McGonagall and the Hogwarts staff to keep Ron safe.

He took one last look at his first friend, then headed towards the lake.

「Where are you off to now? Don't tell me you intend to pay your respects to that kind and noble puppet master of yours? Such a loyal little marionette.」

「Don’t you want to see your grave? You’ve probably never seen it. Never heard of anyone making a grave for you last time round.」

Voldemort fell silent for a moment, then commanded,「Don’t go.」

「What? Still scared to see yourself dead?」

「It’s just a shell.」

Harry shrugged. “Well, I want to. I'm at the wheel. I decide.”

The Hogwarts graveyard lay quietly by the lake. Here rested those who wished to find their final peace here, and those who had nowhere else to go.

Harry found his destination in a quiet, unobtrusive corner of the graveyard, far removed from everyone else.

This grave was truly rather improper.

First, the headstone itself. While it didn't go so far as to bear inscriptions like “You-Know-Who” or “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named”, whoever carved it clearly couldn't suppress their instinctive reaction during the task. Harry looked at the scratched “Lord Voldemort” and couldn’t help but chuckle. And apparently, no one knew the late Dark Lord's year of birth.

Perhaps his post-mortem intimidation remained potent, for within barely half a year, the plot lay overgrown with weeds. People were probably too scared to come near, or perhaps they despised the dead Dark Lord so thoroughly they refused to tend to his grave. Harry suspected both were true.

Harry raised his wand.

「Potter, whatever you're planning, don't—」

「You’ll thank me later,」With that, Harry tore open the grave.

People must have poured all the loathing they dared direct at Voldemort himself into this coffin, Harry thought, staring at the hastily assembled, flimsy wooden casket before him.

「Don’t—」

Ignoring him, Harry pried open the coffin.

Probably having expended too much magic upon himself, even months after death, Voldemort’s body looked as though it had been preserved--exactly as it had been the day he fell.

Suddenly, Harry felt a flicker of curiosity about where Tom Riddle's original body might lie now. Just a flicker.

「Why give me your wand?」Harry asked.「You knew I'd broken mine before, so you brought it over to use as a spare for me?」

「That’s unimportant. Just use it.」

Harry knew he'd hit the mark.

He gave the holly wand one last twirl, savouring its weight and feel in his hand, feeling it hum happily with his magic, then stepped forward and placed the holly wand into the Dark Lord's empty hands.

「What are you doing—?!」Voldemort’s voice was a mixture of shock and anger.

「Lend me some knowledge? My Transfiguration isn’t as good as yours,」Harry said, not bothering to answer.

The fragment of Voldemort’s soul was even less pleased, but Harry could feel knowledge not his own entering his mind.

Taking a deep breath, Harry waved his wand.

Obsidian of the same hue as Tom Riddle's hair replaced the thin wooden plank, encasing the Dark Lord's hollow shell before sinking back into the earth.

On the exposed surface of the ledger stone, Harry wrote what he remembered of his enemy’s life.

Then a new headstone rose in front of the grave. Clear and neatly inscribed:

Tom Marvolo Riddle (aka Lord Voldemort)

Dec. 31, 1926 – May 2, 1998

The Most Powerful and Dangerous Dark Wizard of All Time

Defeated by Harry James Potter

「An epitaph?」Harry asked, thoroughly enjoying himself.

「No need,」came the dry response.

For a bit of twisted amusement, or perhaps on a whim, Harry erected a statue of Death beside it. It looked more like the figure of Death from the tale of the three brothers than the Angel of Death by Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave.

After adding a few protective charms, Harry looked over his work, satisfied, and patted his hands, brushing off non-existent dust.

“Let’s go,” Harry said. “To where it all began.”

Chapter Text

24

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Harry arrived in Godric's Hollow well past midnight.

He Apparated directly in the little square at the heart of the village, standing in the shadow of the war memorial. After running several detection charms, he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and shifted into the shape of a wolf. The shelter of the shadow and the charms that shielded Muggles’ eyes prevented the wolf's appearance from causing panic.

Like the Burrow, the place was bound to be laced with watchful eyes and hidden traps. His Animagus form known only to himself and Luna (and perhaps Aberforth) offered the safest disguise.

Late spring had stripped Godric’s Hollow of snow. Greenery sprawled thick across gardens and verges. The streets were nearly deserted; only the pub still shone with light, laughter and music drifting out from time to time.

At the sound of the door opening, a young man in his twenties came out, arm around a pretty girl. His face tugged at Harry’s memory; then it came back to him. He had seen him once before, in Voldemort’s mind…

The boy who, on the night his parents were murdered, had mistaken Voldemort for a man in a Hallowe’en costume, brushed past him--and lived.

「He’s grown up,」Harry said hollowly inside his head. He could not name the feeling that stirred in him.

Voldemort offered no reply. Then again, given the Dark Lord's mindset, he likely found nothing to remark upon.

Harry turned back to look at the statue of his family of three.

He gazed at the stone carving of himself, the happy baby without the scar.

Then he slipped away into the shadows, heading towards the graveyard.

The church, not being Christmas Eve, lay already asleep. The wolf’s sharp eyes guided him across the darkened ground.

Harry stopped first before three extremely old, weathered headstones. Last time, he had overlooked the other two.

「Antioch, Cadmus, Ignotus… our ancestors,」Harry said quietly.

Perhaps this family was destined always to be bound to Death.

「The keepers of the Hallows… Master of Death.」

Of course, Voldemort’s focus would be here. Harry smiled and shook his head, then walked on towards his parents’ grave.

He stood there for a long time in silence, all manner of thoughts rushing chaotically through his mind.

His parents were so close, their bones lying beneath the earth at his feet.

The words on the gravestone were still the same: The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. And he was about to march into a battle already lost.

He would soon be joining them, joining their endless sleep. Did they know?

If they knew, what would they feel? Would they be furious that he was ready to throw away the very life they had died to protect?

And if… they knew what he intended to do next?

Perhaps as he crossed the Hogwarts lawns and entered the graveyard, he had already made his decision then and there. To do what he intended here, in the place where his parents had given their lives to stand between him and Voldemort, him and destiny, was nothing short of sacrilege.

But he wanted nowhere else. Only here felt right. Here, he could—

A black cat padded past. Was it the same one his parents once kept, or perhaps its descendant?

And suddenly, it came to him, what it was that had stirred in him when he saw the boy who lived outside the pub:

The boy, the little cat, they were like markers, signifying how time rushed past them, like an unceasing tide surging through them. They left their mark upon time, only for new lives (descendants/ legacy) to take their place and carry them onward, bearing time's trajectory. Life flowing on, ceaseless, unending.

And Harry Potter was the one left behind. The one abandoned by the time that still held a future.

This far and no further. They said.

Harry deliberately avoided the wooden sign by the front door, covered in writing. He could not bear to face the words again. He did not want to imagine whether fresh words had been scrawled there since his last visit.

As the porch blurred out of sight, Harry thought he glimpsed an overly broad, towering figure astride a motorbike, soaring away into the sky.

He pushed through the waist-high grass, squeezed in by the ivy-choked back door, and slipped inside as a wolf, the animal body free from worry of collapsing beams. Up the stairs, into the top room, where he turned back into himself.

The wind blew in through the blasted wall. He looked about, greedy for every detail yet flinching from it all. The furnishings matched those he'd seen in flashbacks and Voldemort's memories, only older and thick with dust.

No more detail to take in. He looked away.

Voldemort had remained silent throughout the journey. Perhaps, like Harry, he too had many thoughts to sort through.

In any case, after everything that had transpired, some eighteen years later, he had finally returned here once more.

Standing where it had all begun, Harry for the first time allowed himself to dwell on the question he had always avoided: the bond between him and the fragment of Voldemort’s soul that lived inside him.

It was an utterly peculiar sensation, one he believed very few, even in the wizarding world, had ever experienced. The feeling of the strange, intimate tether of life and death entwined.

Before this, he had thought his mission was simply to die, that from the moment Voldemort had chosen him, no one was destined to survive. Everything should have ended about eighteen years ago; everything since had been borrowed time.

But now he had a visceral understanding of it: there was someone who lived as he lived, and died as he died.

Harry's life was Voldemort's life, and Voldemort's life was Harry's life.

Yet it wasn't quite so, was it? The moment Harry chose death while Voldemort craved life, the split was there.

So, Harry thought, though I was never given a choice, perhaps I should give him one.

He knew it was absurd. And yet, looked at differently, it almost made sense: Harry would die peacefully, Voldemort would rise again through his body, and the entire wizarding world combined would surely find a way to defeat this Voldemort without Horcruxes. No one would bear the psychological burden, for they would be confronting nothing less than a villain in the truest sense...

「You ever tried to crawl back through me? You know, like the diary before?」

「Perhaps you failed to notice, Potter… though given the… meagre gifts* you displayed in class, I suppose I must spell it out. Within the Chamber of Secrets, two conditions for rebirth existed simultaneously--an object serving as a vessel for the soul, and a living source providing life force. Now tell me, boy, do we meet those conditions here?」

「You mean that if you were to rely on me to return, I'd effectively serve as both vessel and source. Then when you draw life from me, the vessel is destroyed as well--so?」Harry said, feigning nonchalance.

