Solus Inter Comites
Alone Among Friends.
The mechanism before him is flawed. A disappointment, really. A glorified heap of wasted potential. It refuses to function the way it’s supposed to, which, frankly, is the least it could do after all the effort he’s put in.
Mechanical and Magical—two entirely different concepts. Two bitter enemies, really, locked in an eternal feud where one always ends up throttling the other. Usually, it’s magic that loses, short-circuiting everything into sentient madness, because of course it does. Nothing like an enchanted kettle developing a personality and attempting to stage a rebellion in the middle of tea time. Utterly deplorable. Infuriating, even. And yet, here he is, having to fix the mess like some underpaid maintenance worker of reality itself.
The best course of action? Strip the electricity out entirely and replace it with magic. A logical solution, except for the minor inconvenience of magic being temperamental and most conduits crumbling under the sheer force of it. Crystals are the usual victims, their fragile little existences shattered by a touch too much magic. But, well. Hyperion has never been a man bound by limitations, has he? He’s a madman with Death itself as his ever-faithful benefactor. If he can’t leverage that kind of privilege for his current fixation, then really, what is the point?
“Careful with those aetherites, little death.” A cold hand wraps around the back of his neck just as he smooths the crystal into a perfect orb.
Death, always so dramatic. Always so fond of vague, ominous warnings that have lost their impact entirely.
“They are fragile, powerful. It will kill you if you temper wrongly.”
Ah, yes. The usual song and dance.
Harry blinks. Doesn’t even dignify it with a reaction. He’s heard it all before, after all. Not that Death ever follows through. The entity has a soft spot for him—one he exploits at every given opportunity. As he should. As he must.
“I am,” he sighs, clicking his tongue in irritation. “I’ve been careful with it since you taught me about it.”
And really, Death needs to stop bringing up that one mistake. It was one mistake. One tiny, microscopic, completely understandable oversight.
“How was I supposed to know the Aetherite would explode on contact with foreign materials?” he huffs, deliberately ignoring the memory of said explosion nearly taking his face off. “It reacted just fine with my magic.”
Which, in hindsight, may have been precisely why it overreacted to a single drop of potion. But that’s beside the point.
"Now, now..." Death whispers, a gentle murmur laced with something that is probably meant to be reassurance. Their fingers, cold as the void itself, trail along his cheek, turning his head with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for glass dolls and other fragile things. Which, frankly, is a bit insulting.
The faceless veil of shadow greets him once more—featureless, empty, unreadable. And yet, somehow, he just knows. Death is smiling.
Yes. Smiling. Right at him.
“Patience, little one. You walk down the path of greatness, hence you must tread carefully. Aetherites are difficult to procure. It would be a waste if you kept unintentionally destroying them.”
Which, fine. Fair point. Not that he ever intends to destroy them, but apparently intent means nothing when dealing with volatile, semi-sentient magical materials that throw a tantrum at the slightest provocation.
Harry frowns, lips pressing into a thin line as he turns the smooth orb over in his palm. Aetherites. Infuriating things. Beautiful in theory, disastrous in practice. There are reasons why wixen have never managed to properly harness them—chief among them being their unholy tendency to react violently to literally everything. Too unstable, too temperamental. It’s a wonder they exist at all, honestly. But he has Death. And Death has the answers.
For all its power, the crystal is laughably fragile. One wrong move, one careless application of force, and it shatters—completely useless, utterly ruined. The worst part? When an Aetherite dies, it does so dramatically, exploding in a spectacular display of energy that is as breathtaking as it is highly inconvenient. The mining process alone is a meticulous, backbreaking ordeal that Hyperion endures far more often than he’d like to admit. Because, of course, his obsessions can never be easy.
“I suggest you cease using alchemy-based dissolutions. You’ve grown dependent on that method.” Death drawls, skeletal fingers weaving absently through his hair, as if he's some beloved pet to be soothed.
Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.
“I’ve resonated with an Aetherite exactly once, and it landed me in a three-day coma. Hermione’s lecturing is not worth it.” He grunts, grabbing more tools and lowering them—gently, precisely—to the very core of his Arcforge creation.
Because, yes. The last thing he needs is another ‘incident.’
