Shadowflame

Here's the thing about dancing at high-stakes political events: It sounds way more glamorous than it actually is. You'd think it's all twirls and elegance, but really, it's just me trying not to make a complete fool of myself in front of dignitaries, superheroes, and, oh yeah, my girlfriends' friend, Mareena. No pressure, right?

I was doing my best to stay out of trouble—blending into the crowd, sipping water, and hoping no one would notice the teenage prince/billionaire/superhero lurking by the snack table—when Sirius, Remus, and Talia cornered me like a pack of wolves.

"You're brooding like someone canceled Christmas," Sirius said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "We can't have that, pup. You've got an image to maintain."

"I'm not brooding," I grumbled, adjusting my ridiculously overpriced suit. "I'm just... reflecting."

Talia rolled her eyes so hard I was pretty sure they'd get stuck. "If that's what reflecting looks like, you need to work on your PR face." She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle on her dress, which somehow managed to look both professional and deadly. "Seriously, Charis, you're the Prince of Themyscira now. Lighten up before people think you've inherited Batman's social skills."

Remus chuckled into his glass. "That would be tragic."

"Okay, first of all," I shot back, "Batman has excellent social skills when he's intimidating people."

"And you're doing a terrible job at it," Sirius added with a grin.

Then Talia hit me with the kicker. "Why don't you ask Mareena to dance?"

"Nope." I shook my head so fast I probably looked like a malfunctioning robot. "Not happening."

Sirius leaned in, smirking like the devil. "What's the matter? You afraid of a little dance floor?"

Flashbacks of the Yule Ball hit me like a bludger to the face. "We all remember how well my last big dance went." Spoiler alert: it didn't.

"Oh please." Talia waved that off like it was ancient history. (Which it kind of was, but still.) "You've come a long way since then. I made sure of it."

She wasn't lying. Talia had been relentless with the dance lessons. And when you've got partners like Kara and Kori, well… let's just say I learned pretty fast. Turns out, Wonder Woman DNA plus hours of practice equals one surprisingly good dancer. Who knew?

Sirius nudged me toward the dance floor. "Come on, princeling. This is your chance to impress everyone—and by everyone, I mean Mareena."

I glanced across the room, and yep—there she was, lounging by the dance floor with that effortless Atlantean confidence. She caught my eye and gave me a look that said, Well? What are you waiting for?

Great. Now if I didn't ask her, I'd look like a coward.

"Fine," I muttered, straightening my tie. "But if I trip and take out a UN delegate, I'm blaming you."

Talia gave me a sly smile. "I'll make sure it's on brand."

With one last deep breath, I adjusted my suit, plastered on what I hoped was a confident grin, and headed toward Mareena.

No way this could go wrong, right?

—

As I walked toward Mareena, my brain ran a marathon of bad ideas. Asking the Princess of Atlantis to dance at a high-profile event? Yep, that was right up there with poking a sleeping dragon—or worse, messing with Kori's pizza stash. I could already hear tomorrow's headlines: "Shadowflame and Mareena: The Next Power Couple?"

Spoiler: My girlfriends were not going to be thrilled about this.

Mareena spotted me coming and gave me a grin that said, I know exactly what you're up to, and I'm going to enjoy every second of this. That grin was dangerous. Not "end-of-the-world" dangerous—more like "Kara and Kori laughing at me until I die of embarrassment" dangerous.

Still, I pushed through. I mean, how bad could it be? It's just a dance, right? Right?

I stopped in front of her and offered my hand, trying to channel all the confidence I could muster. "Princess Mareena, would you do me the honor?"

She arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "How formal of you, Charis. Yes, I'd love to."

Okay, step one, done. Now all I had to do was not trip over my feet or start a diplomatic incident. Easy, right?

As we made our way to the dance floor, I heard the click of a thousand cameras and the hum of reporters practically frothing at the mouth. Flashbulbs lit up like we were walking through a lightning storm.

"Shadowflame! Are you two dating?"

"Is this a new Atlantean-Themysciran alliance?"

"How does Wonder Woman feel about your royal courtship?"

Royal courtship? What?! I nearly tripped right there, but Mareena caught me, her smirk making it clear she was enjoying my discomfort. I gave her a look that screamed, Help me!

She just grinned. "Relax. They'll get bored by tomorrow. Probably."

