The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

The shimmering surface of the frozen lake above the Aecor dorms cast a rippling light, dancing across the aquatic blue tiles of the Common Room through the tall, frosted glass. The room was eerily quiet, the faint hum of water currents above adding an otherworldly stillness to the space. Volg sat hunched on one of the couches, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. His heel tapped rhythmically against the floor, the sound an erratic metronome to the storm brewing inside him. His teeth ground together with such intensity that his jaw ached.

Even now, he could hear them—whispers, faint but undeniable, from his fellow Aecor students. Their voices carried just enough to cut at him like blades, their tones laced with mockery and scorn. He didn't need to see them to feel their eyes boring into the back of his head, their sneers curling behind his back. Every word they spoke echoed in his mind, affirming the worst of what he already knew.

They knew. They all knew. What had happened in that room—the yelling, the fracture, the abandonment. He had no doubt the scandal had spread like wildfire across The Congregation. To say The Calishans were now a shadow of their former glory would be a laughable understatement. They were a lifeless husk of the once-mighty Clan that had ruled from the High Table.

Volg's nails dug into the flesh of his palm, pressing so deeply they threatened to break skin. His hands trembled with the force of his anger, but he didn't release his grip. The burning hatred within him refused to abate, growing with every passing second.

Godric Gryffindor. It was all his fault.

Volg's teeth clenched harder, his jaw tightening until it felt as though it might shatter. If only that filthy boor hadn't challenged him months ago. If only he had stayed in his place. If only he had rolled over like the low-born serf he was born to be. A name without legacy, a station without significance—how dare he rise against his betters? How dare he defy the natural order?

If a flame like Gryffindor's was allowed to burn, what hope would there be for the others to remain in line? The foundation of everything Volg had built, the hierarchy he had upheld, was crumbling beneath the weight of Gryffindor's defiance. The insidious whispers of the Aecor students swelled in his ears, each word a searing reminder of his humiliation, feeding the roaring fire within.

Gryffindor's words from the Defendere rang in Volg's mind, searing like molten iron:

"I won't just burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you. And when I'm done—when the dust settles, and your world is nothing but smoke and ash, when everything you've built has crumbled into nothing… only then will you have my permission to die."

The words grated at Volg's psyche, fraying whatever control he had left. Suddenly, he erupted like a taut string snapping under pressure. "Go to Hell, Gryffindor!" he roared, leaping to his feet. "Your permission? Your bloody permission!" His voice was a mix of fury and disbelief as he slammed a fist into the couch's armrest. "You piece of low-born filth, I'll kill you! I'll rip you apart!"

The echoes of his outburst lingered in the Common Room as his chest heaved with ragged breaths. Volg's vision blurred with rage before slowly coming into focus. He glanced over his shoulder and froze. A group of Aecor students stared at him, their expressions a mix of confusion, unease, and outright fear. Their murmurs, though low, reached his ears like taunts, needling at his already fragile composure.

"What the bloody Hell are you all staring at?!" Volg bellowed. His wild glare sent most of them scattering in hurried retreat. Others lingered only long enough to glare back before walking away, muttering angrily under their breath.

Volg sank back onto the couch, his head falling into his hands as his breathing remained heavy and uneven. His pulse pounded in his ears, his thoughts spinning in chaos. Even as the Common Room fell silent, the echoes of Gryffindor's words refused to fade.

He then felt a hand on his shoulder, and his body tensed instinctively. The boy flinched, his eyes narrowing as he turned to glare at the intruder, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. Then he recognized the face.

"Volg, easy," Rance said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "It's just me. Take a breather, mate."

Volg's expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. "Rance…" he exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you."

Rance offered a faint smirk, his tone deliberately light. "Hell, I haven't seen you this wound up since your brother's birthday party last year," he said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy air. "And trust me, you were wound up tighter than a kneazle in a bathtub."

"Don't remind me," Volg scowled, his tone dark. "As if the family doesn't celebrate that prick enough already. All the fanfare, the endless toasts—and what do I get? Barely a card on mine, and worst of all, it's from him."

"And what am I, then? Chopped liver?" Rance shot him a mock-offended look, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "I went halfway across Avalon to get you those custom crystal dice you wouldn't shut up about."

Volg chuckled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Still can't believe you managed to get those made. Honestly, I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate you, Rance." He leaned back slightly, his expression softening. "When I look back at my life growing up, the only person who was always by my side was you."

