Ascension 47 (Patreon)

Time flew after the Duel, as Hogwarts had taken to calling it.

The famed match between Professor Lockhart and Professor Snape had become a topic of national discussion, even. Recordings of the exhibition had sold for thousands of galleons, and rumour was that Lockhart had offered to share a part of them with Snape, but the man had declined the offer.

Then came the other half of that night, the students chosen to represent Hogwarts, and by extension, Magical Britain in the Wand of Ares championship. Harry sighed as he swayed past a water balloon, and Peeve’s cackles echoed around him. Shooting a look from where the shot had been taken, he walked past the winding snakes into the common room.

Ignoring the looks and whispers aimed at him, he walked past Rookwood’s group, and flicked his wand, raising a shield to stop a crimson paintball from striking his face. Honestly, one would have thought these people would stop with the pranks after so many days. Gryffindor Spawn, that was the newest insult coined for him and his sister. Well, not the newest, but it certainly was being used the most right now. Evidently, Draco had not taken a liking to the fact that two half-bloods had been chosen over him.

“Hey, Potter,” Nott interrupted his thought, appearing at his side and looking at the suspended balloon, “What are you doing with that?”

“Thinking,” Harry muttered, looking past the balloon at Parkinson’s smirking face as she gave him a side-eye, continuing her talk with Bullstrode.

“Bout what?” Nott followed his eyes, and then sighed, “Well, subtlety was never her strong suit.”

“Neither is it yours,” Harry muttered and vanished it, deciding to let it be for now.

“Says the guy who decided to invade my thoughts in broad daylight,” there was a bite in Nott’s voice, though Harry paid it no mind. Conversations between them nowadays were terse like that, though neither of them really had any animosity for each other—at least Harry didn’t. Nott had never really explained himself, but from what Harry had been able to gauge, it was more a case of Nott having some enmity with Malfoy, so he had found a…common point with him.

“-en are they going to lift the curfew? It's been months since the last attack,” someone’s voice drifted across his ears, and Harry turned, watching a couple of fourth years walk past the fireplace, tossing the first years a pack of candy, “It is April now, for fucks sake, I am dying to walk the castle at night without the teachers patrolling them.”

“I think they have caught whoever the Heir was, they are just not advertising it so that they can keep us locked in,” the girl muttered, “that’s what father used to do with Marcus and me when we were children.”

“Where is your sister and Greengrass?” Nott asked, looking back at the girls, “they are not exempted from the curfew, are they?”

“None of my business, I believe their words were,” Harry shrugged, “besides, Daphne has been more irritable for two to three days, so I did not argue anymore.”

“Yeah, the mandragoras are not maturing according to the timeline, are they?” Nott sighed, “Poor Davis.”

He just kept silent in response. That had been tough news to bear, that the mandragoras were not going to develop on schedule, because the ambient magic in the surroundings was not good, as per Professor Sprout’s testimony before the Board of Directors. He and Persephone had shared a look at that when Daphne had told them about it, but ultimately, they had decided to keep Scylla’s existence and words to themselves, just as they had by the lake.

That was a conversation they were no—did not want to have right now.

Tracey’s condition had worsened steadily, black veins spreading out over her neck, and her skin paling more and more by the week as the treatment was delayed. He had seen the effort Madam Pomphrey, even the doctors contacted by the Greengrasses had made, but nothing had worked against whatever magic was corrupting her.

“Night, Potter,” Nott called as they reached their dorms, and the taller boy walked into the washroom, “Try to sleep early, you are going to look like an inferi otherwise with those sunken eyes.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry sighed, looking down at the floor, before his eyes shifted to his table, where a photograph of the four of them sat, and his eyes lingered on Tracey’s smile, “will try.”

The letter arrived between the toast and the coffee as Sgàile appeared out of the plate’s shadow. Ignoring the way Nott jumped out of his seat, Harry watched Persephone lean over. Giving a couple of scratches to Sgàile, he looked over her shoulder as the parchment was unrolled. Their eyes moved together, taking in each clean, cursive stroke as Arcturus’s voice rang in their heads.