「…What exactly are you suggesting?」

No wonder Voldemort was wary. Even Harry himself thought what he was about to say was absurd.

「Try it. How else would we know whether the vessel shatters first, or the body takes shape first?」

Voldemort remained silent for a long while:

「…It seems Dumbledore’s foolish penchant for self-destruction has finally poisoned your already meagre brain. What absurd hero's delusion leads you to believe life is something to be discarded at will, and that your death could truly hold any meaning?

「Given that no one in your manipulated existence ever bothered to teach you this… allow me to enlighten you. Beneath the heroic legends, the fabricated myths, the conservative taboos, the superstitious propaganda--the truth no one wishes to reveal to you.

「Death has no meaning.

「Death has no value.

「Death is nothing but the absolute termination.」

Voldemort's voice was soft and icy.

「At the moment of death, every individual with earthly significance ceases to exist.

「Meaning, choice, change, future--these belong only to the living, and can only be held by the living.」

Harry tilted his head; he thought he had caught something, though he could not name it:「I’m not picking a fight. But everything up to the Battle of Hogwarts was part of Dumbledore’s plan. You said so yourself. Even in death, he was pulling the strings.」

「But all of his plans were conveyed in some way while he still lived… through agents in the present world. Without agents, his schemes are nothing.」

Voldemort paused; his voice lost its earlier smoothness. 「…Or do you think, if the dead Dumbledore truly had power to change anything, he would stand idly by and watch your present plight?

「Because he is dead. His brilliant plan’s gone to pot… There’s nothing he can do. The future is written only by the living. And you, being alive, pay the price for it.」

「I’ve not yet paid it. Perhaps I should. That would make everything simpler.」Harry lowered his eyes.

「Have you heard not a single word I've said, you foolish boy! There is no such thing as ‘the price that should be paid’--it is all lies! He manipulated you, used you--your ridiculous, masochistic hero complex! He made you into this--a willing lamb upon the altar! If you've never seen what becomes of sacrifices, let me tell you--they rot!

「You will rot meaninglessly like that hunk of flesh under the sun, sacrificing your life in vain for some so-called greater good that never existed!」

Voldemort was angry. Because Harry didn't value his own life, Voldemort, who had always sought to kill him, was furious. What would the Harry of two years ago have made of this?

「Think, Potter… Why did you initially believe your death was necessary? Because I, Voldemort, posed a threat to everyone… Because the prophecy said so, you believed only your death alongside mine could bring about the outcome everyone else desired. But use your rusty reason now--in the present circumstances, do you still believe that prophecy holds any value whatsoever?」

Harry gave a bitter smile. 「It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what everyone else—」

「Wrong!」

「How is that wrong? As long as people in this world believe that only my death will bring the outcome beneficial to all, I cannot live! I'll be hunted forever, forever deemed someone who shouldn't exist—」

「Then fight! You've done it before.」

「Not like this.」Harry sighed. The argument had exhausted him. He had never imagined having to go through such an exchange, and it left him with a peculiar sensation. But none of that mattered now. 「You wouldn’t understand.*」

「‘Love’ again?」Voldemort sneered.

But Harry only wanted to get straight to the point:「I'm offering you a chance. Isn't this what you've always wanted? Life eternal, continued existence, while also killing me--your only obstacle.」

Harry guessed he had truly angered Voldemort, for the next instant his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor. Numbness spread through his limbs, warmth drained rapidly from his body, his organs slowed, his breathing grew shallow. Consciousness began to blur.

Was this how Ginny had felt? he couldn't help wondering.

But soon, warmth returned, and everything felt normal again.

「As I said. It cannot be done.」Voldemort’s haughty voice rang in his mind.

Harry stared blankly at the floor. Between bed and wall, he spotted a little rubber duck. It must have been flung there during one of his mischievous tantrums.

His time was a circle, Harry thought. If this was his fate…

Now it was time for the tail to meet the head.

Sorry, Mum.

He snatched up the prepared basilisk fang and drove it down toward his heart.

At the moment of impact, his arm veered off course, piercing his shoulder instead.

He heard Voldemort's furious shrieks echoing in his mind.

The voice came in fits and starts: 「Potter, you fool! …Don’t sleep, do you hear me? Stay awake!... No… No. Harry… Someone, anyone!...」

A thunderous crack.

Harry felt himself drifting, and from somewhere he thought he heard again the distant, unearthly song of the phoenix.

Then he closed his eyes completely, letting the tranquil darkness carry him away.

Chapter Text

25

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Harry woke to the smell of food. Treacle tart--he recognised it at once.

Turning his head, he found himself face to face with a splendid head of scarlet and gold.

“Fawkes…” His throat rasped like sand on stone.

The phoenix dipped towards him, pressing its head lightly against his cheek.

“You just had to save me, didn’t you…?” Harry murmured, half in reproach, half in weary sigh.

The bird only tilted its head, its bright, clear eyes fixed on him, then pecked affectionately at his skin before vanishing again.

A polite knock came at the door.

“Master Harry, are you awake?” croaked Kreacher's deep, raspy voice.

Harry understood at once. At the brink of death, Voldemort had done something. Perhaps taken control of his body for a while. He did not know how the phoenix had been summoned, but Kreacher had answered his master’s call and brought him back to Grimmauld Place.

“Yes,” said Harry, weary. “I’m awake. Come in, Kreacher.”

The elf entered with quiet decorum, a tray in his hands. The warm scent of hot tea and pie filled the room as soon as the door opened.

He set the tray down on the bedside table and helped Harry sit up.

Harry's gaze met that of his father and Sirius in the photograph. He looked away.

Beside him, Kreacher’s enormous eyes brimmed with worry and with the tender, reproachful concern of an elder for a child. “Master Harry ought to be more careful. Master Harry will make others grieved.”

House-elves had no desires, no right to voice them. Yet Harry knew the truth behind those words: If Harry Potter were to die, Kreacher would be grieved.

Harry took a sip of hot tea, feeling life return to his body.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

-------------------------------------

Day after day, Kreacher tended to him with diligent care.

At times, the elf would return to Hogwarts, so as not to raise suspicion, no doubt by Voldemort’s order. His orders likely also included bringing Harry the day’s newspapers, scavenged from what the students discarded.

Harry no longer remembered how many days had passed. He never looked at the dates in the papers.

Almost every day, he found himself wondering: what exactly was he clinging to now? Why was he still alive?

Yet at the same time, he was well aware of the answer.

He glanced up at the elf bustling about the kitchen.

This house-elf who had once loathed him so. And that fleeting sensation he'd caught in Godric's Hollow—

Voldemort truly understood him. He knew his weakness, and so he'd placed it right under his nose.

Love had led Harry to choose death; love could just as easily make him choose life.

The house-elf's love, and... his own “love”.

Truthfully, Harry couldn't tell whether that moment of realisation, that fleeting sensation he'd caught hold of, was genuine or merely an illusion conjured by Voldemort to exploit him, to bind him.

Harry suspected that perhaps even Voldemort himself didn't know the answer to that question.

「Strange,」Harry remarked, lowering the newspaper he hadn't been reading.「Why haven't they broken in yet?」

Harry knew it perfectly well: former friends were far trickier than enemies. They knew about Kreacher, about Grimmauld Place, and Harry's connection to them. In fact, days ago, through the glass of the front door, he had glimpsed hooded figures peering about outside.

Yet theoretically, the house's wards should not have worked against members of the Order. The Ministry could always find an excuse for one of them to slip an Auror through...

「Ah… I fear it is because of me,」Voldemort's voice carried a note of smug satisfaction.「A new Fidelius Charm, with you and I as Secret-Keepers. That old fool’s enchantment was riddled with holes… Or do you think I, the most powerful wizard in the world, could not manage so paltry a charm?」

「Just how much did you do when you took over my body?」Harry asked, somewhat amused.

「Oh, nothing much… perhaps dealt with that eyesore of a dust cloud by the door. Overall… not enough. 」

-------------------------------------

They rummaged through Grimmauld Place from top to bottom.

For earlier that morning, Voldemort had remarked that their earlier attempt at “cleaning” the house had been nothing short of reckless waste, not to mention Mundungus’s looting. As a result, Harry’s inheritance had shrunk considerably (from Voldemort's perspective; Harry thought he still possessed more wealth than could be counted).

Then Kreacher proudly presented the “rescued” heirlooms he had painstakingly salvaged: a blood-filled, opal-studded crystal bottle (which Voldemort identified as dragon blood); a selection of rusty daggers (once restored by magic, they revealed their original gleam; Voldemort said they were special alloys of silver and other metals, fit for use against various magical creatures); and that musical box whose tune drove people weak and sleepy (its usefulness so limited that Harry suspected Mundungus had only left it because it wouldn’t fetch a price).

Whether driven by dissatisfaction with such meagre collection or sheer curiosity about the limits of Harry's inheritance, they began scouring the old house for other remnants.

And though it had been ransacked by many hands, they did manage to uncover a few items.

They settled in the drawing room, the radio set beside them, jazz music by Celestina Warbeck playing. Kreacher periodically served tea and snacks.