The reminder of his own mishaps is etched into his skin—scars crisscrossing his hands, the rough callouses on his fingers a testament to every stupid, brilliant, unfortunate idea he’s ever entertained. A roadmap of mistakes, really. A history lesson written in flesh.
A lesson he absolutely refuses to learn.
Harry barely flinches when lightning arcs from the Aetherite, snapping towards the open cuts like a predator scenting blood. Predictable. Annoying. Almost rude, honestly, considering all the effort he’s putting into not letting it implode spectacularly in his hands.
“Why couldn't you have stuck to your usual toys? No need to make more weapons—” Death huffs, a skeletal hand patting his head like he's some misguided child instead of a fully-grown disaster of his own making.
Harry exhales sharply, already weary of the lecture. “It must be done,” he says, resolute, because of course it must. “The wizarding world is stuck in stasis with what they currently know. Usual spellcasting can be detected and traced, despite whatever power you've blessed me with.” His lips purse. “The Arcforge makes sure that we don't get caught.”
He leaves the again unspoken.
“And the Arcforge makes you more noticeable,” Death counters, perfectly reasonable in their infuriating way. “Not many wizards own a sword like this one... what's its name?”
Harry's gaze drops to the hilt of the bladeless sword, fingers tightening around the decorated grip. The weight of it is familiar, solid, and waiting.
Fine. If Death insists on a name, he’ll give it one.
He sucks in a deep breath, magic sinking into metal before slipping into the Aetherite, curling around the volatile core with all the care of a bomb defusal expert who isn't entirely convinced they won’t lose a limb. Then, in a sharp, decisive motion, he snaps his arm forward.
The Aetherite flares. Light erupts—red, sharp, alive—and the blade hums into existence, crackling like something half-feral. Like something hungry.
“I think... I'll call you Hexreaver.”
It fits. He isn’t particularly good at names, but he is good at making things from nothing. From destruction itself.
A blade. A sword.
Oh, Ares would love it.
(Not that the bitter git deserves nice things, but still.)
The knock comes too suddenly. Too sharp. His heart lurches, and in an instant, he’s moving—hands flicking through his belongings, slipping the blade out of sight, replacing it with something far more innocent. Not that he has anything to hide, obviously.
The door flings itself open at the barest flick of his wrist.
Harry blinks. “Professor Szekeres?”
Durmstrang’s deputy headmaster stands in the doorway, momentarily surprised before his expression smooths into something blank, controlled. Always so composed. He clears his throat, stepping into Hyperion’s private space, his gaze flickering—just briefly—to the device in Harry’s hand.
“Herr Peverell,” Szekeres hums, voice as unreadable as ever. “I see you are doing well after the incident with the British Ministry. You’ve reported it to the headmistress?”
Harry nods, grinning, because they both know that’s not why Szekeres is here. None of his professors ever visit to check on his well-being. No, they come knocking when they want answers. When they want to know.
“Yes, of course.” He laughs, light, easy. Believable. “Are you here to inquire about my grades?”
“Yes, well… a bit.” Szekeres chuckles, a little dry, a little amused. But not fooled. “Let’s start with that little trinket in your hand. Academic purposes? Or something more personal?”
Harry smiles, offering up the compass with an almost careless sort of ease. Because he wants him to look. Wants him to see.
Szekeres hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the trained eye to catch—before taking the device into his hands. His gaze sharpens.
“I call it the Wizard’s Wayfinder. Personal project. Been working on it for the past month.”
Which, technically, isn’t a lie.
Not really.
The Wayfinder had been finished ages ago. But he refuses to let it be finished. He could improve it. Always. There’s always something to tweak, something to refine, something to fix. The fact that it was already a perfectly functional device was irrelevant. No one needed to know that.
“It’s a compass, obviously, but it doesn’t point north. Instead, it latches onto the strongest magical signature in the area.” He twirls his wand between his fingers before tapping the red gem at its centre, watching the glow pulse under the pressure. “But I’ve been adjusting it to track specific signatures, not just the strongest.”
The compass snaps open, the needle spinning wildly before locking onto a point.
“Gimme a minute—there! It’s now tracking Aurelia’s signature.”
He grins, watching as the needle jerks a little to the left, where presumably Aurelia is. He watches as Szekeres crosses the room, peering out the window.