Harry, Persephone,

The inquiry into the Nurmengard mark has yielded nothing of substance. The Persian ambassador has been cooperative in name only, and the mercenary Ziba's testimony has not been corroborated by any records held by the ICW, the German Ministry, or the wardens of Nurmengard itself. Three separate investigations have been opened and closed in the last eight weeks, with nothing to show for them but ink and wasted hours.

Dumbledore and I have agreed that a direct inspection of Nurmengard is warranted after all this. We will be departing within the week, accompanied by Minister Fudge and a small delegation of DMLE. I expect to be absent for a period of ten to fourteen days. Cassiopeia will remain available to you should any matter of urgency arise, and Artemis has been notified similarly.

In the meantime, continue your training with Professors Snape and Lockhart. They both have reached out to me with your combat reports and readiness, and they have been made aware of the arrangements for the competition. Do not neglect your studies for the sake of your wands.

Your grandfather, Arcturus

"Bad news?" Daphne asked from across the table, watching them closely, and Harry schooled his face, shaking his head negatively.

"Arcturus is travelling," he said, keeping his voice even and low. "Some House Black business."

Daphne's fork paused for a fraction of a second, and Harry saw the realization in her eyes that he was lying—only, she continued smoothly with her food and the conversation both, eyes flicking between them.

"You both have training today?”

“Yes,” Persephone answered, nodding towards the Head Table, “I am with Snape, and Harry is with Lockhart.”

“All the best.”

The training room beneath the dungeons had been warded for the occasion—silencing charms layered thick enough that a cannon blast would not escape, cushioning enchantments on the stone walls, and a duelling circle etched into the floor with runes that glowed a faint blue in the torchlight. It was not the Great Hall stage where Lockhart and Snape had put on their exhibition with whirling fiery tornadoes and spells fast enough to blind most. 

It was smaller, colder, and entirely without an audience.

Which, Persephone suspected, was exactly how Snape preferred it over the raucous of the Great Hall.

The Potions Master stood at the far end of the circle, wand held loosely at his side, black robes motionless in the still air. His expression was its default—a mask of controlled disdain that revealed nothing but his dislike for ‘neanderthals’. Harry stood to her left, stretching his wand arm, and Neville was on her right, rolling his shoulders with the quiet focus she had come to associate with the boy since the holidays.

Lockhart was absent today. Something about a date with Vector—Harry had caught that through a note from the eccentric wizard—leaving Snape and Flitwick as their instructors for the day. The Charms professor had been present for the first two sessions but had begged off this one, citing a Ravenclaw disciplinary matter that apparently required his personal attention.

Thus, all three of them were currently getting tutored by the Potions Professor cum ex-Death Eater.

"Today," Snape began, his voice carrying without effort in the confined space, as he continued, "we will work on spell-chains under pressure. You will cast in sequence—shield, counter, attack—without pause between transitions. The objective is not power—it is flow. If you hesitate to think of a spell or need to reposition your wand arm mid-casting, you will be defeated by any competent dueler. Do not make the mistake of thinking these mocks against your peers mean anything. Wand of Ares will have duelers who are the best in their academies."

Snape paused for a moment and then looked at Neville first. "Longbottom, your speed needs improvement, and you could do well to learn how to move from Potter here—the male one."

Neville nodded without flinching, and Persephone watched the boys exchange a look as Snape turned for a moment, eyeing the cauldron set at the back of the room. Apparently, they were in no danger of getting sunflowers on their heads again, as the wizard turned around, and Snape's eyes moved to Harry. "Potter...Your chains are technically proficient but predictable. You default to shield-redirect-counter. Every opponent you face from this point forward will know that sequence within two exchanges. Vary it or lose...though, you know that well enough already if the sorting hat did its job correctly."

Harry inclined his head, accepting the criticism with the flat composure Arcturus had drilled into him.

Then Snape turned to her.

And hesitated.

It was barely there—a flicker, a half-breath's pause before the words came—but Persephone had spent her childhood reading the micro-expressions of adults who might hurt her, and she caught it like she had caught the smell of alcohol on Marge’s and Vernon’s breaths.