「Regulus’s Pensieve. That explains how he could make such a convincing fake Horcrux,」Voldemort scoffed in his mind, while Harry continued.「A book of magic that looks dangerous—」

「It contains many ancient spells, not just in Latin, but in Celtic script too. Its history likely predates the Black family itself. I suggest you read it.」

「No thanks. Some very--excessively respectable robes that show no inclination to strangle the wearer. A metal chain pulled from the robe's pocket…」

「That’s a cloak clasp, imbued with a strong protective charm.」

「Meaning I won’t need to cast a Shield Charm if I wear it? Handy.」Harry opened a plain little earthen jar. Inside was a liquid of bizarre colour; after one sniff he recoiled at once. 「What on earth is this rubbish?」

「These, Harry, are the final material remnants left behind by a ‘dead’ ghost.」

「I thought ghosts were already dead people, who simply chose not to move on.」Harry wrinkled his nose as he replaced the lid.

「Indeed. So, having refused to move on, struck from the realm of the dead… unable to persist in the mortal world either… when they are ‘killed’, or can no longer bear to exist and so ‘perish’ … what becomes of such ghosts in the end? 」

「So, this jar…」Harry studied the small clay vessel once more.

「This jar.-- What you hold in your hands is an exceedingly rare thing, Harry. Some would pay a fortune just for a single drop from it.」

「And their souls? If this is what’s left of their form, where do the souls go?」

「I don’t know. I don’t care,」Voldemort said indifferently.

On the radio, the music turned to “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” Not a single soul in this room liked that song. Harry waved his wand and changed the station.

After several turns of the dial--suddenly--

“Harry, are you alri—”

Although he switched at once, Harry recognised George’s voice.

On the new channel, two goblins were squabbling noisily, their chatter like white noise flooding the room.

After a long while, Harry resumed the sorting of objects without a word.

「They are calling to you.」

「So what?」Harry's reply was almost harsh.

「They want to see you… they miss you.」

「So what--」Harry hurled the gold badge he had been holding.

「You mean to ignore them? Curious. I thought you longed to see them…」

「I don’t.」

「I can see your dreams, boy. You do. Why, then? …Could it be you're afraid of what happened last time? …That the taste of betrayal was so bitter you've lost the courage to face it again? Very Gryffindor of you, I must say.」

「Oh, shut it. I know what you’re doing. You don't need to drag the Weasleys into this to tie me down. I've no such intention now, at least not in the near future. Your vessel is perfectly safe. Satisfied?」He paused.「Not answering is best for everyone.」

Harry lowered his head to continue sifting through items, though the spellbook in his lap had lain open a long while unread.

On the radio, the goblins had finally stopped bickering, and the programme shifted to instrumental music that mimicked a phoenix’s song.

「That spell… the one the Weasleys are searching for, the method to strip away the fragment of soul--does it truly exist?」Harry asked after a long silence.

「My, my. Eager to be rid of me already, Harry? And here I thought we were having such fun together,」Voldemort drawled.

But Harry refused to be sidetracked. 「I mean, think about it. I can't serve as both container and life source at once. But what if you were transferred to another vessel? Or drew life from another living being?」

「Who would have thought I once considered teaching… Very well, I shall answer your questions. First, does such a method exist? Within the bounds of existing magic, no.」

Harry's heart sank, but then Voldemort continued:「But that doesn't mean new methods cannot be invented. Which brings us to your second question: whether separation is possible.」

Harry felt the fragment of soul weigh him up.

「If you don’t mind spending the rest of your life in St Mungo’s long-term resident ward for permanent spell damage, then by all means, give it a try.」

「Hm?」Harry made a noise that sounded foolish even to his own ears.

Voldemort spoke calmly: 「I do not know how our souls coexist. But given the current state of affairs, stripping me away would most likely tear your soul to shreds as well--especially since it is already far from intact, making the risk all the greater…」

Harry drifted into thought.

Then, half to himself, he asked, 「You seem rather unwilling to let me die. Why?」

As if weighing whether to answer, after a moment, Voldemort’s cold voice said,「Only months ago did you first learn that you are my vessel. I, however, have lived in this fact… for eighteen years. Oh, Harry, Harry… do you understand what that means?」

「It means… I have been forced to endure dependence upon a useless infant who obstructs my very existence; it means… I have been made to parasitise in a perilous state neither residing nor possessing, all the while evading your soul, scorching as molten lava; it means… I have had, at all costs--to keep you alive.」

「Can you imagine the torment of keeping alive an infant incapable of doing anything for itself? Your wretched uncle and aunt only made everything infinitely more difficult. How many times… I snatched you back from their half-hearted feeding, their deliberate neglect. Hunger, thirst, cold, heatstroke, hypothermia, allergies, eczema, infectious diseases… there are simply too many things that could kill a young child… Twice, you nearly drowned in your bathwater, did you know that?」

「I thought things would improve after Hogwarts. I thought, as the one prophesied to defeat me, they would cherish you, protect you more carefully… but clearly, I was mistaken. Dumbledore's care for you was nothing short of negligent, even repeatedly leading you into peril. I almost believed he did it on purpose, just so you could die with me… Tell me, Harry, you don't seriously believe those two times you escaped death at my hands were down to luck, do you?」

The images of those two past encounters, when his wand clashed with Voldemort's, once again flashed in Harry's mind.

「I have saved this life you toss about so carelessly more times than I can count. Did you really think I would let you die so easily?」

「But you are not even trying--you must want to be reborn, to live on. Yet you’ve never tried. You haven't even seriously considered using me as a mere vessel, draining others' lives to resurrect yourself, or any such method—」Harry said.

「Have you still not understood? Then let me put it this way-- you are mine, Harry Potter.

「Perhaps at some point before your natural death, I shall find a worthy life source for rebirth. But until then… you will live. 」

Harry didn't know what he was feeling in that moment. The Harry of years past might have felt revulsion, rejection, disgust and defilement.

But now, he only felt his heart beating within his chest--so steady, so powerful, so full of life that it seemed it would never cease.

-------------------------------------

“Hot tea, Master Harry?” Kreacher asked politely, bowing.

“No, Kreacher, could you make me some coffee instead today?” Harry rubbed his bleary eyes. If it weren’t for Voldemort insisting he maintain a “normal” routine, he wouldn’t have gotten up at this hour (though it was already well into brunch time).

“Certainly, Master Harry.”

Just as Harry picked up the paper from yesterday, Kreacher placed a steaming plate of a full English breakfast in front of him.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

After serving the coffee, Kreacher’s raspy voice asked again, “Perhaps, Master would like some steak-and-kidney pie for dinner?”

“Of course. But I won’t be able to finish it on my own. Maybe you wouldn’t mind joining me?”

The house-elf couldn’t seem to handle this, letting out a shriek before attempting to smash his head into the oven door.

“Stop, Kreacher!” Harry immediately intervened.

The house-elf’s screech choked in his throat as he toppled to the floor in a comical heap.

“Kreacher, you just need to answer yes or no, willing or unwilling--now, are you willing to share tonight's pie with me?”

“Yes… yes, Master.” Kreacher choked.

“Good. Thank you. Now you can go do other things,” Harry said, in a good mood.

「Well, well, look at that… the great Harry Potter, The Chosen One, saviour of the wizarding world, liberator of house-elves, inviting a lowly creature to dine with him… how noble.」Voldemort’s cold mockery echoed in his mind.

Harry chuckled and flipped the paper open.

His brow furrowed. 「Kingsley being suspended for investigation is one thing, but they've actually brought Umbridge back? Have they forgotten what she did during the war?」

「Politics, Harry. If Kingsley were still at the helm, he could have easily swept all the pests out of the Ministry of Magic—but he's gone. Anything he pushed forward is dead in the water. The remaining vermin, naturally, are only too happy to seize this opportunity to reclaim power. They are, after all, Umbridge’s network… and these individuals wouldn’t mind strengthening their own factions through her skills. As for so-called justice? So long as they can put on a good show for the public, who truly cares?」

「That’s why I hate the Ministry,」Harry remarked dryly.

「On that point, I’m afraid I must agree with you.*」

Harry’s eyes scanned the paper again, reading about Umbridge’s return, about how that old toad, after all the cruel and vicious things she’d done, only to came back in the centre of power with no price to pay. Still that revolting smile, still that pompous, arrogant hypocrisy, yet seemingly no one had seen through her true nature.

Then there was Harry himself. He had done nothing but what was right, yet he was hunted down like an animal. A wave of bitter resentment inevitably welled up within him.

Perhaps there truly was no justice in this world. The notion that good and evil receive their due was nothing but a myth.

He flipped the page.

N.E.W.T.s Approaching: Examiners to Arrive at Hogwarts This Week

He froze for a moment.

Was it really that time already?

