Harry Potter: Blood Raven

Thea Queen caught sight of Diggle cutting across the polished marble like he owned the place — or like he planned to shut it down. Her smirk faded into a glare before he even reached her.

"Oh, perfect," she muttered, setting down her champagne flute with exaggerated care. "Security detail incoming. What's the matter, Mom get bored of micro-managing my wardrobe and decided to outsource the attitude?"

Diggle didn't stop walking. "Not here to argue with you, Thea. Just here to collect."

"I'm not a drunk stray cat," she snapped, stepping away from the bar, dress shimmering like midnight. "You don't get to collect me."

"You keep acting like a drunk stray cat," Diggle said coolly, "I might start carrying a leash."

She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't sprain something. "God, does anyone in this family know how to not be dramatic?"

Before he could answer, Moira appeared like frost on a window — silent, sharp, impossibly composed.

"Thea," she said, voice wrapped in velvet and threat. "Put the drink down."

"I'm not drunk," Thea shot back.

"You're not twenty-one," Moira said, already plucking the flute from her hand. "And that dress is about five seconds away from making you a gossip blog headline."

Thea scoffed. "Wow. Nice to know I still rank behind your public image."

Walter Steele joined them then, calm and elegant as ever, the very image of a man who probably had a concealed weapon in his cufflinks and still found time to match his pocket square.

"Well," he said, eyeing the tension like a teacher walking into a classroom mid-fight, "this looks fun."

Moira gave him a tight smile. "It's not."

Walter's brow ticked. "Ah. Then I suppose now is when something inconvenient happens?"

CRACK.

The gunshot sliced through the gala like a scalpel — clean, surgical, deadly. A millisecond later, the skylight above shattered, glass cascading in lethal confetti.

Screams tore through the room as people scrambled — stilettos clattering, chairs toppling, masks of composure dissolving into full-blown panic.

Diggle moved first. Fast.

He tackled Moira and Thea to the ground, covering them with his body as shards sliced through the air. Walter dropped beside them, pulling Thea against him just as another shot rang out.

Oliver arrived a heartbeat later, crouching low behind a toppled table.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked, eyes already scanning.

Moira straightened like nothing had happened — brushing glass from her shoulder like lint. "Aside from being nearly perforated by a lunatic with a rifle? Perfectly fine."

Thea sat up, wild-eyed but defiant. "My shoes are ruined," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "Also, WHAT THE HELL?!"

Walter put a steady hand on her back. "Deep breaths, darling. He's not aiming for you."

"Feel so reassured," Thea muttered.

Oliver's jaw flexed. He glanced toward the skylight, toward the structure across the street where he'd seen the flash.

"Dig," he said, voice low, tight. "Get them out of here. Now."

Diggle turned to him, firm. "You're the principal. I don't leave the principal."

"I'm not asking," Oliver growled. "Get them out. You know the protocol."

"You don't pay me to like it," Diggle said. "Three minutes."

"That's all I need."

Oliver stood, crouching behind the nearest column, then vanished into the shadows like smoke. One second there, the next — gone.

Thea stared after him, still trembling. "Where the hell is he going?"

Moira didn't answer, but her eyes narrowed. She knew something. Not the whole story — but enough to make her fingers tighten on her clutch.

Walter helped her to her feet with the same grace he'd use at a ballroom dance. "Time to go," he said, calm but urgent. "Before the next bullet lands."

"Fine," Thea muttered, pulling glass out of her dress. "Let's go. Can't wait to get blamed for this too."

Diggle opened a side door marked SECURITY and waved them through.

"Stay close," he said. "Don't talk. Don't stop."

Behind them, the gala had erupted into full-blown chaos — overturned tables, bleeding guests, security yelling over radios. And no one could find Oliver Queen.

Because Oliver Queen was already gone.

—

Moments Later

Floyd Lawton exhaled like it was an art form.

Long. Measured. Focused.

The city below was chaos — security yelling into radios, sirens starting to wail, guests still fleeing the shattered Exchange Building like fish from a broken bowl. But up here? It was quiet.