"Yeah, because that makes me feel better." I glanced toward the dance floor, hoping the music would drown out the chaos. Spoiler alert: It didn't.

We started to dance, and I surprised myself—I didn't step on her toes or even stumble. Talia's rigorous dance lessons must have paid off. Or maybe it was the whole being-part-demigod-now thing kicking in. Either way, I wasn't completely embarrassing myself. Yet.

As we swayed to the music, I leaned closer. "You know, this is definitely going to make things complicated with Kori and Kara."

Mareena gave me a sly smile. "Oh, please. They're not the jealous type."

I shot her a doubtful look. "Yeah, well, tell that to the paparazzi. They're going to have me married off to you by tomorrow."

She chuckled, spinning gracefully under my arm. "Don't worry. If things get messy, I'll take the blame. We'll say I seduced you."

"Oh, sure." I rolled my eyes. "Because that's going to go over so well."

The music shifted, the tempo picking up, and for a moment, the world shrank to just us, the beat, and the thrill of not making a complete fool of myself.

And honestly? It wasn't half bad. If I survived the inevitable teasing from Kara and Kori, I might even call it fun.

—

In the dimly lit, top-secret war room of ARGUS, Rick Flagg was already regretting this conversation. The way Amanda Waller sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled like a chess grandmaster about to crush her opponent, made it clear: her mind was locked tighter than a vault at Fort Knox. And Rick? He was just here to try—emphasis on try—to talk her out of her latest insane idea.

A glowing tablet rested between them, proudly displaying the headline from the Daily Prophet:

"Shadowflame: Prince of Themyscira or Future Hero of Earth?"

By Lois Lane.

"Look, Amanda," Flagg began, rubbing his temples like it might stop the incoming headache. "This kid—Charis Peverell—is off-limits. Prince of Themyscira. Diplomatic immunity. Not even eighteen. You try pulling him into Task Force X, and—best case—we're looking at a lawsuit. Worst case? Wonder Woman personally rearranges all our bones."

Waller didn't blink. She just gave him that cool, unreadable stare that made him feel like an ant she hadn't decided whether to crush or let crawl away. "I've handled worse," she said, like recruiting a teenaged prince with terrifying magical abilities was just another Tuesday.

Rick exhaled slowly, reminding himself not to yell. Yelling at Waller never helped. She thrived on people losing their cool—probably filed it under "psychological warfare" in her planner. "Amanda, I don't think you're really grasping the situation here," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "This kid? Not just a prince—he's royalty with a superpowered mom. We recruit him, and the Justice League shows up with angry Amazon reinforcements. You know, the kind that carry swords and don't mess around."

Waller leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table like she was about to tell Rick a secret she'd known all along. "The kid's called Shadowflame for a reason," she said, voice low and deliberate. "He's dangerous. If we don't get him on Task Force X, someone else will. And when that happens, we'll be the ones running scared."

Rick crossed his arms. "You mean like the Justice League? Because let's be real—they probably already have his JL membership card printed. Just waiting for him to grow into it."

Waller's lips twitched into the kind of smile that made Flagg feel like he'd just stepped into a trap. "That's the problem, Rick. If we let them scoop him up first, we lose the edge. I don't care if he's riding a Pegasus and wearing a sparkly crown—if there's a chance we can recruit him, we take it."

Rick groaned. "Amanda, he's immune to half the stuff we use to control the Squad. No collar's gonna work. And a bomb in the neck?" He shook his head. "You really think that's gonna stop a kid who's got literal fire running through his veins? One wrong step, and the only thing exploding is us."

If Amanda Waller felt any fear at all, she didn't show it. In fact, the gleam in her eyes suggested she enjoyed the challenge. "Then we'll find another way," she said, like they were discussing holiday plans instead of kidnapping magical royalty.

"You're not listening, Amanda," Rick snapped, frustration bubbling over. "The kid has diplomatic immunity. No loopholes. No technicalities. You drag him into this, and you're not just poking Themyscira—you're poking the whole Justice League. With a stick. A very short, very stupid stick."

Waller didn't even flinch. "Everyone has a weakness, Rick," she said, voice smooth and confident. "You just have to know where to look."

Rick ran a hand down his face. "Amanda, this kid's the son of Diana of Themyscira. He probably grew up dodging arrows for fun. I'm pretty sure the 'find-the-weakness' playbook doesn't work on him."

