The world did not return to silence. It held its breath.
The chamber trembled, smoke coiling along the cracked floor, as the first round of spells faded into eerie stillness. Dumbledore stepped forward through the haze, his half-moon glasses reflecting the molten light of the runes, his wand steady and humming with old, thunderous magic.
"Tom," he said softly.
Voldemort turned. His robes floated behind him like tendrils of black ink, and his face—death-pale and twisted by power—wore a smile carved from disdain. "Albus. Still playing the wise shepherd? Even now?"
Dumbledore didn't answer with words. His wand flicked—
"Fulgura Imprisonum!"
The spell surged like a net of golden lightning. Voldemort dodged, sleek and fluid, his own wand slicing the air.
"Mors Praematura!"
Black energy collided with gold. The impact cracked the very foundation of the room. Statues exploded. Tiles shattered. The chamber screamed.
Above, Lillian chuckled.
He stepped onto the broken dais, wand twirling in his fingers, watching Dumbledore and Voldemort circle each other like ancient wolves. But his attention was fractured. His eyes flicked to Severus—still burning with fury—and Lucius, whose face was drenched in sweat, magic fraying at the edges.
"They'll all tear each other apart," Lillian whispered, almost lovingly. "Just a few more moves."
Down below, Remus snarled, full beast now, fur breaking through skin as he leapt at Dolohov. Sirius was back-to-back with James, their wands moving in perfect synchrony. Narcis launched himself over fallen stones, robes flying like angelic wings, to drive his blade-shaped spell through Bellatrix's wild cackle.
And Lucius?
Lucius could barely breathe.
The burn of rut consumed him, magic slipping like sand through his fingers. His heart pounded against cracked ribs. And yet, all he could see was Severus—his Severus—standing like the eye of a storm, wand leveled not at Voldemort, not at Dumbledore, but at Lillian.
"I was your pawn," Snape hissed. "Never again."
Lillian smiled. "And yet here you are, still dancing to my strings."
Their magic collided.
White and violet. Pure fury and cunning cruelty.
And Lucius—dragging himself upright—moved.
He crossed the wreckage, his boots crunching glass and ash, until he stood between them.
"Move," Severus said, voice fraying.
"No," Lucius whispered. "If you cast it—you become him."
Severus hesitated. Just a heartbeat. But Lillian used it.
"Dominatus!"
The controlling curse slammed into Severus's chest. He dropped, twitching, biting his lip until it bled.
Lucius turned on Lillian with a sound between a growl and a sob. "You will not take him again."
The silver light exploded from his chest—raw Alpha magic, fueled by ruin, love, and loss. It hit Lillian like a tidal wave.
The puppetmaster staggered.
But didn't fall.
Instead, he grinned. Bloody, wild. "Now this is interesting."
Up on the dais, Dumbledore and Voldemort clashed again—fire and death, phoenix and serpent. The spells twisted into monstrous forms—dragons made of light and shadows of serpents biting at each other in mid-air.
James Potter shouted, "Get everyone out! The runes—"
Too late.
The chamber shuddered as the roots in the walls flared red again. A second pulse of ancient magic blasted outward—this time not from wand or wizard, but the castle itself.
It split time for a moment.
Visions. Memories.
Snape saw a tiny boy curled in the cupboard under the stairs. Lucius saw a version of himself with a softer mouth, reaching for love not power. Lillian—eyes wide—saw himself alone, on a throne of ash.
And Dumbledore—
—saw Ariana.
Time snapped back.
Lucius dropped to his knees.
Severus crawled toward him, face contorted in pain. "You fool. You stupid beautiful bastard."
Lucius looked up at him, ruined and glorious.
"Sev. I remember the night I chose the Dark Lord over you. I have never stopped regretting it."
Severus stared.
"Don't say things you'll die for."
Lucius reached up, hand brushing Severus's face. A ghost of a smirk. "What else is love, if not a curse?"
Then Voldemort's voice boomed across the chamber.
"Enough!"
All turned. He floated above the rubble now, robes aflame, wand a spear of green fire.
"This farce ends now!"
But Dumbledore was already chanting.
An old language.
Deeper than Latin.
Older than Parseltongue.
And the roots of Hogwarts groaned in reply.
Golden vines burst through the walls. They wrapped around the chamber, around Voldemort, Lillian, the Death Eaters.
The Light fought back.
And Severus Snape—bleeding, breathless, broken—looked at Lucius Malfoy.
And kissed him.
Quick. Desperate. Final.
Because there might not be a next moment.
And then—
Everything shattered.