His mind flashed back to a moment from just after the last school year had begun: in the library, Hermione gently chiding him and Ron for failing to grasp even the most (in truth, not) fundamental concepts. Ron, indignant, wanting to argue but afraid of Mrs. Pince’s attention. Ginny laughing while helping him highlight key points. Luna, of course, saying something completely bizarre…

If only he could go back to that moment. If only everything could unfold along the same trajectory. He would give anything to go back—

He thought of the dancing light upon the great lake at dawn, the smoke drifting from Hagrid's hut into the dusk sky, the clamour within the Great Hall, the sensation of wind brushing his cheeks atop the Astronomy Tower, the smell of the Quidditch pitch's turf, the warmth of sunlight filtering through his dormitory window onto his face…

He realised with such vivid clarity--he wanted to live.

If there were any choice at all, he wanted to live so very, very badly.

“I want to live…” Harry murmured without realising, ashamed of such a weak desire. “…Does that make me a bad person?”

He felt the shard inside him flare with a fury that was close to frustration.

「No. It does not.」Yet the voice speaking from the soul fragment was gentle and detached.「Rather, what is truly wrong, truly terrible… is everything that makes you feel unworthy of life itself.」

「You were constructed to think in patterns that are too accustomed to trading life for gain. If something could be achieved by sacrificing your own life, you would choose to discard it without hesitation… But often, there are other solutions besides abandoning life.

「Only by living do you have the chance to find those solutions.」

After a pause, Voldemort added,「If I were your friends, I too would spare no effort to seek other means, to forge other paths. But they have not yet tried hard enough. Many still cling to the notion that you will choose to end it yourself.」

「But you’re not my friends,」Harry quipped.

「No, I’m not,」Voldemort replied, just as lightly. 「So, if I were to do it all over again, ‘I’ would only grant you a swift and direct death.」

-------------------------------------

The interrogation of Hermione Granger came to an end. They finally realised they could not obtain any information about Harry from her. At the same time, they had more or less confirmed that Harry was now hiding at the Black family home, though they remained unable to apprehend him.

Nevertheless, she was kept under strict surveillance. With Kingsley still suspended pending investigation, it was clear the Order of the Phoenix still had no way of reaching the Granger family.

Harry wondered how the Muggle world was explaining away the prolonged disappearance of two highly respected dentists.

He turned the page of the newspaper.

The Lestrange brothers had been apprehended in northern Estonia and had now completed their interrogation by the Ministry of Magic (Harry wondered if this interrogation had lasted more than half an hour). And since the new acting Minister had reinstated the Dementor system, the brothers had received the Dementor's Kiss following their questioning almost immediately.

Harry swallowed the guilt and self-loathing that welled up every time he finished reading the paper: “Where shall we go today?”

Perhaps he had realised that staying cooped up indoors only made his mental state worse. Perhaps he thought that since he'd decided to live, he might as well look the part. Or perhaps he thought nothing at all, simply putting off and shelving all thought. In any case, apart from most of his time devoted to the Dark Lord’s exclusive magical lessons, they had also taken to wandering outside every now and then (during which they occasionally ran into Aurors hunting him).

For instance, stumbling into the middle of a bustling Muggle music festival, feasting lavishly at a restaurant before leaving a pile of gold rather than pounds behind, choosing random spots on a map and testing Apparition to the furthest reach, or…

「No.」

「Oh, come on, it's brilliant. Even Dudley's seen the originals at least three times. And it's a prequel after sixteen years.」

「I have no quarrel with the work itself. My quarrel is with the choice of Muggle cinema.」

「It’ll be fun. Think of it--in your day they barely managed what, The Great Dictator? Don’t you want to see how far they’ve come?」

「I. Do. Not. Watch. Films.」

「Your loss. Anyway, the wheel’s in my hands.」

The trouble came when Qui-Gon was saying, “He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance. Train him*.”

A group of cloaked figures appeared out of thin air in the small cinema in Hull, packed with Muggles, and the moment they arrived, they began sweeping the room with Stunning Spells.

Harry recognised many of them: Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner… and Dawlish was leading them.

Harry used several rather vicious spells he'd learnt from books at the Black family home to lure the wizards far away from the cinema and the Muggles. He then cast a Parseltongue spell to trap them mercilessly where they stood before storming back to Grimmauld Place, seething with anger.

“They stormed a cinema full of Muggles! They—attacked—a cinema—full of—Muggles! Are they out of their bloody minds?”

「I could echo your words… but surely you understand? I can hardly share your anger in this regard.」

“They--I thought they were the good guys! I thought they were friends!”

In his mind, Voldemort merely chuckled softly.

Once Harry’s fury had cooled somewhat, he poured himself a glass of water and sat down at the table. Then the voice commanded, 「Harry, check the time.」

“What?” Harry asked, puzzled, but complied. “Tempus*.”

12:55 a.m.

「Happy birthday.」

For a moment, Harry’s heart stopped. He'd completely forgotten.

「Don’t expect presents. Or… take that ghastly film I sat through with you as my gift. 」

「Thanks…」Harry murmured inwardly.

Then he added, “It wasn’t that bad a film--just the dialogue, maybe.”

「Struck a chord, Chosen One?」

Harry pulled a face, ready to deny it, but then he stopped, frowning in thought. “Anakin Skywalker is the Chosen One. Qui-Gon, the first master who wanted to take him in died very soon. In A New Hope he kills Obi-Wan, his real master--and before that, we know that Obi-Wan had defeated him. He nearly kills his own daughter and son, and he wouldn't even be certain he had children… The twins are raised apart on different planets, so his wife must not have survived, and he wouldn't know they’d been born… There are so many Jedi in this film, yet by Luke’s time only a handful remain, so they must have been wiped out at some point… He lives trapped in black armour, so something must have happened that destroyed his healthy body… I’ve a hunch his mother did not meet a good end either.”

「Some hunch. What are you getting at?」

“The Chosen One. In legends, in stories, anywhere-- King Arthur. He too had a prophecy, didn't he? He drew the sword from the stone, was the chosen one. But he was separated from his parents in childhood. In the end, his wife and dearest friend betrayed him, and he and his son killed each other.”

“Paul Atreides, the messiah caught and driven into the trap of destiny by all sides. His whole family slaughtered, his firstborn son and his beloved dead because of him. The mission thrust upon him became a catastrophe spiralling beyond control, his entire life overshadowed by the divine task. He lost his eyes, surrendered his power, wandered in the desert, and finally went to his death.”

「Jesus Christ. Well, that one speaks for itself. Oedipus?」

“Does he count?”

「He had a prophecy.」

“Very well, count him then. Nearly killed by his own father at birth, found and adopted, striving to defy fate only to end up killing his father and marrying his mother.”

「Gilgamesh also counts as a chosen one, and his path turned out rather well.」

“But he could not bring his beloved friend back to life, could he? He came so close to success, yet ultimately failed, and he had no choice but to resign himself to that reality.”

「The demigods of Greek mythology, save perhaps Perseus, rarely met a good end. I take your meaning…」

“Fate is not kind to the Chosen One. One might even say cruel.

“Those close to the Chosen One suffer misfortune. First their parents, then mentors, friends, lovers, children…

“The chosen themselves endure countless calamities.

“The Chosen One is a cursed fate.”

「An interesting theory…」

“Yet you still believe that one should, and can, defy fate.”

「Yes. And so should you.」

“I wish I could. Truly, I do, but…”

He could not help but feel this was his last birthday.

Fate had cursed him.

Curse this damned fate.

-------------------------------------

Sure enough, the newspapers carried reports of the battle in Hull. There were many spells in the books of the Black library that might be deemed Dark magic, and someone had recognised that the final spell he used had once been cast by You-Know-Who himself. As a result, the front page now proclaimed him as the second Dark Lord.

Perhaps it was that they could no longer deceive themselves; perhaps it was that the fact “Harry Potter maintained a connection with the Dark Lord, who was teaching him magic” was now an indisputable truth. Even some former friends and teachers began denouncing him in the papers. Public opinion, which had at first sought to morally blackmail him into dying, had now shifted entirely into open condemnation and hostility.

「Sounds convincing--Harry Potter, the Second Dark Lord.」Harry read the slander with an air of interest.

「You’re not even close. Being the Dark Lord requires more than Dark magic.」

「Oh, I know. I also need a cruel heart, a penchant for throwing out Cruciatus Curses, and a terrifying pet.」 Harry sneered mockingly.

But Voldemort seemed in no mood for banter. His tone remained calm:「There are things you will never do… under any circumstances whatsoever. It is in your very nature. No matter how much I wish it, no matter how much I strive to lure you into corruption… you will never become a Dark Lord. 」

「How so?」From Harry’s view, that sounded almost like praise.

「Take the day before yesterday, for instance. You might be able to be ruthless towards those who want to take your life and will stop at nothing to do so. But ultimately… your goal was to drive the attack away from those you saw as innocent. You cannot stop protecting others… You cannot change.」

「I—」

At that moment, an owl appeared.

Or rather, it crashed straight onto the dining table, nearly overturning the onion soup Kreacher had so carefully prepared and drawing a furious tirade of curses from the house-elf.

Errol, the Weasleys’ ancient great grey owl.

Harry untied the letter and began to read. 「Come to think of it, I always found it strange. Though humans cannot pass through, house-elves and owls can come and go freely. Such protection--If someone thought of sending something by owl, or using a house-elf to deliver it, wouldn’t that be impossible to defend against?」

「I don't know how that old fool set up his protection, but nothing bearing malice could possibly pass through mine. You can rest assured on that.」

Harry gave a distracted shrug.

