| ℒ | ~ @progenyofprongs
The forest stank of rotting magic and desperation. Lucien stepped into the clearing like he’d just arrived to clean up a mess he hadn’t made again. ( The trees whispered like cowards overhead, and the mist rolled in the way it always did when people who still believed in Dark Lords tried to make an entrance. ) There were five of them, maybe six, hoods up, wands raised, masks cracked and clinging to tradition like it would protect them from reality. He knew who they were hunting. Not just Harry. Amelia.
Harry had come to him not long ago, jaw tight, eyes dark with the kind of rage that only came from fear for someone else, since he barely gave a shit about himself. ‘They’re sniffing around again,’ he’d warned. ‘Looking for her. For me. For anyone they think still matters.’ Lucien hadn’t asked questions. He didn’t need to. He’d been alive long enough to recognise when the past couldn’t take a hint. So when the spells started flying — red and green and gold like some sick firework display — Lucien didn’t flinch. The first curse hit him square in the chest. The second skimmed his shoulder. The third fizzled pathetically near his jaw like it wasn’t even trying. He looked down at his jacket, now mildly scorched, and let out a slow, deliberate sigh.
‘Do you practice being this useless,’ he asked flatly, ‘or does it come naturally?’ One of them shouted something desperate — a name, maybe a threat — but it didn’t matter. ( Their magic bent around him like light around shadow. ) He didn’t even need to raise a hand. The trees moved for him. The ground buckled. One wand shattered with a shriek. Another caster flew backwards into a tree so hard the bark cracked. Lucien walked through it like a storm in a suit.
When the last one dropped to his knees, bleeding and begging, Lucien crouched, met his eyes, and spoke in a voice cold enough to snap steel. ‘You go back to whoever’s still foolish enough to follow your little cause. Tell them this — Harry is not alone. Amelia is not undefended. And if you come near either of them again…’ He smiled, sharp and without warmth. ‘I’ll start making examples.’ And with that, he vanished, not with a bang or dramatic swirl of cloak, but a blink. Gone.
Back at the safehouse, the scent of ash still clinging to him, Lucien reappeared beside Amelia in the kitchen. She barely had time to react before he spoke, voice dry as ever, a single streak of blood on his collar like an afterthought. ‘They’re still persistent,’ he mused, flicking a bit of debris off his sleeve. ‘And still remarkably bad at their jobs. One tried to hex my face. Another actually shouted ‘for the Dark Lord’, which I found wildly optimistic.’ He glanced at her, unbothered. ‘I’m fine. They’re not.’ He moved past her, heading for the liquor cabinet. ‘Remind me to burn that jacket, hm? It smells like failure.’