A beat. A pause.
“Is she there?”
Szekeres nods, eyes still fixed on the window, expression unreadable. “Very innovative, Herr Peverell. This would be invaluable to Aurors—any law enforcement, really.”
Harry shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Eh. I mostly just use it to find my friends. The castle’s big. Tracking them down is a pain.”
He grins wider as the faintest flicker of exasperation seeps into Szekeres’s carefully schooled features.
“Never mind that,” Szekeres interrupts—far too quickly, which means he knows exactly what he’s done. Knows that Hyperion could and would go on for at least an hour about his inventions, complete with diagrams, demonstrations, and an impromptu history lesson on magical engineering.
Coward.
“I’m here to check on your project for my subject,” Szekeres continues, clearly pleased with himself. “As you know, there are fewer than a hundred seventh-year students taking Spellcraft.”
“Yes, because the other three hundred managed to disappoint you so thoroughly they dropped out when they realised making spells is hard.” Harry drawls, remembering the mass exodus of his classmates over the years. Spellcraft had been packed in his fifth year. Then students started realising that cobbling together half-formed Latin and waving a wand around wasn’t enough to create a functional spell, and by sixth year, the class had dwindled to a pitiful fraction.
“Yes, yes.” Szekeres waves a hand, as if the loss of hundreds of students is a mild inconvenience rather than a devastating failure of the education system. “At the moment, you are my best student.”
“Aw, Professor!”
“Shush.”
Szekeres rolls his eyes, entirely unimpressed. “I want a demonstration of your current spell. I know very well you’ve already crafted one. It only requires refinement.”
Harry blinks. Damn. No getting out of this, then. He clicks his tongue, sighing through his nose.
Spellcraft is exhausting. It’s finicky, demanding, and requires a level of perfectionism that borders on masochistic. Honestly, Harry finds it harder than his mechanical work, and that’s saying something, considering he routinely plays with highly volatile magical materials that have nearly killed him twice.
But Spellcraft? It’s a different kind of hell. Because magic is particular. Stubborn. Petty. If the phrasing is slightly off, if the etymology is too muddled, if the intent behind the casting isn't razor-sharp in its clarity, then poof. Useless. Or worse—disastrous.
“I’ve thought of one,” he admits. “Defensive and offensive. A rebound spell, essentially. Its function is to return any spell cast at the wielder back to its origin.” He rifles through his belongings, shoving aside spare parts and crumpled sketches before finally dragging out his notebook. Pages crinkle as he flips through them, hunting for the right notes.
“That… is rather useful. In fact, I’d call it brilliant.” Szekeres leans forward, scanning the parchment Harry has unceremoniously dumped onto the desk. The sheer volume of notes, diagrams, and frantic scribbles makes his professor pause. “But what seems to be the problem?”
Harry gestures vaguely at the organised chaos in front of them. “Wand movement and incantation. I’ve narrowed it down to two, but I can’t decide which is more efficient. There’s Contrectos, from the Latin for ‘reflect back’. And then there’s Aegis Refrenare.”
“Hm… two possible conjurations.” Szekeres taps a finger against his chin, thoughtful. “Have you tested them?”
“On myself, yeah.” He shrugs, flipping a page. “I was going to ask Aurelia to help, but she’s not in Spellcraft, and I really don’t fancy asking your other students.”
Harry carefully does not grimace.
Not that he has a problem with them, exactly. It’s just that Spellcraft students tend to be—what’s the polite term?—ravenous, desperate, thieving little bastards. He’s already had one idiot try to steal his work. He’s not about to set himself up for a repeat experience.
“I am willing to assist you in this. But aren’t you friends with Cecilia Vance? She’s also in Spellcraft.”
Harry frowns. Ah, yes, Cecilia Vance. Exceptionally bright. Talented, even. But also fifteen.
“Cecilia is still in fifth year,” he deadpans. “This is a rebound spell we’re talking about. I can’t risk any wild magic snapping back at her when I haven’t even pinned down the variations in the incantation.” Not that he doesn’t love the chaos of unpredictable spellcraft, but he doubts Cecilia would appreciate getting flung across the training grounds because he miscalculated a syllable.