Lawton adjusted the scope with surgical ease, fingers brushing the trigger like it was an old friend. He smiled. The third shot was always the charm.

Until—

"You're not getting a third one," came a voice behind him.

Floyd froze — just for a heartbeat. Then pivoted with assassin speed, already reaching for the Glock on his hip.

Thunk.

The arrow slammed into the concrete pillar beside his face. Dead-center warning shot.

He blinked at it. Then turned.

Out of the shadows came the Arrow — hood drawn, eyes gleaming beneath the green. His bow was already drawn, another arrow trained on Floyd's chest.

"This ends now," Oliver growled.

Floyd raised both eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "Damn. You are fast."

Oliver didn't blink. "You killed five people tonight, Lawton."

Floyd shrugged. "Six, technically. One guy bled out on a dessert tray. That counts, right?"

"Put the gun down," Oliver said. "You're not walking away from this."

Floyd chuckled, casual. "Oh, you think you're the main character? Cute. See, I'm not the villain. I'm just the contractor. I punch the clock, I take the shot, I cash the check. Someone in that gala pissed off the wrong people — not my job to ask why."

The Arrow took a slow, precise step forward. "I already know who hired you. He's already headed to prison. Time to end this."

Floyd's grin sharpened. "Man, you are serious. That scowl got a setting above 'brooding'? Didn't know that was possible."

Oliver loosed another arrow — this one aimed at the gun in Floyd's hand. It knocked it clean out of his grip with a metallic clang that echoed across the rooftop.

Floyd didn't flinch. "Okay. That was sexy. Gotta admit."

Then he lunged.

A flash of motion — and suddenly, it was all fists and elbows. The bow clattered to the ground. Floyd grabbed a collapsible baton from his belt and swung. Oliver blocked with his bracer, countered with a knee to Floyd's ribs, and spun into a low sweep.

Floyd went down — rolled — came up swinging. "You sure you're not ex-military?" he asked, breathless. "You fight like one."

Oliver didn't answer. He threw a punch that cracked across Floyd's jaw.

Floyd stumbled back, spat blood, and laughed.

Oliver ducked a wild swing, grabbed Floyd by the collar, and slammed him into the concrete wall.

Floyd's head snapped back. "Okay, ow," he muttered, blinking stars from his eyes. "Can we just—negotiation break? My dental plan doesn't cover vigilantes."

"You don't get to negotiate," Oliver snapped, driving a punch into his ribs. "You ambushed a gala full of civilians."

"Please," Floyd coughed. "Like those bigwigs haven't pissed off half this city already. I was just delivering karma. High-velocity karma."

Oliver stepped back, breathing hard — and in that moment, Floyd reached for a hidden pistol in his boot.

Bang.

The shot grazed Oliver's shoulder — he grunted, stumbled sideways, fury lighting up his eyes.

But it was enough. Enough time for Floyd to grab his sniper rifle and bring it up again — fast, practiced, lethal.

Oliver spun, dropped to one knee, nocked, and fired.

Thunk.

The arrow hit dead center — right through the scope.

The glass shattered inward, exploding in Floyd's eye.

He screamed, staggered back, and collapsed, motionless.

Oliver stood over him, panting, blood seeping from his arm.

And then — Bang.

Another shot. Wild. Uncontrolled.

He turned just in time to see someone stagger out from behind a pillar.

Not Floyd. Diggle.

The bullet had hit him high in the side — crimson already blooming across his suit jacket.

"Diggle!" Oliver was there in an instant, catching him before he hit the concrete.

Diggle groaned, struggling to stay upright. "Damn... knew you were hiding something, but I didn't think you were this kind of stupid."

Oliver's mouth opened, then closed. "You followed me."

Diggle winced. "Yeah. And now I've got a bullet to show for it. Great job, boss."

"Stay with me." Oliver ripped off a piece of his sleeve, pressing it to the wound. "You're going to be fine."

Diggle gritted his teeth. "First rule of bodyguarding? Don't let the billionaire do all the shooting."