That sly smile was back, the one that made Flagg's stomach twist. "We'll see. People like him think they're untouchable. All I need is one slip. One mistake. And when he makes it? He's mine."

Rick threw his hands in the air. "And what if he doesn't slip? What if—shock of shocks—you push too hard, and instead of a teammate, you end up with a magical teenage super-prince gunning for your head?"

Waller's expression turned cold, like ice creeping under a doorframe. "Then I'll make sure he never becomes anyone else's weapon."

The room went quiet, the hum of the overhead lights filling the silence. Rick sat back, shaking his head. Arguing with Waller was like arguing with gravity—pointless, exhausting, and guaranteed to end in a fall.

"You know," he muttered, "one of these days, you're gonna pull something like this and find out you poked the wrong bear."

Waller's smile didn't waver. "Then I'll make sure I'm the one holding the leash."

Rick slumped in his chair, already imagining the PR nightmare waiting for him when this plan inevitably blew up in their faces. But hey—if Amanda Waller was anything, she was predictable. And unfortunately, predictably terrifying.

—

In a dimly lit, lavishly decorated hideout that smelled faintly of incense and old parchment, Barbara Ann Minerva lounged on a velvet chaise, absently flicking her claws across the screen of a tablet. She had plenty of things to hate about the modern world—Wi-Fi dead zones, airports, and gluten-free bread, just to name a few—but the internet? That was a guilty pleasure she could sink her claws into. The gossip, the secrets, the scandals... It was like a never-ending buffet. And today? Today, the main course was something very unexpected.

"Shadowflame: Prince of Themyscira or Future Hero of Earth?"

By Lois Lane.

Barbara's golden eyes narrowed to slits as she read the article, her claw-tipped finger tapping the headline slowly, almost lazily, like a cat toying with prey. A son. Wonder Woman has a son. And somehow, somehow, she had managed to keep him hidden from the world for seventeen years.

Barbara let out a low, throaty chuckle that would've sent a shiver down anyone's spine. "Oh, Diana... you've been holding out on me," she murmured, her voice honey-sweet but laced with venom.

She skimmed through the article, absorbing every detail: Charis Peverell, aka Shadowflame. Wings made of literal fire. Billion Dollar inheritance from his father. Prince of Themyscira.

Her mind raced, piecing together the implications. If Diana's son was real—and powerful—it meant she'd just stumbled on something far more valuable than gold artifacts or ancient scrolls. This wasn't just a child; this was leverage. A chink in Wonder Woman's supposedly invincible armor.

Barbara leaned back on the chaise, the corners of her mouth curling into a feral grin. "How poetic," she whispered, tracing the boy's name on the screen. Charis Peverell. It had a regal sound to it, but there was something else... something familiar. The name tickled the back of her mind, as if she'd read it somewhere before in an old myth or forgotten tome. She'd have to look into that.

But that was a problem for later. Right now, all she could think about was what it would mean for Diana—and for her. After all these years of fighting, their battles had always been personal. But now? Now there was something new on the board. A piece neither of them had accounted for. A son.

And if Diana had been keeping him hidden, it wasn't just out of some motherly desire for privacy. No, no—there had to be more to it. Secrets that deep weren't buried unless they could unravel everything.

Barbara's grin sharpened. "You didn't tell me you had a prince, Diana," she purred. "What else have you been hiding?"

The possibilities swirled in her mind like a storm. Maybe Charis was a weakness she could exploit. Maybe the boy was already a pawn of the Justice League, ripe for corruption—or liberation, depending on how she spun it. Or maybe, just maybe, the kid didn't know the whole story either.

"Oh, this could be fun," she whispered to herself, a wicked gleam in her eye.

She tossed the tablet aside, uncaring as it clattered to the floor. There were other ways to gather information—ways the Daily Planet couldn't print, and Lois Lane couldn't dig up. If Diana had gone to this much trouble to hide the boy, there were surely cracks in the foundation. And Barbara? She had a talent for sniffing out those cracks and driving her claws deep into them.

The grin widened, her fangs gleaming in the low light.

"Time to meet the prince," she said, her voice practically dripping with anticipation. "And see what kind of royal secrets he's hiding."

With a flick of her tail and a predator's grace, Cheetah disappeared into the shadows, her mind already spinning with plots, promises, and possibilities. Whatever Diana thought she was protecting, it was about to come crashing down.

Because Barbara Ann Minerva didn't just hunt prey—she tore it apart.