In the letter, Mr. Weasley first expressed concern over Harry's current situation and, with some tact, asked whether he was being coerced by You-Know-Who. He went on to regretfully report the latest developments in Bill and Fleur's research (namely, a lack thereof). He then reassured Harry regarding Hermione, stating they were actively lobbying the Ministry for the Granger family. And finally, with evident unease, he asked whether Ron was still with him, as the family had heard nothing from Ron for some time.

That was strange. Harry had left Ron at Hogwarts; the Weasleys ought to know that. Or perhaps…

Harry set the letter aside and resumed reading the Daily Prophet.

It seemed that, after more than a year, the Ministry of Magic had finally decided to hold a grand funeral for Severus Snape.

Harry's lips twisted into a sneer. 「Perhaps, in some other world, I might have admired him, but—」

He put down the paper and took a swallow of cool pumpkin juice.

「To think that everything I'm enduring now is because he failed to reveal the truth to me in time…」

「In this world, there may be no one who longs more than I… to grind that traitor's bones to dust and scatter them to the winds. But Harry…」Voldemort's voice was soft, almost a sigh,「have you considered that the reason he delayed revealing the truth until the very end… until he was forced to take it to his grave, was because he didn't truly wish for your death… because he hoped this way, he could delay the inevitable outcome, allowing you to live--just a little longer?」

Chapter Text

26

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Burying guilt, evading reality--one can only persist for so long. Like a landslide dam perpetually swelling, even when its surface appears serene and undisturbed, the blockage beneath have long since buckled under the water's pressure, cracking layer by layer.

First seeps an unnamed anxiety, the kind that keeps one sleepless through the night, then wakes them at dawn only to deny rest thereafter.

Then came unease, when the smallest stir seemed a herald of some greater threat.

Next is exhaustion, a weariness where no work could be sustained, no interest maintained.

After that, comes emotional breakdown. He had never been even-tempered, but now his emotions slipped loose, sudden rages, sudden tears, sudden urges to destroy.

His mind flees, yet his heart remains brutally honest.

So now he couldn't even leave the house. Chronic sleep deprivation had left him exhausted, and venturing out like this would clearly be unsafe. All that remained was training.

He spent nearly every waking hour training: new spells, more effective duelling techniques, sharper reflexes…

The taint of dark magic now clinging to him was so potent that whenever he passed the portrait of Sirius's mother, she would silently shrink to a corner (though that might also have had something to do with the time Voldemort, on a whim, had made Harry “have a chat” with dear “Senior Classmate Walburga”).

He supposed, in some subconscious way, he was preparing for something. But until that moment truly arrived, he was content to escape.

He hooked his will to live onto Voldemort’s shard of soul and let it drag him forward. The moment he allowed himself to think, he knew, this hook would snap at once.

-------------------------------------

The moment came.

The owls stopped.

Previously, despite Harry's lack of reply, the Weasleys had persisted in sending him letters daily. But that morning, the letters ceased.

A few days later, Grimmauld Place came under siege.

The Ministry had contrived some way to drive away the Muggle neighbours on either side, and then unleashed a furious assault upon the supposed location of Number 12.

Every strike slammed against the wards. The entire house, even its foundations, trembled.

From the kitchen, Harry could hear objects crashing to the floor in the upstairs rooms.

Harry suspected their aim was to bring the whole building down.

Perched on the wobbling kitchen stool, Harry thought back to childhood, when Dudley and his gang used to catch insects, shut them in jars, and shake them maliciously, watching the poor creatures spin dizzyingly round with nowhere to escape.

That was what he was now: the insect in the jar.

The assault lasted until the third dawn.

Afterwards, Harry immediately ordered Kreacher back to Hogwarts and arranged that upon his death, Kreacher’s ownership would pass to the school, but with the provision that Kreacher could later claim his freedom if he desired.

Yet the cunning little elf still found the loophole he sought. Before departing, he left Harry with a hoard of supplies and delivered the answer Harry longed for—

Ron had tried to rescue Hermione, striking at the ward in St Mungo’s where the Grangers had been confined. The attempt failed. Ron was captured by the Ministry of Magic. The entire Weasley family was detained for questioning, even Great Aunt Muriel was not spared.

So that was why the owls had stopped.

If it’d been merely a matter of a failed rescue mission, would have been no need whatsoever to detain the entire Weasley family. Harry realised this was merely a convenient excuse the Ministry had seized upon.

Mr. Weasley had always conducted himself with extreme caution; even during Voldemort's reign, he had managed to avoid giving anyone cause to accuse him and kept his position at the Ministry. But now Ron’s action had finally provided them the opening to lock the whole family beneath watchful eye.

And it was because of him.

Even if he was not with them, as long as Harry lived, the Weasleys would suffer simply because of his existence.

There was no running left.

-------------------------------------

Harry lay upon the roof of Grimmauld Place. The night wind carried a chill. In the city ablaze with lights no stars could be seen, but above his head he could make out the shimmering of the barrier, gradually erasing the scars of the recent assault.

He found himself wondering how it had all begun. Where had it broken? At what point exactly had things gone awry, causing what had been steadily improving, gradually becoming better, to crumble apart so suddenly into ruin?

Snape was not at fault. He had only wished for the son of the woman he loved to live a little longer.

The Order of the Phoenix was not at fault. They had tried their best to contain the news within the circle of those they trusted.

Rita Skeeter, from her perspective, was not at fault either. Anyone who came across such a scoop would consider it a stroke of luck.

The public was certainly not at fault. They’d lived too long under Voldemort’s terror. It was only human that they would long to eradicate even the last trace of that source of fear.

Then what about him?

His first flight had been purely instinct, a response to the intent to kill.

Then he thought: I may choose death willingly. But you cannot force it upon me. You cannot strip me of that choice, make that decision for me.

He wished only to hold fast to that simple conviction. Yet it seemed to constitute the world's greatest, most unforgivable crime.

They lured and hunted him, they spied on and bound those close to him. Even former friends turned against him, joining the chase.

Ginny died protecting him.

Hermione had been struck by so many spells Harry did not know if she would sustain any lasting damage. Then she was subjected to relentless interrogation again and again by the Ministry. She was truly remarkable--Harry doubted he himself could have kept silent under such methods. And then, they abducted her innocent Muggle parents.

Ron… of course Ron had gone. He should have known Ron could never stand idle when someone he loved was in danger.

The Weasleys, who had fought so hard for his right to live, had been dragged down into calamity too. Who knew what the Ministry would do to them? Would they even retain their jobs after this?

Kingsley and the rest of the Order--Harry hoped they hadn't faced retaliation from those who'd seized power once more. Without authority, would they still have a chance to reform the Ministry's rotten state?

All this, because he, Harry Potter, wanted the right to choose his own death, because they loved him, and stood by him.

In the face of power, your love is nothing.

Of course he hated.

He hated the rotten Ministry of Magic.

He hated the ungrateful wizarding world.

He hated those who betrayed him, who had raised their wands against their friends.

He hated those who stood by his side yet still tried to morally blackmail him into taking his own life.

Why should they pay no price for their vile deeds, while he lost everything?

The fury of his hatred burned so fiercely it seared his very soul.

But as Dumbledore had always said, he loved too much to truly hate anyone long and deep.

Then where was his hatred to go?

The fate of the Chosen One.

He thought of the prophecy, of all who had been caught in the prophecy’s snare--his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin and Tonks, those who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, and—

His hand touched the scar upon his forehead.

“That day I had a dream. I dreamt… Hermione, Ron, all of us back at school for seventh year, passing our exams without a hitch. I became an Auror. Ginny and I married. She didn't fancy that sort of thing, she still preferred Quidditch, so she joined this team…”

「That was no dream, Harry. You were not even asleep… It was a hallucination born of sleep deprivation.」

Harry burst out laughing, then said: “You really are incredible. To endure such endless nothingness, such despair without end--you still cling to life. That purpose, that will…” He was a little envious.

Voldemort remained silent, yet in that moment, their thoughts were likely mirrored.

Voldemort could survive by his will to conquer death, to conquer all. He could endure what no one else could even imagine, for desires that served no purpose but his own. But Harry could not.

It wasn't that Harry's will was weaker than Voldemort's--no, in that regard they were equals.

But like his visions, like his recurring dreams, the only future Harry could accept, the only future he would sacrifice everything for, was one shared with those he loved.

Once severed from them （their love）, once it was destined that his future could not be with them, nor theirs with him—

Then Harry was like a whale stranded upon the sand, its death only a matter of sooner or later.

Sooner would be mercy.

-------------------------------------

Harry woke on Sirius’s bed.

「I dreamt of them,」Harry said.「Mum, Dad, Sirius, Lupin…」

He covered his eyes. 「But not Dumbledore.」

After a long silence, the shard spoke.

「I remember Black gave you a two-way mirror. The other half is still with Dumbledore’s brother, isn’t it?」

Harry’s breath caught, then he cast a Summoning Charm.

He sat up, staring tensely at the glass.