Oliver looked at the rooftop — at Floyd's body. At the chaos he hadn't fully contained. "I had it under control."

Diggle managed a pained chuckle. "Sure. You always say that. Just once I want it to be true."

Then his eyes rolled back.

"Diggle!" Oliver snapped, slapping his face gently. "Stay with me. That's an order!"

Sirens blared in the distance — real ones, this time.

Oliver looked down at his bleeding friend, then back at Floyd — unmoving, glass shards in his skull.

Too late for answers. Too late for apologies.

But just in time for consequences.

—

The Glades – Beneath Verdant Nightclub — The Foundry

Oliver slammed through the rusted side door of the abandoned Queen Consolidated mill, grunting beneath Diggle's dead weight. Blood trailed behind them in erratic smears.

The keypad blinked green as he slammed his palm against it. Mechanical gears hissed as a hidden elevator slid open.

"Hang on, Dig. Just hold on."

The descent was brutal. Oliver held Diggle upright, muttering under his breath, eyes flicking to the spreading purple veins near the bullet wound.

Curare.

He knew that poison. Lawton didn't miss—unless he wanted to leave a message.

The elevator groaned to a halt. Oliver dragged Diggle out and onto the surgical table, green-tinted lights flickering above them.

His gloves were on in seconds. Tools clattered onto the tray. Gauze. Forceps. The cauterizer. All muscle memory now.

"You stupid, loyal bastard," he muttered, slicing open the ruined tactical vest. "You weren't supposed to follow me."

The bullet was lodged shallow, but the poison had already crept through the veins like ink in water.

Oliver ripped open a drawer behind him and yanked out the satchel. Roots. Leaves. The raw, bitter scent of Lian Yu filled the Foundry. He crushed them quickly, his fingers flying over the mortar like he was racing the devil.

Two drops of a thick, burnt-brown elixir. A quick stir. A syringe.

He turned back. Drove the needle into Diggle's shoulder.

One beat. Nothing.

Two.

Then Diggle's body spasmed.

Oliver pressed gauze to the wound and dug in with the forceps. Blood welled, hot and thick, but the bullet came free with a slick clink.

He cauterized the wound. Diggle groaned, his jaw twitching. Still unconscious.

"That's right," Oliver muttered, peeling off his gloves. "You're not quitting on me now."

He turned to the monitors. Security footage rolled over the ballroom, the rooftop. Fire escapes.

No body.

Oliver's eyes narrowed.

—

Rooftop Across the Exchange

Floyd Lawton staggered against the ledge, his gloved hand pressed over what used to be his right eye.

The world was spinning. Blood streamed through his fingers, hot and sticky. He was breathing like a busted engine.

"Damn. That boy's got a mean draw," he grunted.

An arrow still jutted from the concrete a foot away—a message. A warning shot.

He fumbled with his rappel gear, clipping in with shaking hands.

"Note to self," he muttered, voice slurred, "don't monologue at archers. Especially the homicidal types."

The line zipped him down three stories. He landed rough, his knees buckling. But he was moving.

He pulled a burner from his belt and hissed into it.

"Fallback. Initiate ghost protocol. The hit was clean. Almost."

The line went dead. Sirens howled blocks away.

He vanished into the alley like smoke.

Blind in one eye. Furious in the other.

—

Back in the Foundry

Oliver sat beside the table, eyes locked on Diggle's chest as it rose and fell.

Alive.

He rolled his shoulders, the adrenaline crash hitting like a truck. He stood, walked to the workbench, and stared down at the green hood.

He hadn't meant for Diggle to see this life.

He sure as hell hadn't meant for him to bleed for it.

But the choice had been made.

"You're in it now," Oliver said quietly, brushing his fingers across the fabric. "So am I."

And across the ocean, with Harry, Hermione, and Daphne battling something far worse than hitmen in tuxedos, Oliver Queen finally had someone left in his corner.

Even if he almost lost him.