—

Dancing with Mareena was supposed to be easy. It's just swaying to some music, keeping my balance, and not thinking about the headlines tomorrow. Spoiler alert: None of that was happening.

Mareena was laying it on thick. Her fingers brushed my shoulder, her smile practically screamed I love being mysterious, and every time she leaned closer, I could feel a dozen cameras go into overdrive. Somewhere, I just knew a tabloid editor was gleefully typing "Royal Romance? The Prince of Themyscira and the Princess of Atlantis Heat Up the Dance Floor!"

Meanwhile, I was praying Kara and Kori wouldn't see those headlines and decide I needed to be roasted alive.

"You know they won't care, right?" Mareena said, reading my mind—because of course she did. Atlanteans are freakishly perceptive. "Kara and Kori trust you. They're not the jealous type."

"Right." I gave her a spin. "Because explaining this to my girlfriends is going to go over perfectly. I'll just say, 'Hey, it's not what it looked like, we were only dodging paparazzi death beams.' They'll love that."

Mareena laughed, and I swear the sound of it was designed to charm entire rooms into submission. She's one of those people who can make giggling look dignified, while I probably looked like I was one awkward step away from spraining my dignity. Again.

Then, mid-spin, I saw him.

At first glance, he looked just like another rich guy at the gala—a silver-haired guest with an eye-patch wearing a tux, sipping champagne and working the room like he belonged there. But that face… It clicked in my brain like a puzzle piece snapping into place. I'd stared at it enough times on the Justice League's "Most Wanted" board back at Watchtower.

Deathstroke.

The world's deadliest assassin, blending into the crowd like he was auditioning for GQ's Criminal Edition. And guess what? He wasn't just here to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres. No, he was making a beeline—cool, calm, and collected—straight toward Talia.

Now, Talia wasn't exactly helpless, but watching her stand by that giant marble column, casually sipping champagne, while Deathstroke closed in on her? Yeah, that was the stuff anxiety attacks are made of.

I tensed, but Mareena squeezed my hand. "Something wrong?"

"Oh, nothing major," I muttered. "Just that guy in the tux? Yeah, that's Deathstroke."

Her eyes widened, flicking toward him for a second, but she stayed cool. "You sure?"

"Absolutely. He's got the face that says, I'm very good at murder, and my tux cost more than your car."

I had two options: 1) Cause a scene by throwing him through a wall, or 2) Play it cool and hope he didn't ruin my night. Spoiler: Option two wasn't really my style. But unfortunately, "prince with diplomatic immunity" doesn't mean you get to actually start fights at UN galas.

Mareena raised an eyebrow, clearly trying to figure out if I was about to do something reckless. To be honest, I hadn't figured that out yet either.

"You gonna step in?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"Trying not to," I grumbled. "But you know me. Staying out of trouble isn't exactly my thing."

And with that, I gave her one last spin—because, if things went south, I wanted to at least look cool before all hell broke loose.

—

Deathstroke glided through the crowd like a shark at a pool party—completely unnoticed by everyone except the lifeguard. Unfortunately, in this case, the lifeguard was me, and I was stuck on the dance floor pretending not to have a heart attack.

He moved toward Talia with the kind of casual confidence that only someone with a kill count longer than a Tolstoy novel could pull off. Polished shoes, tailored tux, not a hair out of place. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked more like a billionaire mogul trying to network than a contract killer. But I did know better. Deathstroke didn't "mingle." He hunted.

Talia was by the marble column, sipping champagne, the picture of unbothered elegance. She hadn't noticed him yet—at least, not that I could tell. Or maybe she had and just didn't care. With Talia, it was always hard to tell whether she was ignoring a threat or waiting for it to make the first move.

Deathstroke slowed as he neared her, lifting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter like he did this sort of thing every Tuesday. He stopped just close enough to talk, but not close enough to raise suspicion. Subtle, smooth. Exactly the way someone like him operates.

I tightened my grip on Mareena's hand, my instincts screaming at me to move.

"Harry…" she said quietly, catching my shift in focus.

"I see him," I muttered, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "He's making his move."

Mareena followed my gaze. "You think he's here for her?"

"Who else?" I whispered. "Talia's got more secrets than the Batcave. And Deathstroke's not the type to show up just for the finger food."