“Hm… I understand.” Szekeres nods, clearly in deep consideration of all the potential liability issues. “Well then, shall we proceed to the training grounds? I doubt Atla and Friedrich will mind.”
Harry snorts. “I’m pretty sure they’d try to join. The prospect of a rebound spell would drive them mad.”
“Then endure your professors’ insanity. Professors Enevoldsen and Durchdenwald are warriors.” Szekeres sighs, long-suffering but not unfond.
“They’re former Aurors, right?” Harry tilts his head, flicking his wrist to lock his door before falling into step beside his professor. Best privilege he’s ever secured, this private space—thank Aleksia for that. Though, he’d argue it was hard-earned after excelling in all fourteen of his subjects. Not that he’s keeping score.
“Atla Enevoldsen was head Auror of her department,” Szekeres explains, leading them down the corridor. “Friedrich Durchdenwald, on the other hand, is retired.”
Harry hums, thinking back to the absolute menace that is Professor Durchdenwald. Old, yes. But terrifying. The kind of terrifying that lingers, like a spectre, watching for mistakes before ruthlessly exploiting them. Strict, sharp, and notoriously brutal with his students. He mainly teaches fifth years and above, which means Harry and Theo had been spared his particular brand of hell when they first transferred. For a few months, at least. At first, Harry and Theo had been under Professor Enevoldsen—something about ‘easing them in.’ A lie. Because after a few months of proving themselves competent (a mistake, in hindsight), they were tossed straight into Durchdenwald’s hands.
Durchdenwald had taken one look at them, deemed them worthy of his time, and immediately thrown them into the deep end.
And by deep end, Harry means directly at each other. Because obviously, the best way to train two promising students is to pit them against each other at every possible opportunity.
… Harry still isn’t sure if that was a compliment or a personal attack.
Safe to say, Harry was not going to let Durchdenwald and Enevoldsen play around with his spells ever again. But at the very least, he determined that Contrectos was a simple rebound spell. While Aegis Refrenare quite literally absorbs a spell into a shield and spits it back out like a homing beacon. It was very interesting to see Professor Enevoldsen stunning spell chase after her the moment it was spat out of the shield.
Szekeres determined that he should submit the second one.
Samhain is always a touchy day for them. No matter how much time passes, the weight of it lingers—heavy, suffocating. Even with Hyperion back at Durmstrang, Theo knows exactly how the other must be handling it. Or rather, not handling it. The last time he saw Harry on Samhain, the idiot had been wandering through the castle like a mindless puppet, eyes vacant, expression hollow.
Durmstrang’s student body had learned quickly: steer clear of Hyperion Peverell on this day.
Theo blinks, gaze shifting as Ron Weasley drops himself onto the bench between him and Blaise, utterly indifferent to the displeased glares of the younger Slytherins. The redhead doesn’t even acknowledge the attention, let alone care about it. Theo supposes that’s to be expected. Weasley has always been the brash sort, but with Hermione and Hyperion absent, he’s been particularly volatile.
“Did he contact you?” Ron murmurs, filling his plate at a slow, almost absent-minded pace. He sighs to himself, clicks his tongue, tilts his head. Calculating. “He’s been quieter lately.”
Of course, he has.
“With what happened here?” Theo arches a brow. “I don’t doubt he’s more stressed.”
“Who’s stressed?” Blaise leans against Ron like some lazy, overgrown cat, utterly unapologetic as he props himself up on the other’s shoulder. He’s watching Theo with far too much interest, and it takes everything in him not to sneer.
“Harry,” Ron answers, blunt as ever. “We’re worried. It’s his family’s death day.”
Blaise blinks, pulling back ever so slightly. “Right… Right. Does he usually write to you?”
“Not on the thirty-first,” Ron hums, shovelling food onto his plate with little concern. “Usually the day before or after.”
Theo clicks his tongue, exhaling sharply through his nose. The dense bastard is going to drive me up a wall one day. I swear it. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he finishes his meal quickly, ignoring Dumbledore’s incessant rambling as he pushes back from the table and strides out of the Great Hall.
He doesn’t need to think too hard about where to go. He already knows. Hyperion had been very specific about it—where to walk, what to do, which paths to avoid. Theo has the instructions memorised, imprinted in the back of his mind like a brand.