—

Meanwhile — Back in England — Fleur's Workshop – The Viewing Room

The room felt alive, humming with old magic and new purpose. Mirrors floated on invisible threads, catching every flicker of enchanted light and reflecting not vanity, but steel-forged destiny. The air smelled of cedar, burnished leather, and a faint trace of dragonfire — a scent so fierce it nearly whispered bataille.

Fleur stood poised in the center, a vision of controlled chaos: golden hair pulled back just enough to expose the sharp planes of her face, eyes glinting like sapphires in a storm. Her fingers were dusted with chalk, and a silver needle glimmered at her collarbone like a talisman. "Mes chéris," she purred, her French-accented English soft but sharp as a blade, "the time is arrivé."

Susan Bones, arms crossed, looked every bit the battle-hardened force: copper braid tight against her neck, freckles dusted like battle scars, the weight of unspoken battles settled behind her eyes. Neville, meanwhile, shifted awkwardly, sleeves rolled up to reveal glowing green tattoos swirling like ancient forests come alive — a walking myth, if ever there was one.

Harry lingered in the shadows above, cloaked but impossible to miss with those piercing emerald eyes — sharp as a hawk's, cool as the English rain. His gaze flicked between Daphne and Susan, catching the way Daphne's lips curved with sly amusement as she watched Fleur.

Daphne Greengrass, ever the picture of lethal elegance, leaned casually against the wall. Black leather pants, blouse sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that promised poetry or poison depending on her mood — right now, she was savoring the show. "Show me the magic, Fleur," she said, voice smooth with that Sydney Sweeney chill.

Fleur smiled, a slow, deliberate curve that said this is the moment. With a flick of her wand, the enchanted mirrors rippled like water, and two mannequins stepped forward, cloaked in shadow and light.

"This is not simply armor," Fleur began, her voice thick with reverence and promise. "It is your soul forged into steel, your story written in magic."

She gestured toward the first figure.

"This one... is for Morrigan." The figure shimmered, revealing the sleek, black bodysuit beneath the matte plates of Ukrainian Ironbelly dragonhide. The underarmor sparkled faintly — Acromantula silk, spun so fine it seemed to dance in the light. Crimson runes, sharp and sinuous, streaked across the chest and arms — ancient Garlic wards woven with fury and protection, like warpaint smeared in blood.

The hood was a shadow's kiss, the half-mask matte black with jagged red streaks—painted by an unseen hand, raw and brutal.

Susan stepped forward, running a finger along the crimson arc on the gauntlet. "I'll look like a prophecy with teeth," she said, voice low and amused.

Fleur's eyes glinted. "You are the prophecy, ma chère. One that bites back."

From the shadows above, Harry's smirk was audible only to those paying close attention.

Daphne quipped, "You will scare the Death Eaters into early retirement."

Susan shot a dry glance at Daphne. "Someone's jealous they don't get the 'bite back' bit."

"Oh please," Daphne tossed back, "I have poison and a sharper smile. Watch and learn."

Harry chuckled, stepping into the light with an easy swagger. "Bite back, huh? Sounds a lot like you're promising to bite me out of mischief."

Daphne's eyes flicked to him, emerald meeting emerald, a slow smile curling her lips. "Only if you're cheeky enough to deserve it, Potter."

Harry's grin deepened. "Cheeky's my middle name. Actually, it's James, but cheeky fits better."

Susan rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at her mouth. "You two are like a badly written romance novel with better spells."

Neville cleared his throat, and Fleur turned toward the second mannequin.

"This is for you, Neville." The armor here was something altogether older, wilder: shades of ashy green and bark-brown melded into plates that looked less forged and more grown. The Acromantula silk underlayer shimmered faintly with living vine patterns that seemed to pulse with life.

Faint runes—Druidic, ancient, almost invisible—etched themselves like whispers into the armor, only visible under moonlight or invocation.

The hood was military green, rugged and trimmed with soft fur. The mask looked like bark and steel fused, with pale green lenses glowing softly — a symphony of enchantments allowing thermal vision, spell detection, and more.

"Your armor listens," Fleur said quietly, "it remembers. It is the earth itself, and you its voice."

Neville's voice was thick with awe. "It's... beautiful."