I wanted to bolt across the room, but that'd be a terrible idea. Punching a wanted assassin in front of every UN dignitary and a dozen news cameras? Yeah, that's not exactly what Diana meant when she said I needed to 'keep a low profile.'

So I stood there, practically vibrating with tension, as Deathstroke leaned in to talk to Talia. She didn't flinch, didn't even seem surprised. She gave him the kind of smile that said, I've been expecting you.

I swore under my breath.

This was about to get complicated.

—

Deathstroke smiled the kind of smile that said, I could kill you, but let's pretend we're friends for now. "Selling out dear old Dad to the Justice League? That's bold, even for you, Talia."

Talia sipped her champagne like she was humoring a dull guest at a garden party. "Father's time was over. And if you had the same opportunity, Slade, we both know you'd have taken it."

Deathstroke's visible eye narrowed. He leaned in, like a villain in a spy movie who just found out the hero's weakness. "The League of Assassins needs a new boss. You know I'm the guy for the job." He glanced around, making sure no one was too close to hear. "Come with me. We could run it together. Or..." His voice dipped into something colder. "I take over, and you learn how unpleasant I can be."

Talia didn't even flinch. She gave him a smile that was sharp enough to cut glass. "Unfortunately for you, Slade, I'm perfectly content with my current arrangements." She glanced meaningfully toward the crowd, where Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Aqualad, and Shadowflame—aka Harry—were casually scattered. Well, casually in a you-won't-get-ten-feet-if-you-try-anything kind of way.

"And even if I wasn't," she added, her smile never wavering, "you know you can't do a thing right now. Not with them watching."

Deathstroke followed her gaze, his expression flickering with irritation for half a second. Shadowflame caught that tiny crack and couldn't help but feel a smug little spark of victory. Harry had moved fast—alerting Diana and Donna while Mareena warned her parents and Aqualad. Now, every big hitter in the room was on high alert, their gazes subtle but locked on the world's most dangerous mercenary.

Deathstroke's lip curled. "Fine," he muttered, draining his champagne with the air of someone swallowing broken glass. "Enjoy your party while you can, Talia."

With that, he melted back into the crowd like the world's deadliest magician performing a disappearing act. One second, he was there; the next, gone, leaving behind nothing but a chill in the air and an uncomfortable feeling that this wasn't the last they'd see of him.

Harry exhaled—maybe a little louder than he meant to—but Talia just gave him a calm, knowing glance.

Translation: All good. For now.

Shadowflame had no doubt Deathstroke was already plotting his next move, probably involving fifty ways to ruin everyone's day. But hey, that was tomorrow's problem. For now, all Harry could do was stay alert and try to avoid thinking about how this dance was already shaping up to be the worst kind of diplomatic headache.

—

Deathstroke slipped out of the gala like a ghost in a tuxedo, blending into the shadows before the paparazzi could figure out who he was. Cameras flashed, reporters screamed questions, but the man was already gone—vanishing into the night as if he had a PhD in "I Was Never Here."

Once clear of the chaos, he tapped the comm in his ear. "Rose. You alive up there?"

Rose's voice crackled through the earpiece, sounding far too entertained for someone babysitting a sniper rifle. "Yup. I got eyes on the whole circus. Shadowflame and Mareena ratted you out fast, by the way. Real subtle, these kids."

Deathstroke grunted. "Figures. You got eyes on them now?"

"Oh yeah. They're all sticking close to their VIP buddies—Wonder Woman, Aquaman, you know, the don't-mess-with-me crowd. I'd say you're fresh outta luck if you were planning anything dramatic." She paused. "Also, side note? Mareena's been flirting with Shadowflame the entire night. Not sure if he's scared or excited, but the headlines tomorrow are gonna be wild."

Deathstroke pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic. Just what I need—teen drama and royalty in the same sentence."

"Hey, the kid's got guts." Rose chuckled. "He's juggling Supergirl, Starfire, and now the Princess of Atlantis. If this whole hero thing doesn't pan out, maybe he should write a dating manual."

"Focus," Deathstroke growled, scanning the quiet street. "How's Talia?"

"Untouchable," Rose reported. "She's surrounded by power players. No way you're getting her alone without kicking off World War Three."

Deathstroke's smile was thin, more knife than kindness. "I didn't need to get her alone. Just had to remind her who's waiting when the dust settles."

Rose's tone turned dry. "She didn't seem all that worried. Honestly, she looked more like she was planning your funeral."

