Quote from Naaga on July 14, 2025, 10:06 am

Oath of the Glade

Summer, 1996 — Cumbria, England — Post 4th Year at Hogwarts

The air in Grizedale Forest, nestled deep in Cumbria, smelled of pine, fresh earth, and freedom. Far from Hogwarts, far from the wizarding world’s looming shadows, the three boys had hiked up to a hidden glade overlooking a still, mirror-like lake. The sunlight was mellow now, and the sky above shimmered with streaks of gold and pink as dusk crept in.

They had pitched a small tent using a charm Lucas found in an old Fawley family spellbook. A tiny campfire crackled nearby, flickering warm orange light onto their faces. It was Alexander, as usual, who had something eccentric and wildly important to propose.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Alexander Smith, standing atop a boulder like a dramatic playwright delivering his final act. His Ravenclaw scarf was tied around his head like a crown, wand tucked into his boot like a Muggle gunslinger. “It’s time we did something epic.”

Lucas, laid back on a patch of moss, groaned. “If this involves eating mushrooms again, I’m out.”

Alexander waved dismissively. “Please, that was one time, and how was I to know they’d give you hallucinations of Professor McGonagall singing ABBA?”

“She was… surprisingly good at it,” Draven said with a faint smile, flicking a stone into the fire.

Alexander cleared his throat with theatrical purpose. “What I propose, gentlemen, is an Oath. Not a magical one, necessarily. No Unbreakables, no blood, no risky hexes. Just something... meaningful.”

Lucas raised a brow. “Meaningful like the time you tried to summon King Arthur with a cardboard sword and a stolen crystal ball?”

“Hey! That was ritualistically sound! I just needed better lighting.”

Draven leaned forward. “Let’s hear him out.”

Alexander clapped his hands, excited. “We, the three of us, have faced danger. We’ve broken rules, survived detentions, sneaked into the Restricted Section more times than is healthy—”

“You snuck in,” Lucas interjected. “You dragged us.”

“Semantics. My point is—we’re more than just classmates. We're friends. Brothers. And every good brotherhood needs an origin story. So I propose we take an oath. Like the Oath of the Peach Garden from ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’.”

Lucas blinked. “What garden?”

“Ancient Chinese novel,” Alexander explained. “Three warriors swear loyalty to each other under a peach tree. It’s symbolic. Beautiful. Epic.”

“Right,” Lucas deadpanned. “Because nothing says eternal loyalty like produce.”

Draven shook his head, amused. “Go on, Alex.”

Alexander beamed, digging into his enchanted knapsack and pulling out three carved wooden cups. “I made these myself. Each is infused with the tiniest drop of Murtlap essence—don’t ask how. We’ll fill them with Butterbeer, raise them to the sky, and make our vow.”

“Should I be worried about side effects?” Lucas asked.

“I tested them on a squirrel. He’s fine. Just speaks fluent Parseltongue now.”

“Fantastic,” Lucas muttered, but he still took the cup.

Draven held his, eyeing the carvings. Each cup bore the same sigil: three wands crossed in a triangle over a rising sun.

Alexander filled the cups with gently warmed Butterbeer, tapping each one with his wand. They fizzed with golden sparks.

Then, they stood—three silhouettes against the setting sun.

Alexander held his cup high. “I, Alexander Smith, of the proud house of Ravenclaw, Muggleborn genius and soon-to-be Department of Mysteries legend, swear today that no matter what comes—be it war, politics, dragons, or Divination homework—I will stand beside you both. As friend. As brother.”

Lucas followed. “I, Lucas Fawley, pureblood and proud Hufflepuff—”

“You’re not Hufflepuff.”

“I know,” Lucas replied. “Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

Alexander grinned. “Always.”

“I, Lucas Fawley,” he continued more seriously, “of the House of Fawley, promise to walk this path with you both. Whether the road is straight or crooked, whether I lead or follow—I’ll always be there.”

Then they looked to Draven.

The half-smile left his lips. He was quiet for a moment, eyes tracing the rim of his cup.

“I’m not the kind of person who makes promises lightly,” he said softly. “But I’ll make one now. I’m Draven. And whatever happens… I won’t leave either of you behind.”

There was a stillness, as if the forest held its breath. They clinked their cups together. The enchantment released with a soft chime, like wind through crystal, sealing the moment in their memories.

“To us,” Draven said.

“To the Glade,” Lucas added.

“To the most legendary, sarcastic, nerdy brotherhood since the Fellowship of the Ring,” Alexander declared.

They drank.

After a moment, Alexander let out a wistful sigh. “This would’ve been perfect if we had fireworks.”

“I brought marshmallows,” Lucas offered.

“Close enough.”

Quote from Naaga on July 14, 2025, 10:17 am

The Reunion: Return to the Glade

Lake District, Grizedale Forest, England. Early Autumn.

The clearing looked almost the same.

Time had overgrown it in patches—roots curling through old stones, moss swallowing half-burnt logs. But the tree stump was still there, blackened faintly from fire. The same one where Alexander had once raised a toast in a wooden cup, declaring brotherhood over foaming Butterbeer.