Because Hogwarts is sentient, and more importantly, it’s not private. Someone could be listening even now.
So…
As he steps seven times opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, he watches the door take form, intricate details slowly etching themselves into existence. With a hum, he slips inside, gaze flickering across the luxurious lounge waiting for him.
Perfect.
He glances down at his etheris, eyes narrowing at the pale blue hue before he sets it on the desk. The familiar list of contacts flickers to life in a projected hologram, and with a quick, practiced motion, he scrolls through, stopping at a name. A quiet hum escapes him as he taps the contact and steps back.
Time to see if she’s in a cooperative mood.
“Athena.” His voice softens, a smirk tugging at his lips as the image of the most beautiful woman he’s ever met materialises before him.
Hermione Peverell’s sharp gaze sweeps over him, scrutinising, calculating. A beat passes before she sighs, shaking her head, as if she’s already exasperated.
“Good morning, Theodore.” A pointed pause. “Do you need something? And no codenames. Had you called Hyperion, he’d have already scolded you.”
Theo laughs, the sound light but edged with something else. “I think I’ve had enough of your brother threatening me.”
“We all have.” Hermione flicks a strand of hair behind her shoulder, unimpressed. “Now… what do you need?”
“Right.” He straightens slightly. “Have you spoken to—”
“No, Theodore.” Hermione’s tone sharpens like a knife against a whetstone, slicing clean through his words. “My brother locks himself down every Samhain. Leave him be. This day is sacred to our family, even without the death of the previous Lord and Lady Potter.”
A chill runs down his spine, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like lead. Shit.
“What else, Ares?”
“You just said no codenames.” He chuckles, recovering quickly.
“You insist on being insufferable.” Hermione exhales, but there’s amusement in her gaze—one he’s learned to catch in the briefest of moments. “Get to the point, will you?”
“Don’t fret, my lady.” He grins, playing the part of a charming rogue as easily as breathing. “All is well here. Dumbledore has reacted accordingly to Hyperion’s sudden return, and the rest of the Ministry is scrambling to appease Romanova and Maxime.” He exhales, rolling a shoulder. “Grandfather says that Black and Gaunt have been slowly taking over the Ministry, and there are rumours that Gaunt plans to run for Minister.”
This new development is… concerning.
Gaunt remains an unknown variable. Even knowing the man is the resurrected Dark Lord, Theo finds himself at a disadvantage. Every move Gaunt makes is deliberate, strategic—a stark contrast to the blundering incompetence of Fudge. The fool had been easy to work with, easily manipulated by the right amount of pressure. Gaunt, though? That man would be a problem.
Ron had voiced similar concerns. Any future missions involving the Ministry would be hindered—if not outright compromised—should Gaunt gain a position of true influence.
Perhaps he should bring this up to Hy—
“Hyperion is to thank for that.”
What?
Oh… Oh, wonderful. Amazing. Theo is going to kill himself at this point. Is this what Neville feels whenever he and Hyperion run off doing who knows what? Maybe he’ll ask Neville to brew a potion that can just—give him a heart attack on command. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
“Never mind any of that. Anything else? Hogwarts-related, I mean.”
Hermione moves out of frame, and Theo startles slightly, not expecting her to leave so abruptly. He doesn’t even have a chance to respond before she returns, a box in hand. The moment she opens it, a soft, delicate melody fills the air.
Ah. That box.
The jewellery-music box combination Hyperion made for her last Yule.
Theo exhales through his nose, absently scratching the back of his head. “Same as always. Malfoy’s group are Death Eaters in training. Gryffindors like McLaggen and the rest are slowly being dragged into the Order.” He pauses, a flicker of irritation curling in his gut. It’s concerning—though most don’t seem to care. They should care, really. But no, of course not.
“The usual scheming from irresponsible adults,” Hermione huffs, snapping the box shut with a click. “Why doesn’t Hyperion just deal with it entirely?”
Theo swallows down a laugh. Right. Like Hyperion ever moves without personal interest. “Because Hyperion operates on what benefits him. These students annoy the hell out of him, so there’s no possibility of making them his priority.”
That’s just how Hyperion is. His mind is wired differently—sharp, strategic, always calculating the most efficient path forward. If it doesn’t serve his interests, it’s not a priority. Simple. What was that term again? Machiavellian. Yes. That’s it.