Rance returned the smile, brushing off the compliment with a wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. If you hadn't pulled me out of that alley when those goblins cornered me, I doubt we'd even be here having this conversation."

"Rance, I've told you before." Volg shrugged. "I don't hold that over your head. It was a one-time thing, and you don't owe me anything for it."

"I know," Rance said. "But that day, when you offered me your hand, I made a decision. You were the one I'd follow, no matter what. You've got this… light, Volg. That's why we all rallied behind you when you took the helm of The Calishans."

Volg scoffed, though the compliment wasn't entirely lost on him. "Apparently, not everyone shares your opinion. Look at us now—disgraced, scattered. The Calishans are nothing more than a memory."

"A minor setback," Rance reassured. "We'll get back on track soon enough. Once we bury Gryffindor and his friends, and wash our hands of that pelt, things will return to normal. You'll see."

"I wish I shared your optimism, Rance. I truly do." Volg's baby blue eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the icy expanse of the lake beyond the frosted windows. The dim light reflected the weight of his thoughts. "But let's not kid ourselves—there's no coming back from this. Not if we lose. The Calishans can fade, but being declared Excommunicado? That's irreversible."

He drew a sharp, heavy breath, his shoulders sinking under the burden of his words. "If we lose… that's it. For all of us. For me."

Rance placed a firm hand on Volg's shoulder, his grip steady and reassuring. "We won't lose," he said with quiet conviction. "You have my word. We'll do whatever it takes, no matter the cost. And when this is all over, they'll be singing your name in The Congregation halls for years to come."

"Yeah…" Volg exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging as he pushed himself to his feet. "Look, I've got somewhere I need to be." He paused, giving Rance a brief, unreadable look. "See you later, Rance."

Before the boy could respond, Volg turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor.

Left alone on the couch, Rance sat in silence, his hands clasped tightly together as his thoughts churned. His green eyes darkened with resolve as he reached into his robes, pulling out a large golden key. The dim light caught the intricate carvings on its surface as he stared at it intently. After a moment, his grip tightened, his knuckles whitening.

"No matter what," he murmured.

****

The days had passed in a blur, each marked by a red cross etched onto the calendar pinned to the metallic slates of steel and rivets that lined the dull chrome walls of Salazar's room. Metal dominated the Ferrum dorms—walls of cold gray and polished chrome interspersed with accents of dark crimson. From the plush cushions to the heavy tables and chairs, iron was molded into every conceivable form. Yet, despite the imposing design, the Ferrum students maintained an air of secrecy, their dorms shrouded in mystery. Few from other houses dared to venture past the towering metallic doors that guarded the entrance.

In the stillness of the room, the steady scratch of a quill against parchment echoed softly. Salazar's handwriting, precise and elegant, could have been mistaken for art. Another page completed for Professor Lotho's weekly assignment—this time a tedious deep dive into orc politics, a subject that Salazar found almost unbearably dull. He sighed, his thoughts drifting as his emerald eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall. The red crosses were a relentless reminder of the duel, its approach now an unavoidable certainty.

Scoffing, he set the quill aside and rose from his chair, the legs scraping against the metallic floor with a grating sound. His gaze shifted to the trunk at the foot of his bed, and more specifically, to the wooden crate resting beside it. Moving with deliberate intent, he grabbed the rough rope handles, hauling the crate onto the trunk's flat surface. His fingers traced the coarse, splintered wood of the lid, his touch lingering for a moment before he flipped it open.

"Never thought I'd have a reason to use this," he murmured, his smirk widening as he gazed at the item within, as though greeting an old friend. "But here we are. Looks like I'm in need of your strength."

Within the crate, nestled in a bed of protective fillers and draped in a cloth of deep emerald green, lay a spear split into two parts, its dual sharpened tips gleaming ominously. The primary blade remained wrapped within the cloth, its presence nonetheless commanding. The shaft was charcoal black, with a metallic sheen that caught the dim light of the room. Intricate, snake-like designs coiled along its length, each curve as deadly as a viper's fang.

There was something unsettling about the weapon, a subtle yet oppressive energy emanating from it. The air around it seemed charged, as though the spear pulsed with a dormant, ancient power, dark and forbidding. It felt alive, waiting patiently for the moment it would be called into action once more. Salazar could almost hear it—a faint, serpentine whisper weaving through the stillness, an unspoken language hissing in the shadows.

He let out a slow, sharp breath as he closed the lid with deliberate care. His lips curled into a soft chuckle. "May the gods have mercy on those who dare to face your fangs." He ran a hand across the rough surface of the crate. "To Volg and the Calishans… I beseech you, make peace with yourselves and those you've wronged. For what awaits you in this duel is not victory—but damnation."