Draven stood in the center of the glade, breathing it in. The air smelled like pine and memory. He had shed the long black coat of his vengeance days—worn instead a simple cloak, though the rings of magic still pulsed faintly along his fingers. His face, pale and sharp, bore years of storms. But the eyes—they were gentler now.

Not long ago, those same eyes had been flooded with darkness, soul nearly devoured by a devil seed forged in a hellish realm. But his friends had brought him back.

And now, they were all here.

“Still smells like Alex burned the marshmallows,” Lucas said, grinning as he stepped into the clearing. His armor glinted beneath a travel-worn coat, the silver sword on his back humming softly with mana. He looked older too—more filled out, grounded—but his smile was the same. “Remember how you set the log on fire trying to summon fire like a dragon?”

“Excuse you,” Alexander said, brushing twigs from his Ravenclaw-blue scarf as he emerged from behind the trees. “I invented culinary wildfire. You’re welcome.”

He hadn’t changed much in spirit, though there were lines at his eyes and a slight weary slouch to his shoulders. The years in the Department of Mysteries—and the strange places beyond—had left their mark. But his spark was still intact.

The three stood there in silence for a long moment.

None of them quite knew what to say.

So Lucas, ever the one to move forward, unslung a satchel from his side and pulled out three wooden cups. “Had them made again,” he said. “Same design.”

Alexander’s breath caught. “I thought those were long gone.”

“They were,” Lucas said. “But the memory wasn’t.”

He handed each of them a cup. They held them reverently.

Alexander cleared his throat. “Same place. Same people. Same oath?”

Draven looked down at his cup. “We were kids.”

“Sure,” Alexander said, raising a brow. “But I checked. There’s no age limit on binding magical friendship oaths. I’m very thorough.”

Draven smiled faintly. “Then... same oath.”

They stood in a triangle around the old firepit.

Alexander, as always, started.

“To the House of the Glade,” he said, his voice steady. “For all the chaos we’ve weathered.”

Lucas continued, lifting his cup. “To the bonds that outlived war, death, and even each other.”

Draven paused, his voice thick.

“To us,” he said. “To what we were. To what we still are.”

They drank—this time not Butterbeer, but a rich golden honey mead Lucas had brewed himself.

It burned warm. Like home.

---

They sat together by the new fire they’d kindled, watching embers drift up into the cooling sky. The moon glinted above the trees.

Alexander poked the fire with a stick. “So... Draven. Mind telling us how exactly you got possessed by a cosmic parasite and still have better hair than me?”

Draven exhaled a short laugh. “Years of product. And a familiar who does grooming now.”

Lucas snorted. “Colin’s still around?”

“Somewhere,” Draven said. “He’s probably watching from a shadow nearby, pretending not to be touched by this reunion.”

Alexander leaned back, eyes scanning the trees. “Tell him I’ll bring him an old record player next time. He was obsessed with Sinatra last we met.”

A beat of silence followed.

Lucas looked over at Draven. “Are you alright? Truly?”

Draven didn’t answer immediately. “For the first time in a while,” he said softly, “I think I might be.”

Alexander nodded, staring into the flames. “You were always trying to save the world. It’s good to know someone saved you, for once.”

“You two did,” Draven said.

Lucas looked at him, eyes hard with emotion. “We didn’t know if we were too late.”

Draven met his gaze. “You weren’t. Not even close.”

They sat together as the fire crackled, the shadows of their younger selves flickering behind their backs. In the silence, between the memories, between the wounds and the wars and the years, something old and unbroken lived on.

The glade had never left them.

And they had never truly left it.

Quote from Naaga on July 14, 2025, 12:55 pm

Alexander Smith was born a Muggleborn wizard in a quiet London suburb to ordinary parents with no magical lineage. A precocious child with a boundless curiosity, he grew up immersed in 70s and 80s pop culture—devouring science fiction books, watching classic TV shows like Doctor Who, Star Trek, and Knight Rider, and taking apart electronics just to rebuild them differently. His accidental magic often caused strange fusions between technology and magic, foreshadowing the path he would one day forge. When his Hogwarts letter arrived, he believed it was a prank—until a Ministry official turned a lamp into a raccoon.

Upon arriving at Hogwarts, Alexander was sorted into Ravenclaw, but quickly found himself an outsider. His eccentric personality, constant movie quotes, and obsession with Muggle inventions earned him ridicule, even within his own house. He struggled with isolation in his early years until he was rescued from a bullying incident by Draven Burbage and Lucas Fawley. That act of kindness sparked a lifelong bond. The trio became inseparable, each complementing the others with strength, heart, and brilliance. They famously took a brotherhood oath in 1996, during the summer after their fourth year, in a Gloucestershire glade—swearing to always stand together.

Alexander’s Hogwarts years were spent dreaming big. He coined the term Magitech—a fusion of magic and technology—and developed rudimentary prototypes of rune-powered circuits and enchanted interfaces. While other students practiced dueling, he was wiring magical alarms into broomsticks and trying to build an enchanted typewriter. He aspired to work for the Department of Mysteries, aiming to revolutionize the magical world from within.