It’s how he took over Durmstrang in such a short time.
But… Hermione. She’s different. Always has been.
Kinder, more empathetic, philanthropic in a way her brother isn’t.
For the greater good—the Peverells move with those words embedded deep in their souls, but the way they interpret them? Completely different.
It’s baffling. Terrifying, even.
“I might just start my own missions for that.”
Hermione clicks her tongue, irritation flashing across her face. She’s obviously frustrated with her brother’s avarice—his insatiable, self-fulfilling motives that guide every move he makes.
“You’d have to go through Hyperion to get approval for any of that.”
She huffs again, fingers threading through her curls before she pauses, tilting her head just slightly. Then she leans forward, pressing her cheek against her palm, watching him.
Ah. That look. Theo recognises it instantly—the sharp glint of interest, that poised patience, waiting for him to react. It’s never a good sign. Never.
And yet… the attention is thrilling. It’s intoxicating, the way she focuses on him, like he’s something worth dissecting, worth charming. Her smile is radiant—and cruel.
God. He’s going to dig his own grave if she keeps looking at him like that. Because Theo knows—knows—that smile spells trouble. If he falls for it, he’ll get one hell of a tongue-lashing from Hyperion.
“Ares… Theo.” Hermione’s voice is silk and steel, a gentle pull wrapped in something dangerous. She smiles sweetly. “Won’t you help me?”
Oh, fuck. Theo forces a laugh, light and smooth, but his instincts are already screaming at him. “Whatever do you mean, my lady?”
“This won’t interfere with dear brother’s operations,” she assures him, that sweetly venomous smile lingering. “I just need you to stop Dumbledore from making more child soldiers.”
The words are deceptively soft. But her meaning? It’s sharp as a knife. It’s only then that the realisation clicks in his mind.
Hermione, Ron, and Hyperion—Dumbledore’s original little soldiers.
And yet, here she is. Stopping it from happening again.
A matter of reaction. Of choice.
Hermione looks back at the past and ensures it will never repeat.
Hyperion ran from it, tore open his own future, and built something entirely his own.
And Ron Weasley? Where does he stand?
Theo exhales, a slow, measured breath. He’ll ask later.
“I’ll think about it.”
Hermione chuckles, low and knowing. “Very good. You have until midnight.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What am I, that cinders lady from your Muggle fairy tales?”
“Perhaps.” She hums, ever amused. “And it’s Cinderella, Theodore. I’ll have to make sure my darling brother doesn’t play fairy godmother for you.”
Theo isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. He’ll just have to give an answer at the right time…Maybe he’ll get a reward out of it.
(Back in Durmstrang, Hyperion Peverell is slaving away when he suddenly feels the universe mocking him. Damn it, was Theo messing with Hermione again?)
(Neville Longbottom is no Seer. He has no talent for divination, no ability to glimpse the future in tea leaves or star charts. But when Harry Potter arrives at his doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back, Neville knows.
Something is wrong. Something is going to happen.
It’s Harry. The same Harry who is—was—supposedly his godbrother. But the moment they sit down, the moment Gran leaves the room, a feeling of wrongness slithers into Neville’s chest, tight and suffocating.
What was happening? Why does it feel like this?
Harry smiles. Painfully bright. Too bright. His green eyes fix on Neville, wide and unblinking, like he’s looking at something holy, like some god from the old myths has descended and wrapped him in their embrace.
Neville swallows, throat dry. His fingers curl into his robes.
“Harry?” His voice barely comes out. “Are you okay? I heard… I heard about what happened to your family.”
Dementors. Slaughter. Gone.
Harry only hums, swinging his feet, sipping his tea—like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just lost everything. But Neville knows what grief looks like. He’s seen it. Felt it. The way it lingers like cold hands around your ribs, squeezing when you least expect it.
But Harry? There’s nothing. Not even a shadow.
Maybe… maybe the Dementors did something to him. Maybe they took too much.
But no—no, that doesn’t make sense. Harry knows the Patronus Charm. He knows how to drive them away.
Unless—unless the Dark Lord got to him first.
Neville reaches forward, hesitant. “Harry—”
Snap. His breath catches. He barely registers the pain at first—Harry’s fingers are iron, clamped around his wrist, tight, too tight.