"Miss Potter." His voice was the same, and so was his posture, but his eyes—for one instant, it seemed as if he had controlled something from escaping his mouth, as he seemed to draw upon himself…and then it was gone, and Snape was Snape again.

"You are wasting too much on movement and forcing more power in spells than needed," he said, “Your initial attacks should be to probe for weaknesses and strengths, not an all-out annihilation attempt that can backfire with one placed shield or counter. Do not be committed to a complete offensive ever, even when you are sure of your victory.”

"Yes, Professor."

He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, and something in his expression shifted—then he turned away, robes cutting the air, and took his position at the centre of the circle.

"Longbottom. You are first. Defend yourself."

Neville stepped forward, wand raised, and Snape's first curse crossed the circle before he had even finished settling his stance. Neville caught it on a shield—and the exchange began. Snape cast with that same clinical efficiency she had seen in the exhibition, each spell targeted at a specific joint, never wasteful, never theatrical, the absolute opposite of Lockhart’s style. Neville blocked, redirected, countered—his movements improving with each exchange, his chains growing smoother as Snape forced him to adapt, driving spells into him faster and faster with each moment.

"Better," Snape said after two minutes, which from him was the equivalent of a standing ovation in her opinion, and his eyes turned towards her brother, "Potter, you are next."

Harry’s turn went much the same. His chains were cleaner than Neville's—tighter, more controlled—but Snape found the pattern within thirty seconds and punished it ruthlessly, sending a banisher through the gap in Harry's third transition that knocked him off his feet. He punished the faults he had highlighted without mercy, but Harry was up again instantly, jaw clenched—and he adjusted. The next exchange lasted longer, the pattern broken and reformed into something less predictable.

Snape nodded once as the next shield breaker brought him down to his knees. "Passable."

Then it was her turn, the Professor’s eyes focusing on her.

Persephone stepped into the circle and raised her wand, the Thunderbird feather thrumming against her palm. Snape stood across from her, wand at his side, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

For a moment, it appeared as though his eyes had widened, a sight so alien on the Potions Master that Persephone thought she had imagined it. The next second, he shifted slightly and raised his wand.

"Begin," he said, and his curse came fast—faster than what he had thrown at Harry or Neville. Persephone caught it on her shield, the impact heavier than expected, and felt the Thunderbird core flare in response. She channelled it—not into just raw power but into precision, the way Cassiopeia had instructed her. Her protego held, not a bright beacon of wasted energy, but Persephone grunted as she saw the cracks form in the structure.

Now she was pushing less power into the shield. Dropping it, she flicked her wand upwards adn a cutting curse shot towards Snape, a crimson arc meant to cut at his shoulder. He deflected it with a flick, almost absently, and sent a chain of three at her in rapid succession.

Shield. Redirect. Counter. 

She caught herself falling into Harry's pattern soon enough, and as a stinging hex landed on her chest with more speed and power than normal, she broke it on the third beat, substituting the counter for a low sweep of fire that targeted his footing. Snape casually stepped over it without looking down, dispensing the flames around him with a flicker of his wand, and answered with a cutting hex aimed at her shoulder.

She ducked rather than shielded—instinct overriding training—and felt the spell pass through the air where her head had been, close enough to tug at her hair.

"Do not duck beneath a cutting hex," Snape said, his voice sharp. "If the caster adjusts the angle by two degrees, you lose your skull instead of catching a graze."

"Yes, Professor," she nodded, looking at the wandtip glowing a bright yellow mere three feet away from her face, a little short on breath.

"Again."

They went three more rounds, the three of them. Each time, Persephone forced herself to cast smaller, tighter, more controlled—the opposite of everything her wand wanted to do, the opposite of everything her magic urged. The Elder and Thunderbird combination begged for storms and destruction, and she gave it scalpels and needles instead.

It was exhausting. Not physically —she had enough training and stamina to do this for another hour—but magically. Restraint costs more than release, she was discovering. Holding the power back while directing it precisely was like trying to thread a needle while sitting on a hippogriff, and precision was not something that had really mattered before.