During Voldemort’s rise in 1997, Alexander, like many Muggleborns, was forced into hiding. He fled the magical world and severed contact with his friends, narrowly escaping capture by Snatchers. While on the run, he built portable wards and gadgets for others in hiding, becoming a quiet legend among those who survived the regime. He returned in 1998 to finish his studies and earned all Outstanding grades in his NEWTs. However, he also discovered that Draven had vanished, presumed dead in the wake of the final battle.

Following graduation, Alexander was recruited into the Department of Mysteries, where he initially thrived. But he soon discovered the dark underbelly of the Ministry—research was politicized, innovation stifled, and ideas stolen. His own groundbreaking work in spell-stabilization and mana-flow dynamics was plagiarized by a senior Unspeakable, who had him imprisoned under false charges to bury the truth. Upon his quiet release, Alexander left the Ministry disillusioned and embittered.

In the aftermath, Alexander founded a political reform movement modeled after Muggle democratic institutions, advocating for transparency, inclusion, and innovation in the magical world. He dedicated himself to building a better system for Muggleborns, magical outcasts, and anyone failed by the old structures. During this time, he learned the truth behind Draven’s disappearance—his true identity as Draven Snape, son of Severus Snape—and his descent into war against the Lunatic cult and otherworldly forces.

Alexander immediately moved to support his old friends, reuniting with Lucas and eventually Draven, who had been reforged by loss, vengeance, and unfathomable power. Despite the years and changes, their brotherhood endured.

Alexander remains one of the foremost innovators in magical science and politics, remembered as a misfit turned visionary—and one of the few who dared to dream of a magical world made better not through tradition, but through change.

Quote from Naaga on July 15, 2025, 12:36 pm

The air around the border outpost shimmered with magical tension. Wards were primed, wands were drawn, and everyone could feel the weight of what was about to happen. A group of captured American defectors — wizards and witches who had once sworn to protect their cities — now stood bound in magical chains, surrounded by grim-faced Aurors.

They looked beaten, not just physically, but spiritually. These were people who had once stood for something, but had broken under the weight of fear. The demons had shattered entire nations, and these were those who gave in.

And now, they were traitors.

Draven stood with arms crossed, watching Annabelle Goldstein pace. As the Head of the MACUSA Department of Aurors, she radiated the kind of hard authority that could grind a person down without a word.

“They’re scared of us,” Draven said quietly, watching the trembling prisoners.

“They should be,” she muttered. “They’re traitors.”

“Please don’t execute them.”

Annabelle turned, one brow raised. “Why not?”

“Because we don’t need to. It doesn’t hurt us to let them live. They’re no threat now. They couldn’t sneak into the city if they tried.”

“And what does mercy get us, Draven?” she asked, her voice cold.

“Mercy isn’t a transaction,” he replied. “It’s not a means to an end. It is the end. Do you think killing them now would be justice?”

“They betrayed the city,” she snapped. “The world. They turned on their own.”

“And now they’ll live the rest of their lives as outcasts,” Draven said. “That’s a punishment they carry every day. But ask yourself honestly — would killing them really be about justice? Or would it be about satisfying your own anger?”

Annabelle’s jaw clenched. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Draven hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, steadier.

“When I… when I met my father again — not the man I imagined, but the real one, the one the world hated — I was all sword and fire. All vengeance. And he told me something I didn’t understand then: when you have all the power, and you stand at the point between life and death, it’s not about them anymore. It’s about you. What kind of person you choose to be in that moment.”

Annabelle folded her arms. “This isn’t your city. It’s easy for you to moralize from the outside.”

“Yes,” Draven nodded. “It is. But that doesn’t make me wrong. These people didn’t betray us because they were evil — they broke under pressure. They didn’t believe the demons could be stopped. So they gave in.”

He turned to look at the prisoners — pale, trembling, hollow-eyed.

“If everyone had the strength to stand against impossible odds, we’d all be Aurors. But we’re not. Some people break. Some people need protecting, even from themselves. These people? We failed to protect them. And now, we stand where the demons once stood — powerful and merciless. We choose their fate. So who are we going to be? Monsters with a different name? Or something better?”

Annabelle looked him over with a hint of suspicion, something like disbelief warring with curiosity.

“You think that’s all it takes? Words and idealism?”

“No. I know exactly what I’m asking for,” Draven said. Then, after a pause, “And I know I’m being a hypocrite.”

She blinked.

“I’ve killed,” he continued, quietly. “I’ve hunted, I’ve tortured, I’ve torn apart people I thought deserved it. My vengeance was righteous — or at least I thought it was. I’ve done terrible things to those who hurt me or mine. I’ve been the sword and the pyre. So yeah… me, asking for mercy? It’s rich.”

He exhaled shakily.

“But maybe that’s exactly why I’m asking now. Because I’ve lived without mercy for so long. Because I know what it’s like to be consumed by rage and call it justice. And I’ve come to learn that the person who shows mercy doesn’t just save a life — they save a piece of themselves.”