Neville jolts, eyes widening. This—this isn’t right. Harry has held his wrist before, in duels, in defence, in reassurance. But this? This is something else.
He barely recognises the boy sitting across from him.
Harry? Harry?
“Neville…” Harry tilts his head. The smile remains. Unwavering. Unnatural. Wrong. “Do you know what it’s like… to see destruction?”
His voice is soft. Gentle.
But there is something in it—something else.
Neville cannot breathe. Harry’s grip tightens, pulling him closer.
The green in his eyes is not green at all. It is—void. A spiralling, endless void.
“Do you know what it’s like to be chosen by a god?”
Neville’s stomach plummets. His pulse pounds. What?
What—what is he saying?
Harry smiles. “Because I do.”
And in that moment, Neville understands—whatever Harry is talking about, whatever has touched him—
It is not something human.
Harry… Oh, Harry…
Was it really a god that spoke to you?)
“You do know,” Neville sighs, dragging a hand through his hair as he eyes the projected screen, “that the others aren’t going to contact you today of all days. They’re far too considerate of your delicate feelings.”
“Thankfully, you are not,” Hyperion says, smiling at him through the mirror. The projection is tinted blue, but—of course—his bloody eyes still shine through, bright green and unsettling as ever.
“Amazing, right?” Neville snorts.
Samhain is supposed to be Hyperion’s one day of peace, courtesy of their overly sentimental friends. Not that they’re bad or anything, but Hyperion gets so w rapped up in them that he forgets to do normal things. Like sleep. Or eat. Or, you know, not obsess over his latest scheme. So, yes, Neville is absolutely looking forward to the chaos that will ensue when everyone realises Hyperion hasn’t been having some tragic mourning period all these years.
No, Hyperion has been doing something else entirely.
Samhain just… messes with him. He gets weird. Weirder than usual, at least. He talks to the air, mutters in ancient languages like he’s rehearsing for some doomed summoning ritual—Greek, Latin, Egyptian… Neville is fairly sure he caught some Akkadian once, which, honestly, is just excessive at this point.
People like to whisper that he’s haunted. That his parents’ spirits cling to him, whispering about vengeance and prosperity like some tragic, poetic prophecy.
Neville? He’s skeptical.
Because Hyperion isn’t just haunted by ghosts.
No, Neville is pretty damn sure there’s something else lurking around him.
Something much worse.
Something that called itself a god.
“What exactly have you been up to this time?” Neville sighs, arms crossed as he leans against the desk, already bracing for whatever smug answer is coming. “Ron says Gaunt’s planning to run for Minister, and I highly doubt you don’t have a hand in that. Which, by the way, is fucking stupid.”
Hyperion grins from the other end of the call, all easy amusement. “I merely entertained an idea. Not my fault Gaunt took my words seriously.”
Neville scoffs, unimpressed. “Everyone takes your word seriously. They really shouldn’t.”
It’s exhausting, really. Hyperion barely has to try, and people still trip over themselves to follow his lead—even people like Gaunt, who should really know better. Then again, considering the two of them are supposedly some prophesied equals, it makes sense they’d have that weird, unnatural influence on each other. The only difference is, Hyperion doesn’t give a shit about Gaunt. Not unless the man becomes useful to him.
“Praise be the Fates for giving me such an intolerant godbrother,” Hyperion says with a mock sigh. “Well, brother and sister.”
“But you prefer me, yes?” Neville deadpans.
“Neville, darling, how could I ever betray my dear sister like that? She is the light of my life, my only blood relative—”
Neville narrows his eyes. “Only because you made Hermione a Peverell. If you hadn’t come up with that brilliant little scheme to keep the Peverell line alive, would you really covet her so much? Somehow, I doubt it.”
His fingers twitch the moment the words leave his mouth, and Neville doesn’t need to look at Hyperion to feel the shift in the air. Instead, he turns on his heel, putting his back to the projection under the guise of tending to his plants. Cowardly? Maybe. But no one—not Theo, not Hermione, and certainly not Neville—is stupid enough to meet Hyperion’s gaze after calling him out.
Not that he regrets it. If anything, Neville likes dragging Hyperion down a peg when he gets too high and mighty. Someone has to. But knowing how bitter and petty Hyperion is?