His emerald eyes flicked toward the bar-like grille of the vent above, his expression sharpening. "In time, my dear," he muttered, a glint of resolve in his gaze. "In time."

****

Perched high within alabaster spires that stretched into the starlit heavens, the Ventus dorms seemed to float among the stars themselves. The spires gleamed softly in the moonlight, their pale surfaces like pillars of light against the dark expanse of the sky. The dormitories were a masterpiece of elegance, their ornate banners swaying gently in the cool night breeze.

The common room was a marvel of design, encased by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unbroken view of the world below. The city of Caerleon stretched far beneath, its snow-laden rooftops glittering with scattered lights, resembling a sea of fireflies frozen in time. The distant hum of the city's bustle reached the heights as a faint, soothing murmur.

Inside, the room radiated a regal warmth, adorned in the signature Ventus colors—rich royal blue, pristine white, and deep black. Earthy tones from polished wooden shelves, finely crafted tables, and luxurious sofas softened the grandeur.

In her dormitory, Rowena sat atop a bed layered with a velvet blanket of deep blue, its texture rich and sumptuous under her fingertips. In one hand, she held a parchment, its edges browned with age, while the other clutched an envelope bearing the remnants of a broken wax seal. Her sapphire eyes, as piercing and luminous as the night sky, glided over the intricate cursive letters inked onto the page.

My Dearest Rowena,

I have received troubling news that weighs heavily on my mind—a concern only deepened by your request for Edgar and Poe. While I have always promised myself not to interfere in your affairs, trusting in your remarkable sense of responsibility, I find myself questioning the wisdom of this situation.

As Ravenclaws, we have long vowed to steer clear of Congregation matters. It is a principle we hold dear, for as proud members of the Clock Tower, we cannot condone a hidden order of power operating from the shadows. Such entanglements are not our way.

Even so, I trust in you implicitly, Rowena. More than that, I have faith in your strength and your unshakable wisdom. Whatever path you choose, I pray it is one guided by the light of your heart and not by the shadow of spite. Your kindness has always been your most admirable trait, and I know it will shine through, even in the darkest of trials.

I wish you well in this endeavor and await good news. May the Three-Eyed Raven guide your steps.

Your brother,

Bran

"May the Three-Eyed Raven guide us all," Rowena murmured, the words rolling from her lips like a solemn prayer. Her sapphire eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if seeking clarity in the chaos.

The sharp caw of a raven broke her focus. She turned toward her desk, where Edgar and Poe perched, their glossy black feathers gleaming in the soft light. Their dark, unblinking eyes seemed to study her intently, as if silently urging her forward.

Rowena drew a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose as frustration surged within her. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her exhale. "By Hecate, what have I gotten myself into?" she muttered, folding the letter and placing it gently on her bed. "One moment, I'm chasing an assignment for Professor Eridan. Now, I'm preparing for a duel."

She rose from the bed and walked to the grand window. The snow-covered expanse stretched endlessly before her, the crystalline world reflecting the moon's pale light. She folded her arms tightly, one finger absently twisting the blue streaks in her hair as her thoughts wandered.

Her mind settled on Raine, and a familiar ache gripped her chest. It was a sick, cold feeling—an unbearable weight that churned in her stomach. The cruel truth clawed at her: what had happened to Raine could happen to anyone. Freedom, so easily taken for granted, was a fleeting, fragile thing, always at risk of being torn away by the cruel and conniving.

Raine hadn't asked to be ripped from her family, collared like an animal, and treated as something less than human. Rowena's jaw tightened, a bitter chill washing over her. The thought struck her with a harsh clarity: in another time, another life, had the hands of fate been cruel, she could have shared the same fate.

Her gaze hardened as she looked out into the snowy expanse. Determination flared in her eyes as the weight of doubt replaced by unyielding resolve. She turned to the ravens, who seemed to nod as if understanding her unspoken vow.

"We'll get her back, Godric," Rowena said firmly. "I promise."

****

Deep within the sprawling caverns beneath Excalibur Academy, hidden in a labyrinth of tunnels carved from ancient bedrock, lay the Terra dorms. These subterranean halls, etched into the earth's core, served as the foundation of the towering structure above. The pathways were rugged, their jagged stone walls lined with veins of glittering crystals that cast an ethereal glow, like fragments of captured starlight. Thick wooden beams supported the ceilings, their weathered surfaces rich with the scent of earth and timber.