Harry, unable to resist, raised a brow. "Looks like you're ready to tell trees to fuck off if they get too nosy."

Neville shot a grin back. "Better watch it, Potter. This armor's going to have you hugging trees in no time."

Daphne laughed softly, sidling closer to Harry. "If he starts chanting to trees, you'll know he's finally snapped."

Harry's eyes flicked between them both, teasing. "Well, Daphne, I'm still waiting for my invite to this exclusive tree-hugging club."

She smiled, low and wicked. "Patience, darling. Even the deadliest queens need their coronation."

Susan stepped forward, hood slipping over her braid. "So... do I get to keep the half-mask? Because muffling my voice during meetings sounds like a godsend."

Fleur's smile turned wicked. "It can do more than that. Amplify, silence, or curse. Imagine whispering a paralysis spell in a room full of enemies."

Neville raised his hands. "Wait—mine can't do that?"

Fleur shook her head. "Yours commands the old magic of the forest. Trees obey. The earth listens. You don't need curses when you have nature itself at your side."

Susan smirked. "Great. I'll be the lethal curse, he'll be the walking forest. Balanced team."

Harry folded his arms, cocking a brow. "I'm just here waiting for the part where I get to look really heroic in shiny armor."

Daphne's smile was a slow burn. "Darling, you are the reason we're fighting. And you look terrifying without any armor at all."

Harry's emerald eyes met hers. "You planning on protecting me or just distracting me?"

"Both," she said, voice dropping an octave, "and maybe a little bit of torment for sport."

Susan shook her head, laughing. "Honestly, you two are going to get us all killed before the battle even starts."

Neville gave a half grin. "Better to die laughing than terrified."

Fleur raised her wand, voice ringing out like a bell. "You wear these not as shields, but as oaths. Protect each other, fight together, and return—not just in body, but in spirit."

Susan nodded, pulling the hood over her braid, voice steady. "A promise."

Neville's eyes sparkled under the green lenses. "We don't go quietly."

Harry's grin was pure mischief as he looked up at Daphne. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

Daphne's eyes darkened with challenge. "Then show me what you've got, Potter."

From the rafters, Hermione watched quietly, quill in hand. Her smile was faint but certain—hope carved in the quiet moments between chaos.

The future wasn't just a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled anymore.

It was theirs.

—

The Castle Vladovich – Inner Sanctum, Two Days Before Aberystwyth

The torches burned blue in Castle Vladovich. Always blue. No warmth. No comfort. Just flames that crackled like whispered threats and shadows that stretched like claws across the black stone walls — as though the past itself were trying to crawl free and make one last grab for the future.

Delphini Riddle stood at the basin of Nâgavastu, brushing silver ash from the hem of her robe. It clung to her like regret — persistent, ghostly, and impossible to wash out. Her reflection stared back at her from the potion mirror: pale skin, grey eyes like fractured gemstones, and a dark braid snaking down her back in tight coils. It looked like a leash.

She smirked at it.

"I don't do leashes anymore," she muttered, and counted backward in Parseltongue.

"Sssheth… dvu… ekhat. He will not have me."

Behind her, the obsidian pillars hissed their usual nonsense. The serpents carved into the black stone walls writhed in enchantment, forever whispering the same chant like it was still edgy:

"Blood of Riddle, blood of fire, the Dark Lord shall rise again."

"Oh, please," Delphini groaned, and threw up her hands. "You've been hissing the same line since before I had eyebrows. Try a remix. Add a bridge."

Footsteps echoed behind her — light, deliberate, and too elegant to be threatening.

She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"Your sarcasm," came a low, velvet voice laced with a Romanian accent thick enough to bottle, "is wasted on dead stone and madmen, dragă mea. But I admire the commitment. Bravo."

Delphi turned, smiling thinly. "I'm practicing. Big betrayal coming up. Need to make sure I hit my marks."

Anastasia Vladovich raised a sculpted brow. She looked like mourning given form — tall, angular, swathed in dark blue silks embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like serpents mid-slither. Her presence was part funeral, part opera, and all menace.