“Mr. Aberforth, sir, are you there?” Harry asked quietly, then waited with bated breath.

Then Harry tried again.

At last, a pair of blue eyes filled the mirror. “Well? Out with it, lad.”

When the figure truly showed in the mirror, Harry found himself at a loss for words: “I…”

But the other seemed to guess his thoughts easily: “Whatever it is you’re thinking of--just do it. Don’t waste breath worrying what he’d think.”

“But—”

“He’s gone, isn’t he? Dead men’s wishes aren’t worth a knut!” Aberforth barked, then, after what sounded like a heavy gulp of drink, added, “…And besides--things are too far gone. Whatever you choose, I reckon he’d respect it, wouldn’t he?”

“Thank—” Harry began, but the man had already gone.

After silently washing up and eating a sandwich, Harry said,「I want to pull off something big.」

-------------------------------------

Voldemort attempted to instruct Harry in the crafting of artefacts. They failed.

So their next course of action was to approach the goblin Griphook*. That was not hard. Harry had once saved his life, and with a touch of dark magic coercion, the goblin had no objection to establishing a magical link between Harry's own vaults and his Mokeskin pouch. Compared to their last disastrous dealings, this transaction had not broken any goblin principle. Though afterwards, Griphook at once called for Aurors, they slipped away just moments before they arrived.

They then splashed out at Borgin and Burkes*. Of course, who could know the shop’s hidden stock and its true worth better than Voldemort himself, once an assistant behind that very counter? And with Harry letting slip pieces of knowledge only Voldemort could have known, Borgin wouldn't dare to breathe a word about it.

By the end, the way Borgin looked at Harry was as though he were staring at the Dark Lord himself. Harry collapsed into helpless laughter the moment he stepped outside (well, perhaps not quite outside the shop door).

-------------------------------------

Lucius Malfoy looked much the same when Harry turned up at the Manor--like he was staring at a ghost.

However, he was to be disappointed; Harry's visit here was not to carry out the Dark Lord’s vengeance. Though the final outcome, from Malfoy’s view, would likely prove much the same.

From him Harry demanded compromising material on the acting Minister and his aides. Lucius Malfoy has amassed quite a stash of such dirt, which are likely the very leverage he clings to for survival, enabling him to scrape by to this day.

Harry felt not a shred of remorse taking them. To give Kingsley and the Order of the Phoenix a chance to reclaim the Ministry's power centre, to offer the wizarding world hope for improvement, a stain far greater than Kingsley's “dereliction of duty” was needed to topple those currently in power.

Though, as long as Harry lived, as long as the final fragment of Voldemort remained, the wizarding world could never truly begin anew. Whoever occupied the seat of power, unless the Death Eaters made a resurgence (and Harry would never permit that), the Ministry of Magic, as a representative body, inherently responded to public demand. Any administration seeking lasting stability could not possibly spare Harry's life. Not only was sparing him impossible, but his swift demise was imperative (no matter what assurances Kingsley or Mr. Weasley might give, this remained the truth).

Still, Harry wanted, before he left, to leave behind as much chance for improvement as he could.

Borrowing the Malfoy family owl, he made two copies of the evidence and sent the duplicates to both Kingsley and Xenophilius Lovegood. By doing this, he granted the Malfoys a potential escape route, but also barred them from many more.

-------------------------------------

In the dead of night, Harry (they) struck the guards near the Longbottom residence.

It was easy. Under the Invisibility Cloak, he crept in, then knocked out the guards hidden in the shadows. The Anti-Disapparition Jinx maintained by the guards around Neville’s home naturally dissipated.

All Harry needed was to send the signal; the rest, Neville’s formidable grandmother could handle herself.

-------------------------------------

The barriers surrounding the Weasleys' home proved somewhat more troublesome.

Fortunately, most of these barriers were designed against those within, and like the majority of magical barriers, they tended to overlook animals.

When Harry entered the Burrow in wolf form, he gave Molly quite a fright.

The entire Weasley family was present, save for Ron. Mr. Weasley explained the Ministry had hidden Ron and the Grangers in a secret location, whose address was likely known only to the special task force. And the one in charge of it was none other than Dolores Umbridge.

They attempted to persuade Harry to flee with them; Mr. Weasley had a distant relative in Ireland they could stay with.

But Harry however, only offered Mrs. Weasley a few hurried words of comfort.

Working with George, Harry used one of the joke shop’s inventions to create noise and draw the guards closer, and then, through an ambush, swiftly disposed of them. Afterwards, they used one of the Dark artefacts that had cost him three hundred Galleons, to dismantle the wards around the Burrow from within.

Before the family had caught their breath, Harry already was gone.

-------------------------------------

Long before the operation commenced, Harry had been lying in wait near the Ministry of Magic for three consecutive days.

They had picked out a balding middle-aged employee. Drawing on their experience from last time, and aided by Legilimency, they confirmed in those three days that while this man was not a member of the special task force, he worked on the same floor as them and had access to the Tenth Floor’s interrogation rooms*.

They timed their move to resolve the Weasleys' predicament at dawn, when guards were still unconscious and news of Harry's assault had yet to reach the Ministry. Harry positioned himself along the man's route to work, subdued him with the Imperius Curse, and slipped into the Ministry behind him under the Invisibility Cloak.

Infiltrating Umbridge’s office was nothing more than repeating an act already performed once before.

Perhaps because she had suffered too many blows by Harry’s hand, the special task force had resorted to using the Fidelius Charm on the place Ron and the Grangers were confined. But evidently the Ministry officials did not trust their own people enough; in the top-secret files belonging only to the “Supreme Head” Umbridge, the name of the Secret-Keeper was also written.

Proudfoot, the Auror who had once patrolled Hogwarts with Tonks.

As a suspicious woman, Umbridge had, of course, also kept files on every member of the task force.

Proudfoot--off duty. Address: …

Too easy.

Before departing, Harry simply couldn't resist placing a curse upon Umbridge's chair. Thanks to the Dark Lord's technical support, his mastery of hexes and curses had advanced by leaps and bounds.

This curse would ensure that for as long as she remained employed at the Ministry of Magic, and for as long as she had yet to pay for her past crimes, not a single day would pass without misfortune clinging to her.

Then they went down to the Department of Mysteries, into the Hall of Prophecy, and destroyed every orb that had not yet come to pass. On the way back, Harry casually jinxed the inter-departmental memos, turning the paper aeroplanes into loud proclaimers: whenever a lie was detected, they would shriek “Liar!” at every witch and wizard they passed.

Upon leaving, he deliberately took the Atrium route. Harry saw that the Fountain of Magical Brethren had been restored once more. A statue steeped in falsehoods--Harry felt compelled to help it out.

The employees arriving that morning were horrified to see on the plinth: the centaur bucking in contempt at the wizard, the goblin hammering at the wizard’s head while bellowing “Thief!”, the house-elf kicking the wizard's shins while crying “Slave-master,” and wizard’s wand no longer spouting water but instead displaying the words “Harry Potter sends his regards.” Later they would discover that, no matter how they tried, the statues proved impossible to move.

-------------------------------------

With a little help from some Felix Felicis, Harry ambushed Proudfoot on his way home after brunch.

Proudfoot had received word of an attack on the Ministry, cutting short his leisure just a block from home as he hurried back to change into his Auror robes. Presumably thinking the distance was short, he hadn't used Apparition; otherwise, Harry wouldn't have been able to intercept him so easily.

True to his Auror training, he grew wary the moment he approached the block where Harry (they) lay in wait. But Harry was faster.

The Firebolt’s speed, coupled with a binding spell imbued with Dark magic for piercing shields, flung the Auror to the ground.

Proudfoot lay sprawled, watching in horror as the mummifying effects spread from his toes across his entire body.

“Tell me! Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Potter, you’ll burn in Hell with the You-Know-Who!”

The Auror behind him bellowed in fury.

Harry laughed as he (they) walked away.

-------------------------------------

Proudfoot's address led Harry to a seaside cottage near Blackpool.

The people inside evidently had not yet realised that the Fidelius Charm had been broken. The sense of déjà vu struck Harry as bitterly ironic.

Through the window he could see an Auror sitting on the sofa, eating a doughnut.

When Harry pushed open the door, the Auror sprang to his feet, but by then the carpet had transformed into a snake coiling around him. As he fumbled to raise his wand and break free, a Stunning Spell hit him squarely.

Hearing the commotion below, two Aurors raced down the stairs.

One was struck by Harry's spell before his eyes could even peer through the stairwell gap to see below, collapsing instantly.

The other Auror drew his wand and fired a Killing Curse straight at Harry.

The portrait on the wall sprang forward, becoming a shield that deflected the attack, before transforming into sharp blades that shot back towards the Auror.

The Auror dodged the blade-portrait, but in doing so he was caught fast by the banister, now transformed into vines. Before he could mount any further resistance, another Stunning Spell felled him.

「I’ll grant it, your talent for duelling surpasses Bellatrix's.」

「Please do not compare me to her.」

Upstairs, two Aurors watched the stairwell with wary eyes.

Thud--Thud--

The Aurors drew their wands.

The moment that shadow emerged from the stairwell—

“Avada Kedavra!” “Petrificus Totalus!”