The Terra dormitories radiated warmth, with earthy tones of amber yellow, rich mahogany brown, and soft whites dominating the decor. In the heart of the main cavern stood a towering tree, its massive trunk stretching upward for what seemed like an eternity. From the ceiling above, a colossal crystal descended, bathing the cavern in a light so radiant it mimicked natural sunlight. As the hours passed, the crystal's brilliance faded, mimicking the setting sun and casting long, gentle shadows across the room.

The tree's gnarled roots sprawled outward, threading through the wooden floors and entwining around the supporting pillars. Every corner of the common room seemed alive, exuding vitality that mirrored the spirit of its inhabitants. Unlike the other houses, Terra thrived on boisterous energy. The dormitories were seldom silent, filled with laughter, music, and the occasional fiery brawl—brief conflicts that ended as quickly as they began, rekindling friendships in their wake.

In the quiet sanctuary of her room, Helga sat at her desk, her amber eyes fixed on a polished wooden box before her. The light from a crystal overhead caught the smooth surface, reflecting faint golden hues. She hesitated, her breath uneven, as though the weight of the moment pressed against her chest. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the latch, biting her lower lip before finally unhooking it.

The lid opened with a soft creak, revealing two ornate bracelets nestled within. Their amber-toned metal seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, as if alive with a hidden power. Intricate runes spiraled along their lengths, each symbol appearing to hum with a quiet energy. Helga's fingers brushed over the carvings, the surface cool yet pulsing faintly, as though the bracelets were breathing beneath her touch. For a moment, the air in the room felt heavy, charged with anticipation, as if the ancient relics were waiting for her to claim their strength.

Helga's eyes traced the words engraved on the inside of the lid, their meaning as heavy as the bracelets themselves:

Defend the weak. Protect both young and old. Never abandon your friends. Give justice to all. Be fearless in battle, and always ready to defend what is right.

"You were right, Pop-pop," she murmured, allowing herself a small, resolute smile. "A Hufflepuff's strength is for those who need it."

The events of the past few months had turned her world upside down. For two years, she had approached her time at Excalibur Academy with a sense of caution, even detachment. The shadowy Congregation and its hunger for power had always felt like a distant storm, something to be avoided rather than challenged. She had shared that skepticism with Rowena, both unwilling to wade into the treacherous world of Clans. The tragedy of Matthew Garetty remained a grim reminder of what meddling in that world could cost.

But everything had changed with Godric. And everything had changed with Raine.

Helga's gaze shifted to the framed photograph on her desk. The image captured a moment of joy—her parents standing proudly, her brothers grinning with mischief, and her grandfather, his weathered face glowing with warmth. At the center of it all was a younger Helga, beaming with unshakable hope. For a moment, hesitation flickered in her eyes, a fleeting doubt. But it passed like a shadow in the light.

Her hand tightened into a fist as her amber eyes hardened. Some students might have let their years at Excalibur drift by in a blur of textbooks and exams. But Helga couldn't. Not when her friends needed her. Not when she could make a difference.

She shut the lid of the box with a deliberate snap and stood, a determined grin breaking across her face. "Volg and his cronies better bring their best," she said. "Because this badger isn't just going to fight. She's going to bury them."

****

Godric sat at the foot of his bed, hunched forward with his elbows resting heavily on his knees. The faint glow of moonlight spilled through the frost-laced windows, casting silvery patterns across the room. His crimson eyes remained fixed on the longsword leaning against the window frame. The blade's ornate scabbard, adorned with gold filigree and accents of royal blue, gleamed faintly in the pale light. His gaze lingered on the silver chain wrapped around the hilt, its delicate snowflake pendant catching the moonlight—a gift from Raine. It was more than a token; it was a vow, an eternal promise of love unbroken by time or circumstance.

The weight of his promises echoed in his mind, thundering in rhythm with his heartbeat. He had sworn to free her, to build a life together, to start a family—a future painted in vivid hope. Yet that vision now felt so distant, overshadowed by the stark reality of her imprisonment. Raine was trapped in a cold, dark cell, clinging desperately to a fading sliver of hope as the threat of her grim fate loomed ever closer.

A fire smoldered within him, fed by equal parts rage and resolve. He would break her chains, no matter the cost. He would make Volg pay for every act of cruelty, every ounce of suffering.