Annabelle’s face softened slightly, just for a moment.

“I’m not saying let them walk free,” he said. “Keep them under watch. Counsel them. Some will never recover. But some… some might still find a way back. And in a world that’s already teetering, isn’t that worth trying for?”

“What would you do, Draven?” she asked. “Give me your impossible solution. You’re famous for them.”

“I’d forgive them,” he said again. “But not blindly. I’d let them earn it. Let them prove they still have humanity left in them. Some might surprise us. Some we might have to put down. But at least we tried.”

Annabelle snorted. “That’s not justice.”

“No,” Draven said. “It’s hope.”

They stood in silence for a long moment.

“You ever think maybe it’s not hypocrisy?” she said eventually. “Maybe it’s growth.”

Draven gave a half-smile. “Hard to tell the difference, sometimes.”

She let out a slow breath. “I asked for ridiculous. You delivered.”

“I do my best.”

“Let’s say I go along with this. That I try what you said. And it goes wrong?”

“Then we clean it up. But we do it knowing we tried to be better.”

Annabelle snorted. “That’s never going to happen.”

“I know.”

“There are so many ways that goes horribly wrong.”

“Yes.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because why not try? Killing may be necessary. But it never improves anything. At best, it prevents things from getting worse. But real improvement? That comes from doing the harder thing.”

He looked her dead in the eyes.

“And sometimes we say justice when really, what we mean is vengeance. We indulge our rage. That might feel good — but it doesn’t make us better. It just means we’ve become what we hated.”

For a moment, the tension hung heavy between them.

Then Annabelle gave a short, bitter laugh. “I did ask for something ridiculous. I didn’t expect ‘hug your enemy and give them therapy.’”

“They betrayed the world,” Draven said seriously. “Yes. But so have I, in different ways. So has everyone, if you live long enough. I’m not saying they deserve forgiveness. I’m saying we get to choose if we want to offer it.”

She studied him for a long time. Something in her expression — tight, unreadable — cracked just slightly.

“And what are you, then? The messiah of second chances?”

Draven smiled, faintly. “No. Just someone who’s been given more than one himself.”

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. And too much idealism for one lifetime.”

“Better than cynicism stretched across ten.”

There was a silence.

“You’re still young,” Annabelle said, quietly.

“I know. But youth has its virtues. It dreams. It believes. It tries. Even when everyone older tells it not to. You don’t know much about the No-Maj world, but their history is a steady chain of generations daring to do better than the one before them. They accept what their parents rejected. They protect what was once thrown away.”

He stepped forward, standing beside her.

“Maybe this is our turn to do better.”

Annabelle glanced back at the traitors, then at the city behind her. “What you want to do isn’t justice. It’s a gamble.”

“I think sometimes… gambles are the only way we learn what we’re really made of.”

Annabelle gave him one long look, the kind that measured a man down to the marrow.

Finally, she turned to the Aurors. “Stand down. No executions today.”

A few mutters rippled through the squad, but they obeyed. Draven looked to the prisoners. One — a thin woman with bruises on her wrists and tears on her cheeks — looked back at him with something between awe and disbelief.

She mouthed a single word: Why?

He didn’t answer. Just gave her a nod and turned away.

Annabelle fell into step beside him. “You know, you’re still reckless.”

“I know.”

“Still arrogant.”

He smiled faintly. “Absolutely.”

“And still too idealistic for your own good.”

Draven looked out over the smouldering horizon. “Yeah. But sometimes, someone’s got to be.”

Quote from Naaga on July 16, 2025, 2:22 am

The air was thick with dust and the scent of scorched stone, the aftermath of battle still clinging to the bones of the ruined district. Bellory turned, following the nervous glances of the bystanders—and there he was.

Draven Snape.

She blinked, half-hoping it was some kind of illusion. But there was no mistaking him. The quiet intensity in his eyes. The quiet weight he always seemed to carry. The man she had once known only as John, the wandering cook who’d appeared in her tavern’s kitchen with a cheeky grin and suspiciously good knife skills.

He stood there in a simple suit, far too clean for the state of the world around them. A flake of ash landed on his shoulder—and slid right off, repelled by some quiet enchantment. Of course. Even his clothing defied mess.

“John… no. Draven,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “Your real name is Draven Snape.”

“Hello, Bell,” he said, almost a whisper. His voice carried despite the murmur of onlookers. There was a strange sadness in his smile, a weariness in his gaze. “I did tell you I was a liar.”

Bellory crossed her arms. “That you did. A very good liar.”

“I had practice.”

He looked different now. Not just in the way he dressed, or the magic pulsing faintly around him. There was something colder, something heavier. A fire banked deep inside. She remembered the day he first showed up, offering to chop vegetables and scrub pans in exchange for board. She hadn’t thought much of him then, just another drifter.

She’d been so wrong.

“I saw you,” she said. “In the bunker. When it all went down.”

“I know,” Draven said. “I sensed your aura. Less fear than most.”

“I was terrified.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t show.”