Yeah. He’s probably just made his own life a lot more difficult.
His grip tightens on the leaves in front of him, willing his hands not to shake. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s just…
He’s acknowledged something now—one of those paths Hyperion refused to take, rejected outright. And what the hell is Neville supposed to do with that? When Hyperion is perfectly willing to burn those paths to the ground just to build his own?
“Neville.”
“I’m just—just saying that Hermione might be your sister, but she thinks she’s your equal and—and we both know she isn’t.” His heart hammers against his ribs, climbing up his throat like it’s trying to choke him. His hands move on their own, frantically rearranging his pots. Alphabetical order? By plant type? He can’t remember. He just—he just needs to do something.
“Neville.”
“She’s too sentimental sometimes, and she—she goes against you a lot. I—I bet she’s talking to Theo right now, planning something at Hogwarts, something that—you know, something that interferes with your operations, and—and she doesn’t even check with you first.”
“Neville.”
“Hermione has too much power, and you—you didn’t even give it to her. She just—she acts like you did because she’s your sister now, because she’s a Peverell.”
“Neville…”
“It’s not fucking fair, alright!” Neville whirls around, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like he’s drowning—and then he sees those eyes. He flinches hard, gaze snapping away as quickly as it lands.
Shit.
“It’s—It’s not right that she gets to be your sister when I was the first one you came to when all of this happened. You—”
“ Look at me. ”
His entire body locks up. His head jerks forward before he can even think to stop himself.
And Hyperion is looking at him. Too sharp. Too piercing. Hyperion isn’t just looking at him—he’s analysing him, breaking him down into tiny, manageable pieces so he can put Neville back together however he wants. As if the sheer force of his gaze alone can rip apart the panic clawing at Neville’s chest and fix it.
Peeling Neville apart like he’s searching for something, for the source of this mess, for whatever piece of Neville’s mind is making him malfunction. He’s going to—he’s going to fix it, isn’t he? Like Neville’s some broken thing to be reset and rewired until he’s working properly again.
The lump in his throat surges back up, and his pulse pounds so hard it makes his vision tilt.
He has to—has to remember—Hyperion isn’t here. He’s not in Castelobruxo. He’s back in Europe, buried somewhere in Durmstrang, trapped in the mountains, confined behind its stone walls. He has to remind himself—this isn’t Harry. This isn’t his godbrother. This is Hyperion.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice wrecked and shaking. He stares at the glowing projection, because if he looks away—if he dares—
“I know.” Hyperion hums, like he’s already dismissed it, like none of this even matters to him. “Get some rest, Neville. You’re sleep-deprived.”
“Yeah… yeah.” His voice barely holds together. He watches as the Etheris dims, fading into nothing.
And then—like a puppet with its strings cut—he collapses.
His knees hit the ground. His breath shatters. His hands claw at his hair as he gulps down air like he’s just been dragged up from underwater.
He’s in Durmstrang.
“I’m okay,” he whispers.
He’s okay.
The thought circles back, over and over, clawing its way in—until it sticks.
(Death’s hands are cold. Gentle, even.
Hyperion watches the glow of the Etheris, its pulsing light almost mocking. Every fibre of his being urges him to crush it. To hurl it against the wall, let it shatter into a thousand useless pieces, revoke every single person outside Durmstrang from ever reaching him again. No distractions. No interference. No more prying eyes.
But he doesn’t.
No.
Instead, he sets it down. Carefully. Deliberately. As if he hadn’t wanted to break it. As if the desire hadn’t coiled inside him, pressing sharp against his ribs. He presses his fingers against the desk, feels the grain of the wood beneath his touch, sinks his hands into the shadows pooling there… and the darkness welcomes him like an old friend.
Behind him, Death hums.
It’s a soft, knowing sound, one that rumbles through the space as it watches him pull a box from the darkness. Hyperion does not need to turn to see the way he watches him, the way he always watches him. Like a thing worthy of attention. Like a thing worth keeping.
“They fear you,” Death chuckles.
Of course they do.
“I know.”
The revenant timers continue their slow, measured ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Steady. Unwavering.
All nine clocks still work.
Everyone is still alive.
And they will stay that way. )