The silence in the root cellar was a tangible, heavy thing, broken only by the echo of their ragged breaths. Above them, the low, frustrated whine of the creature slowly receded into the night, but the sense of being hunted lingered, clinging to the damp earth walls.
Lucien leaned back against the cold stone, every muscle in his body protesting the unnatural burst of speed and strength. The familiar, low-grade hum of suppressed power was now a sharp, throbbing ache that radiated from his center. He felt weak, dizzy, and vaguely nauseous—the immediate fallout of the potion's containment failing under duress.
Ira sat opposite him, drawn up tight against the wall, her dark eyes still wide with suspicion and exhaustion. She held the small, white piece of handkerchief, stained with the mud and blood of her escape, but made no move to tend her raw feet. She was observing him, cataloging every twitch, every shiver, every flicker of the torchlight in his bright green eyes.
"Why did you stop?" she finally whispered, the sound cracking like brittle wood. "Why didn't you leave me?"
The question was stark, simple, and utterly devoid of expectation. In Ira's life, people only helped when they wanted something—usually pain or obedience.
Lucien looked down at his own bandaged hand, where the raw cut was already beginning to sting fiercely. "I don't know," he admitted honestly. "The animal was going to... it was going to hurt you." He looked up, meeting her intense gaze. "You looked scared. And hurt."
Ira's thin mouth curled into a faint, bitter semblance of a smile. "You don't understand, Luke. If it was just a wolf, that would be a mercy. They're coming for me. Real hunters." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "The Ministry. They want me back. Or they want me dead."
"I know," Lucien countered quietly. "I heard the radio. Ira Riddle." He let the name hang between them—the name that symbolized all the shadows of the past two decades.
Ira's eyes narrowed, the suspicion hardening into cold fear. "Then why? Why risk it? The name Riddle—it's supposed to make people run faster."
"Maybe I don't run fast enough," Lucien mumbled, pushing aside the profound truth—that his inexplicable "luck" had pointed him directly to his father's greatest enemy's daughter. "The way you looked... it was the same as the way my mum looks sometimes when she thinks I'm not watching. Like she's carrying a secret that's too heavy."
Ira didn't move, but the sheer force of her suspicion wavered slightly at the mention of his mother. It was an honest, emotional answer, something she was completely unfamiliar with.
"You said your name was Luke," she tested, her voice low.
"It is," Lucien affirmed. "Luke Granger. I live near here with my mother." He offered the safest lie he knew.
Ira nodded slowly, processing the information. "You're a Muggle, then. No magic." It wasn't a question; it was a statement based on his ordinary clothes, his use of a torch, and his lack of a wand.
Lucien felt the familiar, dull pressure where the potion fought his power. No magic. That was the line Cho had drawn. "No," he said, swallowing past the lie. "I'm just... Luke."
"Then what was that power?" Ira pressed, leaning forward, the exhaustion temporarily forgotten. "The trees, the branches—they cleared your path. They ran you faster than any Muggle runs."
Lucien shook his head, looking genuinely frustrated. "I told you, things just... happen. I don't know how. I think fast, and my body just does it. I've always been... lucky." He rubbed his hands together, then glanced at the silver compass, which lay innocently on the ledge beside the torch. "That compass led me straight to you, and it never works right."
Ira studied the green eyes that were searching for answers in the gloom. He was lying, or he was ignorant. Given his bewildered expression, she leaned towards the latter. He had uncontrolled, wild magic. It was the only explanation for the unnatural calm he possessed and the phenomenal speed they had run.
"You are not lucky, Luke," Ira stated, the word "Luke" feeling strange on her tongue. "You are powerful. And you have no idea what you are." A strange, almost protective concern flickered across her face. "You shouldn't have helped me. Now you have my shadow on you."
Lucien managed a tired smile. "Maybe I need a bit of shadow. My mother is all light."
His words struck Ira, silencing her entirely. The son of light, choosing shadow. The daughter of darkness, seeking refuge in light.
The silence returned, deeper this time, punctuated by the rhythmic dripping of water from a crack in the stone above them. Ira finally reached for the handkerchief, and with slow, agonizing movements, began to clean the worst of the grime from her feet.
"Where will you go?" Lucien asked eventually, his voice barely a breath.
Ira didn't stop cleaning. "I don't know. The coast. A different country. I just need to get far away from here. Far away from Azkaban."
Lucien looked down at the dark, bloody stains on the earth beneath her feet. He knew he couldn't take her home, not with the Aurors closing in. Not with his mother's secret on the line. But he also knew he wouldn't leave her.
He reached out, tentatively touching her bruised shoulder. Ira flinched violently, her muscles locking up, but he held firm, his touch gentle.
"You can't go anywhere on those feet," Lucien murmured. "We wait until dawn. We plan. And then, we go together."
Ira lifted her head, her dark eyes locking with his unnerving green ones. The simple, raw sincerity of his statement was the most terrifying thing she had encountered since leaving her cell. It was an absolute break from the rules of her world.
"You're a fool, Luke," she told him, but there was no malice in the word.
"Maybe," Lucien replied, adjusting his grip on her shoulder. "But your name makes you a target, Ira. And right now, I'm the only thing between you and the Ministry."
He settled back against the wall, the strange, electric tension of their shared space cementing an unbreakable, dangerous alliance in the dark.