“I don’t understand what happened down there. That demon girl—she was about to tear through everyone. And then you stopped her.”

“I had to,” he said quietly. “We had wards on us. Tricky things. Anyone we touched—anyone she touched—would’ve died. Even brushing past someone would’ve triggered it. She was going to charge the crowd, and I… I couldn’t let that happen.”

Bellory frowned. “But it wasn’t just you telling her to stop. We all felt it. It wasn’t normal magic. It was like… a command. Like the words of a god.”

He let out a short laugh. “Gods are overrated.”

“Are you a priest?”

“No. I’m not a priest. Or a god. Or anything as tidy as that.”

“Then what are you, Draven Snape?”

He sighed. “Complicated.”

“You live a complicated life.”

“I do.”

She looked him over. “And what was I to you? What were you doing in my kitchen? Just slumming it? Playing peasant for fun? Was I just another tavern girl for you to tumble?”

Draven flinched.

“What’s wrong with simple?” he asked. “This is what complicated gets you.” He gestured to the broken skyline, the rubble, the burning sky. “And I liked working in your kitchen. It reminded me of… better things. My mum taught me to cook, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Bellory said after a beat. “That wasn’t fair. I don’t know where to put all this anger. People like me don’t get to see the kind of world you live in until it crushes us underfoot.”

Draven nodded. “I want to argue with you. Say I’m still a normal bloke under all this. But I’m not. Not anymore. That’s part of why I came to your door, I think. To pretend. To be someone else. Someone better.”

She looked at him, softer now. “You weren’t a bad cook, for what it’s worth.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve had centuries of culinary critiques. Yours mattered more than most.”

They stood in silence for a long beat.

Bellory finally asked, “So… what happened with the demon girl?”

Draven exhaled slowly. “The wards were absolute. One of us had to die, or we both would. I found a third way—but it cost her. A lot.”

“You could’ve just killed her.”

“I could’ve. But it wouldn’t have made anything better. She wasn’t evil, Bell. Just… lost. She’d been shaped into a weapon her whole life. And besides… when my father came back—briefly—he told me something. That when you have all the power, and someone’s life in your hands, it’s not about them. It’s about who you choose to be.”

Bellory watched him, thinking. “What about all the other demons? You sent them away through a portal. You helped them escape?”

“I imprisoned them. In a sense. They needed saving—from their own kind more than us. They’re still… somewhere. I’ll show you, if you want. But you’d be risking a lot, getting close to me.”

“Why are you here, then?”

He smiled again, sadder this time. “Selfishness. You and I had a good time. A quiet, beautiful night. I don’t get many of those. I wanted to remember what that felt like.”

“Am I in danger?”

“No more than anyone else in this city.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“It’s not. But I’m working on it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright, then tell me—when you came in to fight that demon… why were you only wearing your underpants?”

Draven groaned. “Really?”

“It was distracting.”

He laughed. “Okay, look. I use conjured clothes when I fight. Easy to replace. Doesn’t leave bloodstains. Unfortunately, that demon’s magic disrupted conjuration. So, boom. Instant wardrobe malfunction.”

Bellory tried to hide her smirk.

“Which is why,” Draven continued, “you always invest in excellent underpants. Reinforced, enchanted, and stylishly modest. My father told me that, actually.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. He said, ‘Draven, if you ever find yourself battling a death goddess in front of a horrified crowd, make sure your drawers don’t let the family down.’”

Bellory burst out laughing. “That’s absurd.”

“It’s also disturbingly accurate advice. You wouldn’t believe how many times good underwear has saved my dignity.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I try.”

She paused, looking at the scars on his face, his hands, what little skin she could see under his collar. “Where did those scars really come from?”

“Fighting something called the Forger.”

“I thought that was just a myth. A kind of demon god.”

“Not a myth. And not quite a god. Something worse.”

“How do you survive something like that?”

“You don’t.”

“Then how—?”

“I die a little.”

He conjured a document from the air, neat as a magician’s flourish. Bellory took it, reading aloud:

“Certification of death—twice—for Draven Snape. Current status: alive. Issued by the MACUSA.”

She looked up. “You have a death certificate?”

Draven grinned. “Two, actually. They get fussy about necromancy. This satisfies their paperwork fetish.”

Bellory laughed again, despite herself. “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” Draven said, looking around the crumbling skyline. “I just wanted to see you. To thank you. For the soup. For that one, perfect, peaceful night.”

She stepped forward, closer to him. “Is that still who you are? The man I knew?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I want to be.”

Quote from Naaga on July 16, 2025, 11:35 am

"The Dragon Above Los Angeles"

Los Angeles was burning.

Demonic rifts split the skies open like divine wounds, vomiting beasts forged in the abyss. Great plumes of smoke choked the skyline, and the shrieking of civilians echoed between shattered buildings. The last magical defenders—MACUSA aurors, a few foreign allies, and a tattered rebel force—were barely holding the line.

Among the chaos, Draven Snape stood silently amidst the rubble. His coat was ash-streaked, the collar torn, the silver buckle hanging askew. Blood dripped from his brow, running along the creases of his jaw and soaking into his collar.