"Bine. Good. Make it operatic," Anastasia said. "If you're going to be hunted, make it art."

Delphi gave her a mock-curtsy. "Already rehearsing my death glare. Thinking something between haunted and fashionably done with everyone's crap."

"You wear it well."

"I try."

Anastasia stepped forward, producing a vial from the sleeve of her robes. It gleamed silver-blue — too bright, too unnatural, like moonlight caught in a lie.

"Drink this. It will mask your magical trail. Temporarily."

Delphi eyed it suspiciously. "And if I just pour it into the fire and leg it? Preferably screaming?"

"You'll last an hour. Two if you don't stop to snog anyone goodbye."

Delphi popped the cap and sniffed. "Smells like regret and menthol. Great."

"You've swallowed worse."

"Usually during family dinners."

She downed it in one sharp gulp. The burn was immediate — searing heat followed by a cold bloom in her chest, like swallowing fire and frost all at once. She hissed through her teeth.

"Delicious," she rasped. "Do you serve that with biscuits, or just trauma?"

"Just trauma," Anastasia said, amused. "Cu multă plăcere."

Delphi wiped her mouth. "How long do I have?"

Anastasia's face, which rarely betrayed emotion, grew stiller. "Two days. The Circle opens the crypt at dawn. The Stone will be charged. The blade will be ready."

Delphi's expression curdled.

"He doesn't deserve resurrection," she said, voice low.

"No," Anastasia agreed softly. "He never did."

Delphi turned fully to face her. The blue torchlight carved fierce angles into her cheekbones. "Then help me stop it."

A beat of silence. Not cold. Just ancient.

Anastasia didn't answer right away — because words, in Castle Vladovich, could be dangerous things. They echoed. They lingered. They remembered.

Then, finally:

"I am old, copila mea," Anastasia murmured. "Old enough to know that belief kills more efficiently than any wand. And far more creatively."

Delphi stepped forward, eyes hard. "I'm not asking you to duel a prophecy, Ana. I'm asking you to open a door."

Another pause.

Then Anastasia gave her a long, assessing look — the kind of look that weighed blood and loyalty and future betrayals like scales in an old wizard's shop.

"You will not go to Aberystwyth as Delphini Riddle," she said finally. "You will go as bait. But you will leave as something else."

Delphi tilted her head. "Something like...?"

"Alive," Anastasia said. "Preferably. But anything is better than a relic."

She reached into her sleeve again and this time pulled a folded parchment, sealed with silver wax.

"I have marked a passage in the catacombs," she said. "The old route of the Basilisk Slayers — from the Rebellion of Ograda. It leads through the bone caverns and out beneath the Carpathians. Not even the Circle remembers it."

Delphi blinked. "You're not joking."

Anastasia's lips curled faintly. "I don't joke, copila. It's bad for the spine."

Delphi took the map and stared at it. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"So. What do I pack for a fake-sacrifice-but-secret-escape with light betrayal on the side?"

"Only what you cannot replace. Wand. Spellknives. The cloak of Nocturne's Shadow. Nothing sentimental."

Delphi grinned, baring teeth. "Too late. I'm deeply attached to my sarcasm."

"Then guard it well," Anastasia said, stepping back into the shadows. "And leave the name behind."

Delphi hesitated. "And the prophecy?"

Anastasia's eyes flicked to hers — dark, infinite.

"Să putrezească. Let it rot."

—

Delphini's Quarters – That Night

The room was heavy with shadows and stale incense, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Delphini sat cross-legged on the cold floor, packing her few precious belongings with the precision of someone rehearsing for a role she never wanted.

Her wand lay first — slender, vine wood, its core a single strand of thestral hair. Finicky, temperamental, and always whispering secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

"We could end this. Right now."

Delphi caught the faint hiss of the thought as if the wand spoke in a language only she understood. She ignored it.

Next, a spellknife. Silver-lined obsidian, jagged and cold, enchanted sharp enough to slice through wards, walls, and bones alike. She traced her fingers over the blade's edge.