At the same moment, the sound of shattering glass burst from behind them, too late for them to react. Stupefying darkness swallowed them whole.

Harry leapt from his broom, waved his wand to lift the Petrification spell from the poor grandfather clock, guiding its short legs back to its corner.

He stepped over the unconscious Aurors and opened the door.

Inside, Ron and Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Granger were huddled together on two ragged mattresses, holding each other, staring in terror towards the doorway.

Harry at once noticed that Ron’s leg was broken, his face streaked with cuts. Fury burned through Harry’s chest, but he forced it down.

“Ready to go?” Harry asked with (feigned) lightness.

-------------------------------------

Harry brought them down on a grassy slope in Ostend.

It was, according to his experiments, the farthest distance a Side-Along Apparition could still safely reach. For the Ministry to interfere, to drag them back from Belgium, would at least cost them some effort.

He handed Ron and Hermione the wands he had taken from several Aurors, along with a bag filled with gold and supplies.

Now everyone he cared about was safe. For the moment, at least.

As long as he still breathed, everything would only ever be temporary.

He turned to leave.

“Harry! Wait, Harry!” Hermione passed the unsteady Ron to her father and stumbled after him. “Harry, you can't do this alone! Let us help you--”

Harry turned back, gave his best friends one last, lingering look, then offered a genuine smile.

“Oh, Hermione, but I’m not alone.”

-------------------------------------

Upon returning to British soil, he immediately Apparated straight to Azkaban. The moment he neared the island, the familiar chill of the Dementors washed over him.

Harry regarded his new Patronus with interest. To tell the truth, he had half-believed he would never be able to conjure one again.

Ignoring the fragment’s astonished, smug taunts, Harry waved his wand. He had come here for business.

He didn't need to control the Dementors; he merely needed to implant a single thought: the Ministry will inevitably breach your agreement; therefore the Ministry is not worthy of allegiance; attack them. With that, the Dementors, hungry and restless, would abandon the barren island, long since devoid of sustenance, of their own accord and drift towards the place Harry wished them to go.

This was the price they must pay for undoing everything that Kingsley and the Order of the Phoenix had striven to change, for once more reinstating such monsters.

On his way back to Grimmauld Place, Harry made a detour to visit the offices of the Daily Prophet. At night, the presses were the only things left moving, rattling away in the silence.

He hoped they would think twice before becoming so addicted to lies again. After all, Harry thought, no reporter would wish to go out on assignment with a bright red rash across their face spelling out “Liar,” would they?

At the same time, Harry sincerely wished the newspaper good luck. Relying on the ghost residue he'd dripped in one shadowed corner of the office and the corresponding summoning ritual, if luck favoured them, what arrived would likely be the Prophet’s own kind--a Boggart. If luck didn't… well, who knew what might come?

With a satisfying sense of vindication, Harry laughed heartily as he Apparated away.

-------------------------------------

The final step.

Harry leaned against the porch of Grimmauld Place and let out a weary breath.

「I'm sorry.」 Harry knew how desperately Voldemort craved to live. And he was about to deprive Voldemort of that chance. He'd even prepared himself for the moment when Voldemort might turn against him, though he still wasn't sure what he'd do then.

Voldemort snorted. 「You should be sorry. You stink, Potter.」

Harry burst out laughing and obediently made his way into the bathroom.

「So, how does a wizard’s hot-water system work again?」

After enduring Voldemort’s merciless mockery, Harry finally managed to fill a steaming bath. He sank into it, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he truly relaxed.

「Say--what if you’d been able to talk to me from when I was a child, how would it have gone? Maybe Dudley would have grown a pig’s tail years earlier.」 Harry spoke in jest.

「Your taste, Harry, leaves much to be desired,」 Voldemort replied, perhaps influenced by the mood, adopting a similarly playful tone.

「Or even earlier? What if we'd been classmates, what then?」

「Then I'd probably have hated you… Dumbledore's favourite. But I'd put on a friendly front, and once you trusted me, once you sought my advice, I'd coax you into becoming my scapegoat without you even realising.」

「But I'd definitely have stuck to you.」

「Why?」

「Because you were good-looking.」

「Why am I not surprised… But Harry, once I had made you my scapegoat, you would have known I was a villain. Would you still cling to me then?」

「All the more reason to cling to you. How could someone looking so good possibly be so wicked? I’d have had to find a way to set you straight.」

「Provided I did not drag you down first.」

Harry laughed again. Genuinely, heartily.

Then he wiped his face.

「I wonder--if you were a whole soul now, what sort of reaction you'd have.」

He slept soundly through the night, dreamless.

Harry gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

He shaved carefully, scraping away the stubble. His hair, grown long again after months on the run, was as unruly as ever, so he found a piece of string and tied it back. The braid was loose and clumsy; he was no good at this.

He prepared himself a hearty brunch (as lavish as his circumstances would allow), and hot tea soothed his instinctively taut nerves.

From someone’s wardrobe, he found a clean, simple black robe.

At last he entered the drawing room, sat cross-legged, and drew out the golden Snitch Dumbledore had left him.

He pressed the golden metal to his lips and whispered, “I am about to die.”

The metal shell broke open. A black stone with a jagged crack running down the center sat in the two halves of the Snitch.

「The Resurrection Stone.」

If this were another world, Harry might have wished to summon his parents, Sirius, and Lupin. But he felt he had failed them, he felt too ashamed to face them.

He would not be going where they had gone. Harry thought. Proudfoot had probably been right.

He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand three times.

Nothing.

How could that be?

He tried again.

Still nothing.

He realised something. Instead, he called upon someone else.

Opening his eyes, he saw a figure before him, bearing his own features yet possessing Voldemort's dark, deep eyes.

“Ignotus,” Harry tentatively addressed him.

The man nodded kindly.

“What… what was it like?” Harry hesitated.

Ignotus considered for a moment before replying, “Like release.”

“Many would assume I fared best among my three brothers, yet in truth, I only outlived them by a mere span.

“All my life I was hiding, keeping out of Death’s sight. I could never embrace a normal life; I could never lower my guard. It was exceedingly difficult for me to hold onto anything lasting or stable. From the moment Death laid his trap for us, my brothers and I were, in truth, doomed never to end well.

“So when I chose to take off the Invisibility Cloak, I was glad. At last, I could stand beneath the open sky without hiding, without fear.”

“Thank you,” said Harry.

Then he turned the Resurrection Stone once more.

This time, what appeared before him was a small, frail woman. Her hair was lank and dull, her face pale, and her eyes slightly squint.

「You--!」

“Hello,” Harry greeted her amiably.

“Hello… What is it you hope I can do for you?” Merope asked uncertainly.

“I wish to understand your final decision. If you're willing to tell me.”

Merope's gaze drifted, refusing to meet Harry's eyes. Harry knew it wasn't really him she dared not look at.

“Do you regret it?” Harry offered her a starting point.

“I do… but—” She bit her lip, looking utterly despondent. “I wouldn't have been a good choice. I knew that. I wasn't a good choice for anyone. I couldn't do anything right. I would have only ever made things worse.”

At any other time, Harry might have shouted back at her, demanded, “How can you possibly know that?” But now, he only listened with quiet patience.

“I chose death because—”she lowered her head, as if trying to make herself smaller. “At that time, I believed it was the best choice… for Tom, for myself, for our son… Having done what I did, brought about such dreadful consequences, how could I bear to impose the curse of ‘Merope’ upon a newborn child?”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

And then she too was gone.

Harry rose to his feet, stowed the Resurrection Stone, and placed it alongside the Invisibility Cloak in a box that could only be opened with Parseltongue (a password, naturally, no mechanical mimicry like Ron’s could hope to imitate). He left it in the drawing room.

He already had the most perfect companion the world could offer; he no longer needed the spirits of the dead to walk beside him.

He stepped over the threshold, sunlight falling upon his face.

And at once, he understood Ignotus’s words.

It was wonderful.

Life was infinite possibilities--meaning, choice, change, future. Yet fate had left him with only one future: one pursued relentlessly until his last breath.

There was no other way.

Only death remained, appearing as the best and sole choice--the one thing over which he had any power.

All persistence had lost its meaning. He could barely recall what he had been clinging to in the first place.

He was about to end it all.

He looked upon the crowd gradually closing in around him.

Among them were Aurors, Ministry officials, ordinary wizards and witches, even underage children. They wanted him dead.

The very people for whom he had sacrificed everything to protect--wanted him dead.

There is no such thing as poetic justice in this world.

Hatred and fury burned within him. Since the day the truth had been revealed, it had never ceased to burn.

Right--he was one with the Dark Lord he had once sworn to vanquish, one with the very source of their suffering.

Harry looked ahead. The Acting Minister for Magic blocked his way. Perhaps from the previous day’s attack or from that morning’s The Quibbler, the Minister's eye was a bruised, blackened hollow, his gaze wild. His wand pointed at the hostage he held before him--Luna.

Of course. As long as Harry lived, there would be no end to it. No one he loved could find peace--they would not allow him peace.

Harry sighed.

Then curse them. Curse them all. Curse this world. Curse this damned fate.

He slipped his wand into his pocket.