His wand, blackened from overuse, trembled slightly in his hand.

An archfiend descended—massive, malformed, wings of black fire and a mouth filled with tendrils. The shields around the safe zone crackled like glass, near breaking.

Behind Draven, someone cried out, “We’re finished!”

And then—

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The voice echoed like a whisper thundered by gods. Not shouted. Declared.

A light burst from Draven’s wand—but it was not the old flickering silver of a raven. It was no sly, clever creature of shadow and mind, like the man who cast it.

No. This was something else.

The light swelled and grew, blinding, coalescing into a massive silver dragon—its wings spanning the skyline, its body aglow like a star in motion.

Every soul turned to look. Battle paused. Even the demons reeled.

The dragon reared its head, and in its silent roar, hope surged through the defenders like a rising tide. Wounds felt lighter. Fear receded. Men and women who had nearly dropped their wands found their grips tighten, resolve renewed. Children behind the last barrier clutched each other, their eyes wide, no longer crying.

Alexander Smith, half-covered in soot, pushed his shattered glasses up his nose. “Mate,” he muttered, jaw slack. “That’s not your Raven.”

Lucas stepped beside him, eyes fixed on the glowing behemoth. “No,” he said softly. “It isn’t.”

Alexander turned to him. “Since when do Patronuses upgrade like bloody Pokémon?”

Lucas didn’t answer. His gaze had not moved from Draven.

Draven, who looked as stunned as anyone.

“I didn’t…” he whispered. “It’s not supposed to be a dragon. It’s always been a raven.”

He stumbled, the force of the Patronus pushing through him like a storm barely contained. Colin, his shadowy familiar in the form of a stately butler, stepped up from behind with measured calm.

“You’ve changed, sir,” Colin said gently. “You used to find joy only in your father’s memory. But now—now you’ve found peace. And you’ve made it yourself.”

Draven blinked, throat tightening. His patronus… his last raven had faltered in the months after Severus Snape’s final memory faded from his dreams. For a long time, he thought he’d lost the ability altogether. That the darkness had won.

But now—

Now, in the heart of hell, he had found light within himself.

The dragon soared into the sky, sweeping through a cluster of demons. Their screams were high-pitched and short-lived, their bodies torn asunder by pure hope given form. When the dragon turned its eyes on the archfiend, the towering beast snarled—then fled, diving back through the rift from which it came.

With a final majestic roar, the dragon coiled once around the warded safe zone, casting a shimmering light over the wounded and terrified. The aura it left behind lingered like a protective veil.

A moment of silence passed.

Then—

Someone began to cheer.

It spread like wildfire. Tired, broken voices that had tasted despair now shouted with renewed strength. The battle was not over. But the spirit of the defenders had returned.

Annabelle Goldstein, grim-faced and bloodied, approached Draven with her wand lowered.

“You just cast a dragon Patronus,” she said.

Draven gave a weak, incredulous smile. “I noticed.”

She crossed her arms. “Do you realize what you just did? There are stories. Legends. Ancient patronuses that only form when someone becomes... more than themselves.”

“I don’t feel legendary,” he said.

Lucas finally broke from the stunned crowd and came forward, grabbing Draven by the shoulder.

“Mate. You just roared hope across a demon invasion. Don’t play the humble card now.”

“I didn’t do it to be heroic.”

Lucas looked around. “Doesn’t matter. You were.”

Alexander joined them, rubbing his temple. “Bloody hell. You upstage everyone, you know that? And here I was thinking my glowing techno-hedgehog warding drone was going to be the highlight of the battle.”

Draven chuckled, breathless. “You had a hedgehog?”

“It explodes,” Alexander said proudly. “But never mind that—you summoned a Patronus Dragon, you absolute arse.”

Draven turned back toward the city, the dragon’s fading light still trailing in the air. For a moment, just a moment, the sound of battle faded behind the silence of awe.

He let out a breath.

“I didn’t know I still had it in me,” he admitted.

Lucas grinned. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? You didn’t need your father’s memory to cast it anymore.”

“No,” Draven said. “For the first time in years… I cast it because of me.”

Colin tilted his head, brushing soot from Draven’s shoulder.

“Your father would be proud, Mr. Snape,” he said, voice soft.

Draven nodded once, his voice rough with unshed tears.

“I hope so.”

And above them, the last flickers of the dragon dissolved into the wind—leaving behind a city not yet healed, but still standing.

Quote from Naaga on July 24, 2025, 1:34 am

Draven opened his eyes and looked at the god’s avatar in the distance. It stood still, unmoving, towering over the trees like a kaiju. He knew the physical avatar was dead, but that had always been a shell. The true essence of it was the power of Undeath, and now it was inside his soul.

Even this avatar didn’t matter. It was just a representation in his mind, unconsciously created by Draven himself. The power was everywhere, as was the damage it dealt, chewing up the landscape. Despair tainted Draven's mind, which in turn tainted the land around him. Colour leached from what remained uncorrupted, while the corruption grew more vibrant—parts of it even glowing with an eerie purple hue.