At the end of the third round, Snape ended the session and looked at all three of them.

"The competition will not care about your age, your name, or your circumstances. You will face opponents who have trained longer, fought harder, and might have killed when required. Your only advantage is that you do not yet know what you cannot do." His gaze lingered on her for a breath longer than the others. "Do not get a big head, but do not keep doubting yourselves either."

He turned and left the room, robes sweeping the stone behind him, and the door closed with a sound that echoed longer than it should have in the warded silence.

Neville exhaled slowly. "Was it just me, or was he—"

"Polite?" Persephone finished. "Yes."

“Strange times,” Harry whispered, and Persephone nodded as the three of them looked at each other.

‘Strange times indeed.’

Moving through Hogwarts at midnight had become a much dangerous endeavour as of late. Not because of the Heir only, but because wards and enchantments had been laid throughout the corridors, meant to trip alarms and freeze unknown, authorised individuals. Only the prefects, the Head Students and teachers could traverse Hogwarts in the night. Everyone else? They had to stay in their dorms.

Everyone else but him.

Neville moved through the upper corridors beneath the Invisibility Cloak, his footsteps muffled by the thick socks he had taken to wearing instead of shoes on these excursions. The portraits slept in their frames, murmuring and snoring, and the torches had dimmed to a low, ember-red glow that painted the stone in shades of rust and shadow. 

Honestly, it had been a gamble to walk out under the cloak, but Neville had just trusted it to work like it always had, complete anonymity from anything and everything. And it fucking had, like a charm, well, charmed artefact. Shaking his head as he felt the cool material slide over his shoulders with his movement, Neville wondered once again, whether it was The Invisibility Cloak?

Well, whatever it was, it helped him wander around during sleepless nights, and that was enough for now. He had enough on his mind with Hermione and the Heir and the Wand of Ares that he did not need to think abo-

“Gilderoy! The students will see that! You canno-”

‘Oh Merlin’, Neville stopped instantly, eyes whipping towards the room to his right…the quarters of Septima Vector. His eyes closed as he felt a wave of embarrassment creep over him, and as he heard Lockhart’s chuckle for a moment, Septima’s words were no longer audible. 

Right, teachers had a life outside of classes, and Lockhart’s and Septima’s date was no secret to anyone with an ear. Of course, Neville’s ears had to deal with this, and as he rushed away from the area, he nearly cursed out loud at the sound of what was undoubtedly a surprised shout of joy from the Arithmancy Professor.

Fucking hell, he was going to need an obliviate after this. Now he just needed to find someone competent enough with the spell to do the deed, and then Neville could probably live without ingesting a poison. He kept walking, letting the embarrassment burn itself out as the distance between him and Vector's quarters grew. By the time he reached the fifth floor landing, the heat had faded from his face, replaced by the familiar cold of the castle at night and the weight of everything he had been carrying since October.

Four attacks since Halloween—Five, if he counted Mrs Norris. Filch’s cat, then the ghosts, then Hermione, then Davis. All petrified in different parts of the castle, and all dying…and all this done without a clue or a sound.

‘Well, not without a sound’, his mind whispered to him, and Neville shuddered as he remembered that cold whisper that promised death. He still hadn’t been able to find anything regarding that voice, and he had no one to ask anything about it. Ron and Hermione had not heard anything, and even if they had, it was most probably just a hallucination.

But there were another two who had been there. Harry and Persephone, and he knew, somewhere, that those two had heard what he had heard. And he had asked them about it too, but they had straight-up refused his thoughts.

“You are imagining things. It was Halloween, you must have heard a ghost.”

Somedays, Neville didn’t know what to believe about those moments in the dungeon. And even if they were lying and his ears were right, Hogwarts was probably the most heavily warded structure in Britain. Dumbledore himself maintained the protections, and Flitwick and Vector reinforced them every term—and that was without talking about the centuries of wards and magic that had been added to the castle. Since the attacks, additional enchantments had been layered through every corridor, every stairwell, every passage the staff knew about. Aurors had swept the castle twice. Snape had brewed detection potions that were supposed to reveal traces of dark magic on contact.