His eyes drifted back to the sword. It seemed to call to him, whispering promises of vengeance and justice. The silver steel gleamed like righteous fury forged into a blade. His fingers twitched, an ache building in his hands—a longing to take up arms and unleash the storm within him. A shadowy part of his soul yearned for Volg's blood, for the raw satisfaction of striking down the man who had caused them so much pain.

Godric inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he steadied himself. The image of Raine filled his mind—her smile, her voice, her touch. His uncle's words echoed in his thoughts: "A man is only a man when he discovers something worth fighting for, worth dying for."

For Godric, there was no question. Raine was his everything.

His fists curled tightly, his eyes narrowing with unshakable determination.

"Wait for me, Raine," he growled. "I'll bring you home. I swear it." His jaw clenched, and his crimson eyes burned with a searing intensity. "If it means cutting down anyone who stands in my way—if it means ripping Volg's head from his shoulders—I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

****

The city of Caerleon, often referred to as the crossroads of Avalon, was a hub of connection, its strategic location bridging railways and well-trodden paths to every corner of the realm. What had once been a modest town had evolved into a bustling metropolis, though it still paled in comparison to the grandeur of Avalon's titanic cities. Yet, like all cities, Caerleon harbored shadows, veiling its darker corners from the naive and unsuspecting.

Near the western edge of Castle Excalibur, on the fringes of the city, lay one such shadow: the Nocturne District. This slum, steeped in decay and desperation, was where the less fortunate, the downtrodden, and the outcasts mingled with those of a more unsavory persuasion. Dubbed Caerleon's red-light district, it was a haven for businesses that operated on the razor's edge of legality.

Pleasure houses, seedy bars, and taverns thrived alongside establishments dealing in shadowy goods and services—the kind that whispered of secrets, forbidden items, and expertise in matters best left unspoken.

Volg tightened the hood of his cloak, his baby-blue eyes darting warily across the narrow, dimly lit streets. The thudding of his heart echoed in his ears, his instincts screaming at him to turn back. If the law caught him in this district, the consequences would be dire. Worse still, he feared those who might see him as a valuable target, ripe for ransom. His fingers brushed the wand tucked beneath his robes, twitching with the reflexive urge to grasp it, ready to defend himself at a moment's notice.

He knew he was far from the polished civility of Caerleon's finer quarters, deep in a world where law and order were suggestions rather than rules. Every nerve in his body reminded him he was out of his depth. But he needed this. He had come here for a reason, and the stakes were too high to turn back now.

Volg's gaze landed on the shadowed entrance of a narrow alley, where a waist-high goblin leaned casually against the crumbling brick wall. Dressed in a dark leather jacket adorned with metallic spikes, the goblin's appearance was as sharp as his reputation. Silver earrings and piercings lined his elongated ears, and his jet-black hair hung in disheveled strands, framing a face marked with a permanent sneer. Volg drew a steadying breath before striding toward him.

"You, goblin," Volg said, his tone firm as he closed the distance. "Are you Crystal Clear?"

The goblin's grin spread slowly, jagged, shark-like teeth glinting in the faint light. "Who wants to know?" he asked. "And 'sides, you look a bit green to know that name."

"Are you him, or not?" Volg's eyes narrowed, his patience already fraying. "I'm on the clock, so don't waste it."

The goblin pushed off the wall with a shrug, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. "So am I, kid. But before I go confirmin' anything, gotta know: are you buyin', browsing, or just playin' one of those dumb games you kids fancy these days?"

Volg reached beneath his cloak, producing a sizable leather pouch. With a flick of his wrist, he gave it a sharp shake, the unmistakable sound of clinking coins cutting through the alley's muffled ambiance. "Does this answer your question?"

The goblin's grin widened, and he gave a mock bow, his tone turning sly. "Well, in that case, Crystal Clear, at your service." He gestured toward the dimly lit alley with a dramatic flourish. "Step into my office, kid. Let's talk business."

****

As they ventured deeper into the desolate, snow-dusted alley, the frosty air formed visible puffs with every breath they exhaled. The stench of stale waste and bodily fluids clung to the atmosphere, causing Volg to grimace and bury his nose into the crook of his arm, attempting to shield himself from the offensive odor.

"So," Crystal began casually as he trudged ahead. "What're you here for? Lookin' to get your prick wet? Get your rocks off? Or maybe you're the type who wants to see every color in the damn rainbow?" He smirked over his shoulder. "Whatever it is, kid, I've got it."