"Good for cutting through bullshit," she muttered.

Her hand found the pendant next — a chunk of black tourmaline set in a battered silver frame. Anastasia had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday, with a dry smile and eyes like distant storms.

"For protection from fools," she'd said.

Delphi slipped the pendant around her neck, feeling its weight settle like a promise.

The cloak came last — dragonhide outside, lined with basilisk scales inside. It was built to resist curses, charms, and all the nasty little traps the Circle liked to set. Except one.

Guilt.

She wrapped it around herself, the scales faintly humming against her skin.

Her gaze drifted to the wooden box on her nightstand.

Inside, a photo. Old, cracked, the edges curled and yellowed like a forgotten secret.

A baby with eyes like hers — cold, grey, and unyielding.

A mother whose wild hair and fierce gaze seemed to carry the storm before the thunder — Bellatrix Lestrange. Mad. Beautiful. Broken.

Delphini held the photo carefully, almost reverent.

"I'm not you," she whispered, voice sharp and steady, like a blade cutting through memory.

She pulled out a match, struck it, and held the flame beneath the fragile paper.

The photo curled, blackened.

The flames flickered, hissing softly, as if understanding her words.

"He is not your ending."

The fire swallowed the last trace of the past.

Delphi exhaled, the sound steady but fierce.

"No more ghosts."

—

Later — The Crypt of Coiled Tongues

They would gather here. All of them. The Circle, the Priests, the Flamebearers—robes heavy with venom stains, chanting in the ancient, sibilant tongue of serpents. The Stone. The Knife. Her blood, held trembling in a silver bowl like a dam about to break.

Delphini stood in the center of the crypt now, alone. The silence screamed at her, a deafening chorus of dread and inevitability.

She folded her arms, lips curling into a crooked grin.

"I swear, if this whole place wasn't so damn creepy," she muttered, "I'd almost believe the prophecy was a bad joke. Like, really bad."

She knelt, fingers brushing the cold stone where the silver bowl would soon sit. "I'll burn this place to ash before I let that walking disaster get a second chance."

A dry laugh, bitter and quick, escaped her.

"Let the world choke on a different prophecy. Maybe one with less... Voldemort and more, I don't know, pizza and puppies."

From the shadows came a soft, familiar voice — smooth and dark as spilled ink.

"Then we run."

Delphi whipped her head toward the archway, eyes flashing with startled relief.

Anastasia stepped forward, draped in midnight silks that swallowed the torchlight whole, a satchel swinging from one slender wrist. Her voice was low, the thick Romanian accent curling around each word like smoke.

"Nu time for your one-woman arson show, copila."

Delphi smirked, pushing up her sleeves.

"Can't promise I won't torch your favorite haunted castle on the way out. You coming or what?"

Anastasia's smile was slow, deadly.

"In this bag," she said, lifting the satchel and letting the contents spill slightly—a glint of forged portkeys, a stolen Gringotts key that shimmered with enchantment, a single vial of phoenix tears glowing faintly, and a clockwork serpent, its tiny eyes flickering with ancient magic.

"Everything for a quick vanish."

Delphi's gaze flicked from the satchel to Anastasia's eyes.

"No priestess and sacrifice nonsense anymore, huh?"

"No," Anastasia said, voice low but certain. "We are... parteneri now. Co-conspirators in mischief and survival."

Delphi laughed softly.

"About time. I was getting tired of playing the 'scared girl' role."

Anastasia's eyes glittered like cold steel.

"Good. Because after Aberystwyth, nimic will be the same. And neither will you."

Delphi reached out, grabbing the satchel with a grin.

"Well, if I'm going down, I'm taking the fight with me."

Anastasia nodded once.

"Then let us be ghosts in their story."

Together, they melted into the shadows, two shadows tangled in a dangerous dance — no longer captive and captor, but something far more dangerous: allies.

—

War was coming.

Aberystwyth would burn.

But Delphini Riddle would not be a vessel for a tyrant's return.

She would be her own ending.

Or maybe… her beginning.

---

Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!