Nothing. Every single time, nothing.

Whatever was doing this did not register as dark magic to the wards; it did not trigger the detection potions. It did not make a sound, leave tracks, or disturb the ambient magical field enough for the most sensitive instruments in the castle to notice. The Heir's weapon—creature, curse, artefact, whatever it was—operated outside every framework they had for identifying threats. Even Helena had been silent about it, mentioning nothing but the changing ‘currents’ and that it was not a thing he needed to focus on.

Neville turned that over as he walked, the Cloak rustling faintly with each step. Helena had trained him to think in patterns, to look for the shape of a problem even when the details were missing. The pattern here was the same—the attacker moved through the castle unseen and unheard, struck with something that petrified rather than killed, left a message, and vanished without a trace.

Unseen. Unheard. 

He once again thought of what Aragog had said in the nest, that ancient, rasping voice recounting the first opening fifty years ago. Of the silence, the smell of death and iron. The same pattern was repeating now fifty years apart, and the method had not changed, and this time, Hagrid had been sentenced to Azkaban. 

Whatever the Heir was using, it had been doing this long before Neville was born, long before his parents had died, long before the war had started.

And it had never been caught.

“You-Know-Who was the Heir of Slytherin, and he got into the castle last year!” Ron’s frantic whispers came back to him, and Neville shook his head. Last year, the Dark Lord had possessed a professor and needed to kill Unicorns to sustain it. Forget that no more unicorns had died; there was no chance Dumbledore would miss something like that again.

But again, Dumbledore had searched the castle from top to bottom. The man had been headmaster for decades, had fought Grindelwald to a standstill, and had access to every secret Hogwarts had ever surrendered to its headmasters. If there was a creature hiding in the castle, Dumbledore should have found it. If there was a cursed object producing the petrifications, his detection spells should have identified it. If there was a wizard behind it all, casting from the shadows, the wards should have registered the magic.

What thing or magic could exist to evade such powerful, talented and knowledgeable wizards for so long? To escape every time, to elude every search made for the culprit.

As the thoughts bubbled in his head, Neville sat down on a windowsill, letting the moonlight fall across his lap. Snow pressed against the glass, pale and silent.

He thought about Hermione. She would have had theories by now—probably three, all annotated, cross-referenced, and colour-coded. She would have dragged him and Ron to the library and made them read until their eyes bled, and they would have had an argument about the Muggle versus the Magical…but Hermione was petrified, and Neville would have rather argued with her than stare at her paling, weakening face.

He thought about Ron, who had nightmares now, but never admitted it. He flinched at skittering sounds in the corridors and went pale at the sight of anything jumping around him. The ginger had followed him into the forest despite a fear so deep it was practically genetic, and had held a shield against a swarm of acromantulas with nothing but stubbornness and a wand arm that would not stop shaking.

Ron deserved better than this. They all did. Hermione is frozen and fading along with others, and Davis, who was worsening by the week, the black veins crawling further up her neck. 

The whole school was whispering about Heirs and parseltongue and dark lords, half of them blaming Neville himself even now—because it was easier to suspect the boy who talked to snakes than to admit that no one—not the teachers, not the Aurors, not even Dumbledore—had any idea what was happening.

Powerless. 

The word sat in his mind like a stone. Not because he lacked magic—Helena had shown him exactly how much he carried—but because power without understanding was just force, and force alone had not solved anything. He had burned Aragog's nest to the ground with a spell that should have been beyond him, and what had it earned? A half-blind spider, a traumatised best friend, and confirmation that the forest's creatures were as terrified as the students.

The castle settled around him, stones shifting with the deep, slow patience of something that had been standing for a thousand years. Neville pressed his forehead against the cold glass and watched his breath fog the window.

Somewhere in these walls, the answer existed. The attacks followed a pattern, and patterns had sources. He just had to find it before someone else ended up on a hospital bed beside Hermione.

He sat there until the cold drove him back to the tower, the Cloak gathered tight around his shoulders, his mind still turning.