I'll save you all, one last time. I’m done.

Harry feinted a move. Several jets of green light struck him at once.

He felt everything fading, along with a searing pain.

Was death meant to hurt this much?

But quickly he understood: it was not his pain.

It was the shard of soul, writhing in agony for him--because Harry himself could no longer feel pain.

Chapter Text

27*

Harry Potter [Alter] (Team Avenger)

Harry woke, surrounded by bright mist. He turned slowly; the place bled into being around him.

Clothed in his robes, he moved towards the voice that had been calling to him since his arrival.

He stooped, reaching out towards the small, flayed childlike creature—

“You cannot help.”

Harry turned. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him.

He looked as though he meant to invite Harry to take a seat some distance away, but when Harry remained stooping and showed no sign of straightening up, he too stayed standing.

“Harry, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I am sorry things have come to this. Believe me, it was not what I intended.”

“The Stone,” said Harry suddenly. “The Resurrection Stone. I couldn’t bring Voldemort back. Why?”

Dumbledore seemed, for an instant, surprised that this was Harry’s first question. Then he smiled in a soothing manner. “The Resurrection Stone can call only those who dwell in Death’s realm, Harry. Voldemort’s soul was mutilated beyond repair. The fragments of it will remain trapped in Limbo, unable to pass on, unable even to linger as ghosts.”

“Is this Death’s realm, then?” Harry asked, lifting the broken child-thing from beneath the seat into his arms.

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened as he glanced at the thing in Harry's arms before he answered, “That is indeed the question. On the whole, dear boy, I think you are not dead.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean? I should be dead! I went there to die!”

“Yes.” Dumbledore paused before explaining, “I think you should know that my original plan was for Voldemort to kill you himself. By taking your blood to return, he wrapped your destinies together more securely than any two wizards in history had ever been joined. So long as he lives, you cannot truly die.”

“But that didn’t happen,” Harry said, almost harshly.

“No. However—” Dumbledore gestured towards the thing in Harry’s arms. “It chose to bear this death in your stead. Because of the bond between you, this was possible.”

So--that was why he had done nothing: he was waiting for the right moment to bargain with Death… He'd made the decision for him, then he offered him a choice.

Harry's arms tightened instinctively around the pitiful child, and a wave of fury and hatred, more intense and overwhelming than ever before, washed over him.

What a preposterous world this is!

What a preposterous fate this is!

He was so resentful, so—

But what right did he have to resent? He had already possessed the finest love in the world, all of it--even those without love had given him the closest thing to love they could offer.

How dared he?

Yet in truth, it only deepened his hatred. That hatred was like a fine, intricate thread, woven tight throughout his entire soul.

He began to laugh--wild, unstoppable, until his throat was raw.

On the other side, Dumbledore watched him in worry.

After a long while, he ceased. He thought he must be weeping, but in truth, not a single tear fell; only his voice was hoarse from the laughter.

He asked lazily, “Do I have to go back?”

Judging by Dumbledore's expression, Harry guessed he had let all his loathing leak into his tone.

“That is up to you.”

“I’ve got a choice?”

Dumbledore's expression deepened with regret. “Of course. And if you don't mind my asking, where would you say that we are?”

Harry glanced around casually. “King's Cross Station, I suppose.”

Dumbledore seemed to have some thoughts on the matter but he was well aware that Harry was not in the mood to listen at present. So he merely said: “Well, I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let’s say… board a train.”

Harry nodded and stepped away to stand behind the waiting line.

At some point, Dumbledore had departed.

A train puffed its way slowly into the station.

He clutched the child (the soul fragment) closer in his arms and mounted the steps into the carriage.

If the “Chosen One” was destined to save the world, destined to save it again and again while alive, then this final, resolute farewell (this abandonment) was his ultimate revenge against mankind (humanity), against fate itself.

-------------------------------------

As he made his way through the carriage searching for a seat, at the threshold between life and death, Harry heard a voice speaking to him, as though from afar*—

-------------------------------------

“I see,” Caster murmured.

But Avenger only stared at him, unblinking.

Following Avenger's gaze, one could see a single, crystalline tear trace down Caster's cheek.

Caster seemed entirely unaware of it, perhaps not even conscious of his own reaction. Perhaps, Avenger thought, it was something he never have experienced even in life—

Avenger stepped forward, brushing the drop lightly away with his fingertip.

Caster shuddered at the touch. When he saw the tear clinging to Avenger’s finger, his face showed a flash of stunned bewilderment.

“So—” Avenger rasped, “this is how you react*.”

Caster met the green eyes fixed on him; for one startled moment he was caught there, then jerked back a step, breaking away from the fingers that brushed his cheek.

“I know what you are doing,” Caster said coldly.

Avenger, a little lost yet amused, asked, “What am I doing?”

“You came here to persuade me to join your little crusade to ‘save the world.’” Caster moved to the far wall, determined not to look at him.

Avenger shrugged carelessly. “And did I succeed?”

Those crimson eyes returned to him.

They lingered on him for a long moment before sliding away again.

“I cannot bear to look at him… I cannot.” Caster’s words were quiet, stripped of tone.

Avenger frowned, listening in silence.

“Every time I see him, it’s like a reminder... that I’m dead, that I’m a man who has already died.”

At once Avenger understood: Caster was referring to the other Voldemort.

“Looking at him... it’s like seeing every oversight I’ve ever made. But at the same time... there are those mistakes yet to happen, those that can still be changed. So many--everything I wish I could alter hasn’t even occurred yet.”

Avenger lowered his gaze.

Then he looked up and waved his hand, seemingly changing the subject: “I never imagined I'd see the day you'd protect a Muggle.”

Caster shot him a cold glance: “It's necessary for victory.”

Avenger nodded knowingly. “Right--your Master’s the sort of burden you just can’t shake off.”

Then, in a few strides, he closed in on Caster: “So, answer this for me. Why didn't you kill her? You knew you could, didn't you? Now that you know the remaining Master-Servant pairs.”

Avenger watched Caster, observing his cold, unresponsive face, and once more, that same, inexplicable tenderness stirred within him.

This Saint Graph/Spiritual Foundation of Caster’s, Avenger thought. Within this complete soul of his--part of it would always, always belong to Harry Potter. It would remain there, eternally present.

Avenger drew back, letting him go. “You know, I’m beginning to think, even if she weren’t the reincarnation of Morgan le Fay, you would still have answered her call.” Before Caster could retort, he added lightly, “Care for a walk somewhere else?”

They wandered along the third-floor corridor. With all the students gathered in the Great Hall below, this spot felt rather deserted. The early spring wind carried a chill in the night air, though such things made no difference to Heroic Spirits.

“So... your mission is that again,” Caster said thoughtfully, “to die?”

“Maybe. Who knows?” Avenger replied casually. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

Caster lowered his eyes. “I see.”

Avenger broke into a sudden run, a grin tugging at his face. “While we’re here--shall we have a peek in the Trophy Room? Special Award for Services to the School, Mr. Head Boy?” He poked his head through the door.

“Harry Potter…” Caster drawled lazily, “why don’t you mention that time you almost got caught here, after you took Draco’s challenge to a duel and broke school rules? Besides... if I recall correctly, your trophy for the very same award is in there too.”

Avenger chuckled, pulling his head back. Just as he was about to reply, he suddenly raised his hand and waved behind Caster. “Oi!”

On the other side of the corridor, Harry was descending the stairs with Ron and Hermione. At the sight of his other self waving, he said something quickly to his friends and jogged over. When his eyes fell on Caster, he faltered, a hint of awkwardness flitting across his face.

“Hullo,” Harry said at last, stiffly.

“Where are you off to?” Avenger asked in a friendly tone.

“Er--well...” Harry's gaze drifted towards Caster.

“He’s going to find the other me,” Caster said, with a meaningful glance at Avenger, “and persuade him to join their little crusade to save the world.”

“…Didn’t sound half so mad in my head,” Harry muttered.

“Give me a drop of your blood,” Caster ordered.

“Why?” Harry asked, though seeing Avenger make no objection, he pricked his finger and handed it over.

“To keep him from doing something he’ll regret.” The blood glowed gold in Caster's hand, then transformed into a golden thread, weaving itself into the pattern of a Celtic knot.

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“It means—” Avenger stepped forward and tapped the scar on Harry’s forehead, “there’s a piece of him in here.”

“What?!”

“How far have you got with Dumbledore’s lessons?” Avenger asked lightly. “Has he gotten to the part about Horcruxes yet?”

“Yes--no.” Harry shook his head. “I mean, not while he was here, but the things he left behind covered that.”

Avenger nodded with satisfaction. “Then there you have it. You're Number Seven.”

Meanwhile, Caster had finished the talisman and handed it to Harry.

Harry seemed hesitant, unsure what consequences might follow if he accepted it. Avenger plucked the charm from Caster's hand and fastened it to Harry's collar.

“Right then, off you go!” Avenger waved him away as if shooing a small animal.

“Try the Astronomy Tower first,” Caster suggested. “He might be there.”

Avenger watched Harry Potter stagger off, dazed. And for the first time since his summoning, he laughed. Truly laughed.