Lucien stared at his hands, slick with sweat and grime, the remnants of the raw magical power that had shattered the Ministry ward only moments ago. His head pounded, his vision blurring at the edges, and the void in his chest felt cold, vast, and terrifyingly hungry. He was spent. Utterly drained.
Ira knelt beside him, her dark eyes wide and frantic. The sound of heavy, disciplined boots and snapping twigs grew louder, closer. They were no longer being hunted by instinct; they were being cornered by training.
"Aurors," Ira breathed, pushing herself back against the base of a thick, weeping willow. "There are at least three. They move too fast for local patrols." She glanced at Lucien, seeing the pallor of his skin, the exhaustion etched around his eyes. "You can't do it again. You'll kill yourself."
Lucien shook his head, pushing himself up onto one knee. The urge to shield her, to rise and fight, was still there, but the power refused to answer. He was just Luke Granger again, fifteen years old, lost in the woods, facing Ministry officers.
"We go deeper," he gasped, forcing air into his burning lungs. "We try to flank them—"
"No." Ira cut him off, her voice low and desperate. "They've surrounded the breach point. They'll use tracking charms. They won't miss this time." She scanned the trees, her eyes sharp and analytical, seeking the one thing she'd learned to rely on in Azkaban: an impossible escape route.
The voices of the approaching Aurors were now distinct, sharp shouts echoing through the quiet morning air. "Form up! Contain the perimeter! Find the breach point—it's volatile!"
Lucien gripped Ira's hand, ready to bolt into a desperate, futile flight, when a voice—not one of the Aurors, but one that was utterly calm, cultured, and resonant—cut through the tension.
"The breach point is already secured, gentlemen," the voice stated clearly, imbued with a quiet authority that silenced the approaching patrol instantly.
A figure stepped out from behind the trunk of the weeping willow, emerging from the shadows as effortlessly as if he had materialized there. He was tall, lean, and elegantly dressed in dark, expensive robes that looked utterly out of place in the damp forest. His hair was long and silver-blond, swept back neatly from a distinguished, sharp-featured face. He carried no visible wand, but his presence was a palpable force, commanding attention.
He looked, Lucien thought with a disoriented shock, like an ancient prince who had stumbled into the wrong century.
The man ignored Lucien and Ira, his calm gaze fixed on the approaching Aurors, who had now slowed to a cautious, wary stop barely fifty feet away.
"The perimeter wards collapsed due to unforeseen elemental fluctuation," the silver-haired man continued, his voice resonating with precise control. "The area is clear. You are risking exposure to Muggle populations. I suggest you report the anomaly and fall back."
A thick-set Auror, clearly the leader, stepped forward, wand raised tentatively. "Who are you? Identify yourself. This is a level-four security zone, investigating a prison escape."
The man smiled then, a slight, almost regretful movement of his lips. It did nothing to soften the piercing, intelligent blue eyes that seemed to see through the Auror and into the distant mountains.
"My name is Lysander," he said, the name rolling out with subtle, ancient weight. "And I have already handled the escapee. You will find that the breach was momentary and isolated. Your efforts here are complete."
He made a barely perceptible gesture with his hand—a smooth, elegant movement. Suddenly, the three Aurors stopped speaking, their wands dropping slightly. Confusion clouded their faces, then, inexplicably, their expressions cleared, replaced by an air of dull resignation.
"Right," the lead Auror mumbled, looking confused. "Sector is secure. Elemental fluctuation. Nothing here." He looked at his companions. "Let's go. Report the anomaly."
The three men turned stiffly, their movements wooden, and retreated quickly, their heavy boots receding into the woods. The air shimmered faintly where they had been standing, betraying the powerful, non-verbal charm that had just been cast.
Ira stared, wide-eyed, at the receding figures, then back at the man who called himself Lysander. This was controlled, deliberate magic—the kind that commanded, the kind that bent reality to its will.
"You... you made them leave," Lucien whispered, his voice laced with awe and disbelief.
Lysander finally turned, his gaze settling first on Ira—a long, assessing look devoid of judgment, only profound recognition. Then his sharp blue eyes landed on Lucien, taking in the untamed dark hair, the exhausted green eyes, the raw, unrefined aura still clinging to him. He smiled, a faint flicker of ancient amusement in his eyes.
"It was an Imperius-adjacent compulsion charm," Lysander explained calmly, as if discussing the weather. "A weak one, barely lasting a minute. Sufficient for Ministry minds. Their memories of this precise location will be… foggy."
He stepped closer, studying the mangled silver locket clutched in Lucien's hand. "The dampening ward failed spectacularly," he observed, his voice tinged with approval. "Raw power, untrained. A volatile source, yet precisely what is required."
Ira pushed herself up, suspicion battling relief. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice regaining its cold steel. "You cleared the breach. You were waiting for me."
Lysander nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over the two exhausted teenagers—the son of the Savior and the daughter of the Dark Lord.
"I am Lysander," he repeated. "And yes, I was waiting for you, Ira Riddle. I engineered your escape from Azkaban two days ago." He then met Lucien's shocked green eyes. "And young man, you are going to need a teacher. Because whether you know it or not, I was sent to you both by the silent request of Albus Dumbledore."
He paused, letting the final, shocking truth settle upon the silence of the woods.
"My full name," he added, his voice dropping slightly, imbued with an ancient, formidable shadow, "is Lysander Grindelwald."