"She'll come around." Deathstroke's voice dripped with certainty. "And when she does, the League of Assassins will be mine."

"Sure thing, Dad," Rose said, as if humoring a particularly ambitious toddler. "But with all these heavy-hitters breathing down your neck, you better hope your grand plan is really good. Otherwise, next time we chat, you'll be dialing me from a jail cell."

Deathstroke let out a low, humorless laugh. "Let them watch. They can't stop what they don't see coming."

With that, he cut the connection and melted into the night. The gala might've been full of gods, warriors, and kings, but Deathstroke? He was playing the long game—and one day, they'd all see just how dangerous that could be.

—

The Daily Planet newsroom was the kind of chaos that could only be described as a perfectly choreographed disaster. Phones rang like angry toddlers, reporters scurried back and forth clutching half-finished stories, and Perry White's voice blasted across the room like a foghorn trapped inside a bullhorn. In other words, just another normal night before a big edition.

Clark Kent sat at his desk, typing at superhuman speed—well, normal speed for him, but good enough to make every other reporter in the room wonder if he secretly mainlined coffee. Lois Lane, meanwhile, sat next to him, legs tucked under her like she was plotting world domination instead of polishing an article. She was biting her pen in that "I'm about to tell you you're wrong" way she had perfected over the years.

Clark didn't even look up. "You're going to tell me this headline is terrible, aren't you?"

Lois grinned. "You know it's terrible, Smallville."

"'Atlantis and Themyscira Seek Inclusion in the UN' sounds fine," Clark muttered, even though he already knew it didn't stand a chance.

"It sounds like something they'd slap on a boring government press release," Lois countered. "Try: 'When Gods and Kings Walk Among Us: Historic UN Summit Tomorrow.'"

Clark sighed, typing it in. She was right, of course. Lois was always right. But that was part of her charm—or so he kept telling himself.

Across the room, Perry White loomed like a storm cloud ready to burst. "Lane! Kent! Do you two plan on saving the paper before midnight, or should I just set it on fire now and save us the trouble?"

"Almost done!" Lois called back with a grin, like they weren't 100% flying by the seat of their pants.

Clark's phone buzzed on his desk, and he glanced at the screen. Jimmy Olsen's name popped up. Clark knew enough about Jimmy to understand that late-night calls were never good news.

"Hey, Jimmy," Clark answered, keeping his voice casual. "What's going on?"

Jimmy's voice came through, breathless and crackling with excitement. "Uh, so… you know how this gala thing was supposed to be low-key?"

Clark's heart sank. "What happened?"

"Deathstroke. He's here. Thought you'd wanna know before things, you know… escalate."

Clark felt his pulse quicken—not that his pulse ever stayed quick for long, given the whole Kryptonian biology thing. "Thanks, Jimmy. I'll check in soon."

Lois raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Supervillain sighting?"

Clark nodded grimly. "Deathstroke. At the gala."

Lois groaned, already closing her laptop. "Of course it's Deathstroke. It couldn't just be a normal diplomatic event. Nope. Gotta have a guy with an eye patch and a sword crash the party."

Clark gave her a sheepish smile. "You coming?"

"Oh, absolutely." Lois grabbed her coat. "Someone's gotta keep you from brooding."

As they prepared to head out, what neither of them realized was that Clark had much bigger problems than Deathstroke lurking around a party.

Trigon—yes, that Trigon, demonic conqueror and general destroyer of worlds—was already inside Clark's head, slowly sinking his claws deeper into Superman's mind. Clark didn't feel it, not yet. That was the thing about having an interdimensional demon take up residence in your brain: it was sneaky. It started small, like a tickle at the back of your thoughts, until one day—bam—you were marching to the beat of evil's drum without even realizing it.

For now, though, Trigon was content to play the long game. Every League meeting Clark attended, every secret he learned about his teammates, every vulnerability Superman uncovered—Trigon quietly added it to his growing collection of intel.

Because, let's be real: If you've already hitched a ride inside the most powerful man on Earth, the world is basically your oyster. And the best part? Nobody had a clue. Not yet.

But Trigon wasn't in a rush. Why hurry, when victory was practically gift-wrapped and waiting? All he had to do was sit back, bide his time, and wait for the right moment to make his move.

And when that moment came? Well, let's just say the League was going to wish they'd brought more than one Kryptonian to the fight.

