The growl ripped through the twilight, a low, guttural promise of violence. It was closer now, just beyond the thicket of ferns to their left.
Ira's blood ran cold. She tried to yank her hand free from Lucien's, her instinct screaming to climb, to hide, to become stone. But Lucien's grip was unyielding. He didn't pull back; he stepped slightly in front of her, placing his body between her and the sound.
"Run," he commanded, his voice a low, urgent tremor that vibrated with the same strange energy she'd felt moments before.
A massive, shadow-like creature burst from the undergrowth. It was larger than any wolf, its fur matted and dark, its eyes glowing with a feral, yellow light. It lunged.
Lucien didn't think. He didn't plan. He acted. He yanked Ira's arm, pulling her forward with a strength he didn't know he possessed, and plunged into the darkest part of the woods.
The forest floor, which moments before had been a tangle of roots and thorns, seemed to clear for them. They moved with an impossible speed. Lucien, his heart hammering against his ribs, felt the familiar, restless hum inside him spike into a raw, thrumming roar. It was no longer a vague "luck"; it was a current, a tangible force that seemed to anticipate his every move. A low-hanging branch that should have caught his face snapped upwards, as if pushed by an unseen hand. The thorny vines that had torn at Ira's clothes seemed to part just before they reached them.
Ira stumbled, her bare, bruised feet screaming in protest, her lungs on fire. She was weak, her body still acclimatizing to a world beyond a ten-by-ten cell. But Lucien's grip was a vice, a solid anchor in the terrifying, chaotic motion. He half-dragged, half-carried her, his arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her weight.
She watched, bewildered, as the woods yielded to him. It wasn't just speed; it was something else. A large boulder blocked their path; Lucien didn't even slow, veering left as if he knew, instinctively, that a clear path lay just behind it. He moved with an unnatural, fluid grace, his emerald eyes fixed forward, glowing with a fierce, almost unholy light in the deepening gloom.
This was magic. She knew it. The guards at Azkaban had magic—cold, cruel, and full of blue sparks that brought pain or despair. But this… this was different. This was wild, green, and protective. It was magic for her, not against her. The revelation was so profound, so jarring, that it momentarily eclipsed her fear of the beast crashing through the woods behind them.
"In here!" Lucien gasped, his voice ragged.
He pulled her towards a dense wall of ivy that clung to a low, earthen mound. He didn't stop to search; he ripped the ivy back in one smooth, powerful motion, revealing a set of rotting wooden steps leading down into darkness. It was an old, forgotten root cellar, a relic from a time when the forest had been part of an estate.
"Go! Get down!"
He half-pushed her inside. Ira tumbled down the steps, landing hard on the cold, damp earth floor. Before she could even register the fall, Lucien was in after her, pulling the heavy curtain of ivy back into place, plunging them into near-total darkness.
Above them, the beast skidded to a halt, sniffing, snarling. They heard its heavy paws scraping at the earth, its frustrated whines echoing just outside their fragile sanctuary.
Inside the cellar, the silence was broken only by the sound of their own ragged breathing. It was cold, and the air smelled of damp stone, ancient soil, and decay. Ira pressed herself against the far wall, her entire body trembling, a low sob of terror and exhaustion caught in her throat.
"It... it's still out there," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.
"It'll lose the scent," Lucien breathed, his back against the earthen wall, his chest heaving. The surge of power was already receding, leaving him shaky and dizzy, the familiar "fog" of his mother's potion trying to reassert itself. He fumbled in his pocket, his fingers closing around the small, cylindrical shape of a Muggle torch.
A bright, white beam cut through the darkness.
Ira flinched, shielding her eyes. Lucien immediately angled the light at the floor.
"Sorry," he panted. "Are you... are you hurt?"
The light illuminated her feet. They were a raw, bloody mess, cut and bruised from the rocks and thorns. Her prison uniform was soaked through with mud and sweat.
Lucien stared, his stomach twisting. This was real. This wasn't just a news report; this was a girl, barefoot and bleeding, hiding in a hole in the ground. He set the torch down on a crumbling stone ledge, angling it so it provided a dim, indirect light.
He moved toward her slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "I... I don't have much. Just this." He pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from his back pocket. It was hopelessly inadequate, but it was all he had.
He knelt in front of her, his green eyes meeting her dark, wary ones. He didn't ask her about Azkaban. He didn't ask her about her father. He just held out the handkerchief.
Ira stared at the small, white square of cloth. It was the first act of simple, uncomplicated kindness she had ever received. The first time someone had seen her pain before they saw her name.
She didn't take it. Instead, her gaze fixed on his face, her mind racing. The way he'd run. The way the branches had moved. The impossible power she had felt radiating from him, a shield against the dark.
"What was that?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "In the woods. The... the trees... they moved for you."
Lucien looked down, his brow furrowing. He had felt it, the surge, the rightness of his movements, but he had no words for it. "I don't know," he said, and it was the honest truth. "Things... things just happen around me sometimes. I run fast."
Ira knew he was either lying or, more terrifyingly, unaware. She had spent fifteen years in a world of magic, seeing it only as a tool of oppression. Now, sitting in the dark, she had seen it as a shield.
"My name is Ira," she said, finally offering her own name, a piece of herself. She pointed to his hand, the one that still held the handkerchief. "You're bleeding, too."
Lucien looked down. A long, sharp gash ran across his palm, red and angry, from where he'd ripped the ivy back. He hadn't even felt it.
He looked back at Ira, at the girl who was supposed to be a monster, and saw only the quiet intelligence in her eyes. The shadow and the light, hidden together in the dark earth, while the world hunted them both.
"We should be quiet," Lucien said, his voice low. "It might still be out there."
He tore the handkerchief in half. He pressed one piece into her hand, then, with a strange, almost clinical detachment, wrapped the other half tightly around his own bleeding palm.