The compass in Lucien's hand no longer merely pointed; it thrummed with a frantic energy, pulling him deeper into the forest's ancient heart. His run, meant to tame the restless hum beneath his skin, had turned into a relentless chase. The sun, a bruised plum in the bruised sky, was rapidly vanishing, leaving behind an encroaching gloom that pressed in from between the skeletal trees. Cho would be beyond worried; after the radio bulletin, she'd be actively terrified. Ira Riddle. Escaped Azkaban. The words were a cold, coiling serpent in his gut.
He tripped, scrambling over a thick root that seemed to emerge from the very stone, and caught himself with a gasp. He swore, rubbing his shin, the air around him crackling with a static charge he'd come to associate with his own escalating frustration. He pushed through a final, heavy curtain of ivy, the damp leaves brushing his face like cold fingers.
And then, he froze.
She was there. A girl.
She lay crumpled amidst a tangle of thorny brambles, her back pressed against the gnarled, moss-covered trunk of an ancient oak. Her uniform, a coarse, stained grey, was ripped and shredded, revealing a canvas of bruised skin beneath. Dark hair, matted with leaves and mud, framed a face that was stark white with a bone-deep exhaustion. Her eyes, however, were not closed. They were wide, dark, and met his with an animal ferocity that stopped him dead.
He'd seen faces like hers in documentaries, faces of those who had endured unimaginable hardship. But this was different. This wasn't just fear; it was a primal wariness, an ancient weariness that spoke of years, not days, of struggle. The faint scent of metallic tang, something he now identified as old blood, hung heavy in the air around her. He also detected a faint, unsettling odor he couldn't quite place – like old, cold stone, and something else, something despairing.
Lucien stared, utterly dumbfounded. Her appearance screamed of a violent flight. He took a hesitant step forward, his mind frantically trying to force a mundane explanation, but his gut screamed that nothing about this was ordinary. The energy within him, usually a dull thrum, now roared, a powerful, protective instinct he'd never known he possessed. It made his skin prickle and his heart pound with a fierce, almost painful intensity.
"Are you... are you alright?" he managed, his voice sounding strangely hoarse.
Ira flinched, her body tensing, shrinking further into the rough bark. She didn't speak, merely watched him, her gaze flicking between his face and the darkening woods behind him. Her eyes, devoid of magic yet filled with an unnerving, calculating intelligence, scrutinised him for any hint of threat. She didn't look like a monster. She looked like a trapped animal, bruised and bleeding, but ready to bite.
He saw the fresh scrapes on her arms, the dried blood on her cheek, the way her bare feet were raw and swollen. He noticed the minute, almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she instinctively clenched her fingers into the earth.
"My name is Luke," he said softly, instinctively using his Muggle alias, extending a hand slowly, cautiously, palm open. "I'm not... I won't hurt you."
Ira watched his hand, as if it were a viper. Her gaze locked onto his green eyes, searching for a lie. She had seen that particular shade of green in the fleeting images of "the Boy Who Lived" that the guards had sometimes left behind. A jolt, a cold shard of ice, pierced through her exhaustion. Potter. The thought was like a curse. Yet, his voice was gentle, unlike the harsh commands of her captors. The scent of him was clean, of pine and damp earth, not the sterile scent of Azkaban.
Finally, a faint flicker—desperation warring with suspicion—crossed her face. With a voice shockingly deep, raspy from disuse and fear, she spoke.
"Riddle," she croaked, the single word a declaration, an accusation, a warning. Her eyes never left his. She didn't offer a first name. Just Riddle.
Lucien's breath hitched. Riddle. The name echoed, sharp and cold. Ira Riddle. Escaped Azkaban. The news report. The girl in the tattered uniform. It was her. Here. In his woods. The truth slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
His gaze dropped to the silver compass, still clutched in his hand. The needle, which had been spinning erratically moments before, now lay perfectly still, vibrating gently, fixed, unwavering, pointing directly at the girl. At Ira.
A chill that had nothing to do with the encroaching dusk snaked down Lucien's spine. This wasn't just a lost girl. This was the "shadow" his mother had spoken of, the one Hermione Granger, Head Auror, would be hunting with merciless precision. And his compass, his strange, inexplicable "luck," had led him directly to her. He was meant to find her.
He looked back at her, at the raw vulnerability in her dark eyes, the desperate plea he could almost hear. The protective surge in his chest returned, stronger this time, overriding the shock, overriding the fear. The world considered her a monster, a living symbol of an evil that had almost consumed them. But here, in the deepening gloom of the ancient forest, she was just a girl, hunted and alone. And something within Lucien, something deep and powerful that had simmered beneath the surface for fifteen years, something that he was only just beginning to truly understand, refused to let her be.
He slowly, deliberately, knelt beside her, his hand still extended, unwavering. His voice, now clearer and imbued with a resonance he hadn't known he possessed, was surprisingly firm. "You're hurt," he said. "I can help you."
Ira's eyes, wide and searching, flickered to his extended hand, then to his face. She saw no deception, only a quiet, resolute strength. The words "I can help" were a promise she had never heard in her life. For the first time, a glimmer of something other than despair lit her gaze.
A low growl rumbled nearby, unseen but close. It was the same wolf-like creature from before.
Lucien heard it too, his head snapping up, his emerald eyes scanning the deepening shadows of the woods. A cold, fierce anger surged within him, a primal defense he didn't recognise. No creature, no person, was going to touch her. The air around him began to prickle again, more intensely this time. The faint hum, usually suppressed by Cho's potion, rose to a low thrumming that radiated from his very core.
Ira watched him, not the threat in the trees, but him. She saw the shift in his gaze, the sudden, fierce light in his eyes. She felt the peculiar tension in the air, a silent force pushing outwards from him. It was a power she couldn't understand, but she felt its protective intent like a physical embrace. She had spent her life hearing of dark magic, of the terrible things wizards could do. But this... this felt different.
The growl sounded again, closer.
Lucien didn't hesitate. He gently, but firmly, took Ira's raw, trembling hand, pulling her up. The touch was like an electric current, a spark igniting between shadow and light.
"We need to go," he said, his voice low and urgent, his grip on her hand surprisingly strong. "Now."