—

The ruins of the Department of Mysteries looked more like the aftermath of a demolition derby than the place where magic's greatest enigmas were once studied. Voldemort stood at the edge of the wreckage, the Elder Wand balanced lightly between his pale fingers, its wood smooth and polished, the power within humming like a barely leashed storm. He admired it for a moment longer—his most recent trophy from Dumbledore's cold, lifeless hands. Three months since the old man's death, and it still wasn't enough to lift the dark mood that hung over the Dark Lord like a dementor's fog.

The Veil of Death loomed before him, or rather, what was left of it. The ancient archway—once a mystical portal to realms beyond—was now cracked and splintered, half the fabric that once fluttered eerily within it lying in tattered shreds on the ground. Lucius and Draco Malfoy stood nearby, pointedly keeping their faces blank as lesser Death Eaters scurried around, moving debris at their command. Supervision, it seemed, was the only physical labor the Malfoys were willing to perform.

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed in distaste. The sight of the Veil, broken and useless, made his temper itch like an old wound. The knowledge that so many witches and wizards—Weasleys included—had slipped through its portal to escape his grasp gnawed at him. Worse still, the cowards had taken everything of value: Goblins, Veela, magical creatures, and the entire contents of Gringotts. The wizarding economy lay in ruins, and Voldemort's rage had become a daily ritual. These days, breathing too loudly in his presence could earn someone the Cruciatus.

Voldemort turned to Rookwood, the former Unspeakable, whose knowledge of the Department's dark secrets had earned him a dubious place in the Dark Lord's inner circle. "Can the Veil be repaired?" Voldemort's voice was a whisper—low, deliberate, and more dangerous than a scream.

Rookwood shifted nervously. "It can, my Lord. But it will take precisely a month to stabilize the portal for safe passage."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "A month?"

"Yes, my Lord." Rookwood kept his gaze low, wisely avoiding Voldemort's eyes. "The ritual to restore the Veil is most effective if performed on Samhain… Halloween."

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the shuffling of Death Eaters clearing the last bits of debris. Voldemort's lips curled in irritation. Patience had never been his strong suit, and waiting another month for the chance to cross over into this new world—the one where his enemies now hid with the two remaining Deathly Hallows—was almost unbearable.

He clenched his fist around the Elder Wand, fighting the urge to curse the incompetent fools surrounding him. His Horcruxes were gone, hunted down and destroyed by that infernal Dumbledore. Only the Hallows remained now. If he could retrieve the Potter family's Invisibility Cloak and the Resurrection Stone—both of which had last been seen in the hands of those meddling Weasleys—he would become the Master of Death. Immortal. Untouchable.

And then, nothing could stop him. Not Dumbledore, not Potter's ghost, not even Death itself.

With a frustrated hiss, Voldemort swept past Rookwood, his robes trailing behind him like shadows given form. "Inform me the moment everything is ready," he ordered, his voice as cold as frostbite.

Rookwood gave a stiff nod, visibly relieved that the conversation was over.

"Bellatrix!" Voldemort called, his voice slicing through the air.

From the shadows, Bellatrix Lestrange emerged, wild-eyed and grinning in that unsettling way she'd perfected ever since her husband had been killed. Her cackle echoed through the empty room, shrill and unhinged, sending chills down the spines of even the most hardened Death Eaters. She practically danced toward Voldemort, delighted at being summoned.

"Yes, my Lord?" she whispered, her voice dripping with reverence and madness.

"Come," Voldemort ordered, turning toward the exit. "We are leaving."

But before he took another step, his red eyes locked onto Lucius and Draco. The Malfoys stiffened, sensing what was coming but powerless to prevent it.

"Crucio."

Lucius crumpled to the ground first, writhing and screaming as the curse tore through him. Draco followed a second later, his face contorted in agony as he tried—and failed—to suppress his cries. Voldemort watched them squirm with a detached sort of pleasure, as if they were nothing more than insects pinned beneath his wand.

He held the curse a few moments longer, savoring their pain, before releasing it with a flick of his wrist. Both Malfoys lay panting on the ground, their faces pale and sweaty. Voldemort didn't even spare them a second glance.

"Because I felt like it," he whispered, his voice barely audible but sharp as a dagger.

And with that, he turned on his heel and swept from the room, Bellatrix trailing behind him like a loyal hound, still giggling to herself.

Samhain couldn't come soon enough.

---

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