𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻

Chapter 23: Exiles

The sky over Hogwarts was a wound. Clouds burned red as curses tore through them. Spires bled rubble onto the courtyards, and every stone seemed to shake with the sound of war. The air reeked of blood and burning parchment. Charms shrieked like wounded things. Vivienne moved through the chaos like someone who had already accepted death. Her robes were torn, streaked with ash and spellslinger's soot. The right sleeve was completely missing, revealing a trail of blood that shimmered like oil in the torchlight. Her hair clung to her face, and her grip on the wand was clenched so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. She wasn't fighting for victory. She was fighting to hold something—herself, maybe—together. A surge of green light shattered the stone inches from her feet. She pivoted, fast, firing off a curse that flattened the masked Death Eater who had appeared at her flank. She didn't wait to see him fall. She turned again. Hogwarts was breaking. In the eastern sky, the Astronomy Tower had already collapsed. Screams echoed from the Transfiguration Courtyard. To her left, flashes of red and gold signaled where the Order held a crumbling line. Smoke billowed from the Great Hall like breath from a dying god. Silence. Not everywhere. Not all at once. But near her. Like someone had pulled sound itself out of the air. Vivienne stopped. A chill slid down her spine. She turned—and saw him, again. He walked alone. No guards. No chaos behind him. Just stillness. Like the world was holding its breath. Vivienne raised her wand. Her body screamed against the effort. Her lungs pulled in smoke. Her magic felt thin—overused, stretched to breaking—but she refused to lower her arm.

"You've made quite a mess," he said, voice soft, conversational.

She didn't speak.

He tilted his head slightly. "Bellatrix failed."

"She chose," Vivienne spat. "That's more than you'll ever understand."

"Chose?" His smile flickered. "No. She's broken. That's different."

The word sliced through her. But she didn't flinch.

"You broke her," Vivienne said. "I'll unmake everything that touched her."

Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "Will you now?"

He raised his wand. Vivienne moved first.

"Confringo!"

The spell exploded toward him—fiery and precise. Voldemort deflected it effortlessly with a flick of his wand. The backlash hit the castle wall behind her, showering her with stone and ash. He countered with a bolt of green flame that twisted mid-air. Vivienne spun behind a broken column, the edge of the curse singeing her ribs.

She emerged on the other side, whispered, "Ardens Vincula!"

Ropes of burning light slashed through the air, coiling toward Voldemort like vipers. He lifted his hand—not even his wand—and the ropes turned to smoke.

"You're a skilled witch," he said, almost kindly. "And wasted."

"Funny," she hissed. "I was just thinking the same about you."

A flick of his wrist, and the ground erupted beneath her.

She was airborne—then on her back, coughing stone dust, blood on her tongue.

He was already stepping forward. Slow. Patient. Like death didn't need to rush. She tried to raise her wand again. Then—

"Stupefy!"

A flash of blue light streaked from her left, hitting Voldemort's shoulder. He staggered. Vivienne turned her head. Harry. He stood at the top of the stairwell, battered and pale, but steady. The elder wand gleamed in his grip.

"Get up!" he shouted.

Vivienne did.

Together, they stood—one step apart, spells humming in their bones.