Unable to hold himself upright, Draven dropped to his knees.

“Is this it?” Colin asked, his voice scornful and disappointed. “Is this all you amount to, Mr Snape?”

Draven looked up at him, pain and hurt etched across his expression. “Colin?”

“What are you doing, Mr Snape?”

“I thought… I thought I could…” Draven bowed his head, tears leaking from his tightly shut eyes. “I thought I was enough,” he whispered in shame.

“And now you think you aren’t?” Colin said, unmoved.

“I’m spent, Colin. I don’t have anything left.”

“You think will is like mana? That you can burn it off by throwing out a few powers? Use it all up in a fight? Who convinced you it was such a small thing?”

“I can’t—”

“The elves are here, Mr Snape. Everything that remains of their entire civilisation. What do you think they’re going through right now as all this happens around them? How helpless are they? How fearful?”

“I want to fight. You know I do. I just… I just don’t think I can.”

“If the spirit is willing, do you think it matters if the body is weak? In this place? You think that’s air you’re breathing?”

“I’m not breathing. Wait… did you just quote The Matrix?”

“I know you are in more pain than you’ve ever felt. I know that you’re only clutching to sanity because all the pain that came before has prepared you for this.”

“It’s not enough,” Draven choked out.

“You think you’re at your limit, Mr Snape, but the will has no limit. The only way your will can be exhausted is if you choose to quit—if you give up on yourself, on your friends, on all the people taking shelter here. You think you can’t fight, but you are fighting. Every moment you don’t surrender, the battle continues. You think you’ve exhausted your willpower, but it cannot be exhausted. Will has no limit so long as you have the resolve to keep fighting—keep standing.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Mr Snape, I have known you for some time now. Do you know what makes you special? What has made you the focus of so many powerful forces, both ally and enemy? Why people are willing to risk everything for you?”

“Rakish charm?” Draven said, his voice half-sobbing, the attempt at humour clashing against the rawness of his despair.

“Resolve, Mr Snape. The resolve to help people for no more reason than they need it. To stand when no one else can or will. To make the insane choice because it has to be made, even if it kills you. Time and again, you do this. And now you must do it again. Stand—because you have to. Because people need you to. Stand, even if you don’t think you can. I think you can. I know you can.”

Colin stepped closer, his voice ironclad.

“On your feet, Mr Snape. I know you think you’ve reached your limit—but there is no limit.”

“It feels like there’s a limit.”

“The Forger once tried to convince you of that through pain. But it was a lie. He knew that all you had to do was tell him ‘no’ forever, and he could do nothing.”

“It didn’t feel like nothing.”

“No. But it was still a lie—that you might surrender your soul. And now you are telling yourself that lie. Giving yourself an excuse to give up. To surrender to the pain. But we need you to embrace that pain, Mr Snape. To accept it—and the fight it represents. Do you have the resolve? Or will you surrender your father to the god of Undeath? Will you give up on young Master Lucas’s mother? On everything left of the elvish people?”

Draven looked up at Colin, hope, fear, and doubt warring across his face.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. And I’ll tell you how. You’ve forgotten the most fundamental lesson about what this place is—or perhaps you never truly learned it.”

“What?”

“You haven’t been human for a long time, Mr Snape, but in your mind, you still are. It’s why you give yourself limits in a place where you have none. Perhaps you fear what happens when you truly let go of who you were, but that fear is false. That isn’t who you are—it’s who you were. You left that behind a long time ago, but you refuse to admit it to yourself. You keep telling people you’re not human, as if saying it is a talisman that will let you keep your humanity.”

Colin stepped beside him, voice calm but heavy with meaning.

“I’m sorry, Mr Snape. But your humanity slipped through your fingers long ago—and you need to accept that if you’re going to put up a fight. There is only so far you can push a human, Mr Snape. But you are not one. You’ve simply used the power of this place to turn yourself into one. When you let go of that idea, you let go of the limitations it imposes on you.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“It is not the spoon that bends. It is only yourself.”

Draven took several sobbing breaths, his body trembling. He leaned forward, planting his fists on the ground to push himself—slowly, painfully—to his feet.

Quote from Naaga on July 24, 2025, 1:35 am

Draven stood, every breath ragged, every muscle trembling as the soulscape around him raged. The god’s essence, monstrous and grotesque, was no longer just inside him—it had taken form, all bone and smoke, thousands of wailing spirits screaming from its flayed surface. The sky above had cracked, leaking streams of spectral flame, and the ground pulsed with necrotic corruption. It towered over him like a storm of death incarnate.

But he stood.

He reached into his coat, his hand shaking as it wrapped around the wand he had carved himself, forged from Elderwood and obsidian. As he raised it, shadows stirred behind him. Colin stood silently now, his arms crossed, watching with the faintest smile.

"I'm not alone," Draven whispered.

He looked up at the god’s avatar. "You think I came here empty? That I face you with nothing but my own strength?"

He exhaled, steadying his breath.

"No. I carry them with me."