He stopped at a metallic box tucked behind a pile of discarded crates. Placing his hand upon the box, glowing runes illuminated beneath his palm. With a mechanical hiss, the latches unlocked, and the box unfolded like a blooming flower, revealing rows of neatly stacked glass phials. Each phial contained fine, crystalline substances glowing in vibrant neon hues.

Volg's gaze fixated on the display, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. Once again, his instincts screamed at him to turn back, to chalk this up to a lapse in judgment. But the gnawing need to see it through dragged him deeper into the moment, locking him in place.

Crystal's yellow eyes gleamed mischievously. "So, what'll it be, kid? Pick your poison."

Volg's voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor beneath his words. "Nova."

Crystal froze, his sharp grin fading as his eyes widened. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Kid, I'm gonna be real with you. That's some heavy-duty shit you're asking for—serious stuff." He crossed his arms, studying Volg carefully. "Now, I don't usually butt my nose where it don't belong, but you're just a kid. Nova ain't somethin' you wanna mess with, trust me."

Volg's baby-blue eyes hardened, narrowing into slits. "Do you have it or not?"

Crystal hesitated, rubbing the back of his head. "I do, but—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Volg interrupted, brandishing the pouch of coins and shaking it for emphasis. "I told you what I wanted. Either hand it over, or I'll take my business elsewhere."

Crystal sighed, his jagged teeth glinting as his smirk returned, albeit more subdued. "Fair enough, kid. But don't say I didn't warn ya."

Crystal hammered the back of his fist against the metallic box, triggering a smaller compartment to slide out with a hiss. Inside were four phials, each containing a solid inch-long crystal radiating a neon lavender light. The glow was almost hypnotic, casting eerie reflections on the grimy walls of the alley. The goblin plucked one of the phials from its slot and held it out to Volg, his other hand extended expectantly for payment.

Volg hesitated, his gaze fixed on the phial as doubt flickered across his face. "How do I know this is the real thing?" he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Crystal let out an exaggerated sigh. "Kid, I'm a lot of things, but a cheat ain't one of 'em." He held the phial up, the lavender glow casting sharp shadows over his sharp features. "In this line of work, trust is worth more than gold. You start sellin' fakes, word gets 'round, and you're done. No one buys from a liar, and once you lose that trust, you're out on the streets with nothing but your tail between your legs. Take it from me."

Volg's baby-blue eyes darted between the goblin and the glowing phial. After a tense moment, he drew a deep breath and dropped the pouch of coins into Crystal's outstretched hand. Crystal grinned, his jagged teeth flashing as he handed the phial over.

"Pleasure doin' business with you," Crystal said, his grin widening as he opened the pouch. He pulled out a single platinum coin, holding it up to the dim light to inspect it before flicking it back into the bag. "And just so we're clear—no take-backs, no refunds."

Volg nodded stiffly, his grip tightening around the phial as he turned and began walking out of the alley, his footsteps crunching softly in the snow.

"Hey, word of advice, kid!" Crystal called after him, his voice echoing in the narrow space. Volg stopped but didn't turn around. "Go easy on that stuff. It's not the high that gets ya—it's the crash. And believe me, when you fall, it's a long way down."

Volg didn't respond. He just tightened his cloak around him and disappeared into the snowy mist of the slums, leaving the goblin chuckling softly behind him.

****

Outside the alley, beneath the dim glow of a flickering crystal light, Volg stopped in his tracks. The snow crunched under his boots as he gazed at the phial in his gloved hand, the violet glow casting an eerie light on his furrowed brow. His eyes narrowed as conflicting thoughts warred within him. Somewhere deep inside, a faint echo of his conscience screamed at him, begging him to reconsider, to turn back, to make the right choice. It was a voice he'd silenced a long time ago, drowned out by the weight of Gryffindor's words, which now cut deeper than any blade.

The faint hope of redemption, of stepping away from this abyss, was snuffed out by the bitter resolve hardening in his chest. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, and cast aside any semblance of good or decency. His morality had long since been discarded, blown away like ash in the wind, all for this pursuit of power. But it wasn't just about power—it was about proving himself.

Proving he was more than the shadow of his brother, Laxus Dryfus. More than the overlooked, underestimated heir who could never measure up. This, he thought, was his chance to eclipse the one who had always loomed over him, to finally force the world—and his family—to see him for who he was.

Volg's grip tightened around the phial, his knuckles white beneath the leather of his glove. The faint lavender glow reflected in his icy blue eyes, and his jaw clenched. He would claim his seat at The Table, no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifices.

His lips pressed into a thin, bitter line, and he whispered to himself, "No matter what."