The air snapped as the Darkflames burst to life around him, coiling like serpents from his back. A storm of pure black fire, rimmed with purple and crimson, lashed out, burning away corruption like divine wrath. The monster screeched.

“For my father, Severus Snape—Sectumsempra!” Draven roared, slashing his wand. From the arc of the strike, blades of cutting magic exploded forward in an X-shaped spiral, cleaving through bone and shadow, sending chunks of the beast reeling.

“For Markus, my mentor—Hollow Domain.”

The world shuddered as his aura changed. A bubble of silence enveloped the battlefield, nullifying all the monstrous outbursts from the god’s essence. The air grew cold, the flames dimmed, but Draven glowed—his presence like a void of pure intention. The beast staggered as its magic faltered, howling in disbelief.

“And for Lucas...”

A golden brilliance surged from Draven's hand, magic laced with light, hope, and defiance. His entire body shimmered with radiant aura as he cast Lucas’s spell: Lux Requiem. Spears of light rained down like justice from the sky, slamming into the monster’s core.

“He believed in me when I didn’t,” Draven said, his voice cracking but resolute. “Even when I pushed him away.”

The monster surged forward, shrieking, tearing through the Hollow Domain like a wounded beast. Draven was sent flying—crashing, bones cracking—but he forced himself to rise again, smoke pouring off his shoulders.

“Still not done.”

He gritted his teeth and raised both hands.

“Wildfyre Dragon!”

A shriek erupted as the dragon burst from his chest—made of screaming violet and blue fire, twisting around him, its wings blotting out the corrupted sky. It slammed into the avatar, biting, clawing, ripping at the essence like a vengeful god.

“And now…” Draven’s lips twitched into a trembling smile.

“I’m borrowing from Alexander.”

A whistle, then a roar as towering metal forms slammed onto the battlefield. Massive war mechs with glowing eyes—the kind Alexander always raved about—charged forward, plasma cannons spinning.

“Go, Superunit-7, you magnificent bastard,” Draven muttered, exhaustedly grinning. “And while we’re at it...”

He summoned the final piece of chaos—a lightsaber, gleaming with unstable red light. He twirled it once, then looked up at the essence. “You’re fighting all of us now.”

Quote from Naaga on July 24, 2025, 1:36 am

The necromancer god’s form reared back, its voice a thousand echoes of hatred.

“You are alone!” it thundered. “You are fractured, broken! You are nothing but a failed vessel!”

But Draven stepped forward, dragging the lightsaber behind him, black flames wreathing his shoulders like wings, light spells spiraling across his skin like runes.

“I’m many things,” he said quietly. “A Snape. A Burbage. A Prince. A mistake. A survivor. A brother, a friend, a monster. But alone?”

He looked up, eyes burning—red irises, black sclera.

“Never.”

The Wildfyre Dragon roared again, slamming into the beast’s spine, biting down on its skeletal wings. The mechs fired in unison—blasting arcane missiles and enchanted beams that ripped through spirit matter.

Draven leapt, wings of black flame spreading wide.

“Sectumsempra!” he shouted again, slashing in midair, and the spell struck true—opening the monster’s ribcage wide.

He landed with a skidding crash, cape tattered, face bloodied. The monster staggered.

And then… silence.

The Hollow Domain flickered. His spells were faltering. Even the Wildfyre began to wane. He could feel the pressure building inside again—the essence still alive, still festering.

He dropped to his knees.

“No. No, not yet—”

He heard Lucas’s voice echo in his mind: “You always try to do it alone. You think you're protecting us, but you're breaking yourself.”

And Alexander’s: “If you ever die before me, I’ll kill you, you melodramatic goth.”

A soft sound, like footsteps in ashes.

Colin knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

“Draven,” he said softly, “you’ve already won. You just have to let it go.”

Draven’s fist clenched.

Then he looked up at the god’s essence—now cracked, wounded, but trying to reform.

“No more running.”

He stood.

He raised his wand, lightsaber in the other hand, and called on everything—every ounce of pain, memory, teaching, and love.

From Snape, he had cunning and control.

From Charity, his mother, he had compassion and strength.

From Markus, resilience.

From Lucas, light.

From Alexander, chaos.

From Colin, calm.

And from himself?

Will.

He raised both arms, crossed them, and roared:

“INCENDIA FINALIS!”

The black flames erupted from his core like a star going nova—twisting with golden light, sharpened by Hollow Domain precision, infused with Sectumsempra’s savagery. The spell crashed into the god’s essence with a blinding scream.

The monster shattered.

Its roar echoed into dust.

The sky turned silent.

Only embers fell now—like ash from a dead war.

Draven collapsed to one knee, breathing hard. The lightsaber clattered beside him. The Wildfyre Dragon circled once overhead, then faded into mist.

He looked up at the sky—blue now, pale and cold.

“I’m still here,” he whispered. “We’re still here.”

A portal began to shimmer open nearby, golden light spilling out.

Home.

He stood slowly, wiping blood from his mouth.

“Time to face them.”

He stepped through.