VII.

August 12th, 2019

"Catastrophe", when used in the wizarding world, was only reserved for the most tragic of losses.

"Massacre", when used in the wizarding world, was only reserved for when that loss was violent beyond repair.

So when people would look back on today, they would call it a catastrophic massacre. There would be no exaggeration in the designation, no downplaying how badly it had rocked the wizarding world. It would be just as they said it was.

Florence's eyes had glazed over almost as soon as Ophelia had pulled him away from the body, but he'd only been toeing the line that divided him from the Obscurus. He could've been calmed down. She'd held onto him, begged him to snap out of it and that everything was going to be okay—and just as he'd come to, the cloudiness clearing from his eyes, Leopold had made his announcement. The horror on Florence's face, the colour draining from his face—he'd heard it, Leopold had waited for the chance to say it.

Ophelia only had a few seconds to prepare when Florence started convulsing. The Obscurus began to leak from his body, reducing Florence to an intangible state as the mass of darkness grew and grew. All Ophelia could do, reacting purely out of instinct, was turn into a storm petrel and scramble for the nearest exit. She'd never seen one of his episodes, but she knew enough about the dangers of an Obscurial who lost control over their emotions; all the shock, horror and betrayal Florence was experiencing would decimate the place in an instant. And when he calmed down, the aftermath would send him spiralling into another episode that would cycle into more and more and more.

His grief and self deprecation would never let him go back to being human at this rate.

She flew out of the tent just as Florence exploded. Behind her she could hear the shrieks and clattering of bodies hitting the walls, tables and chairs torn apart and thrown in every direction—and then finally the pressure made the tent burst, countless people and items rolling out of the small tent onto the field outside. Ophelia flew as high as she could, unwilling to look at the damage that had been done. She hovered over so many unmoving bodies, so many people getting back up like nothing had happened, before finally she darted out of the way of the Obscurus whizzing past her—high into the clouds, debris from the tent falling to the ground in its wake.

Compared to the earlier horror, the hysteria that had gripped everyone, the wedding guests were silent. No matter how much Ophelia tried not to think about it, the thought forced itself to the forefront of her mind: How many of them were dead for real this time?

The thought was enough to distract her from the people slowly regaining their bearings on the ground. Ophelia never even noticed that her own family, the Ashcourts, had been thrown from the tent alongside everyone else. She never even noticed her uncle—the one person she feared most in the world—had recognised her even in her animal form.

"Confringo!" came the shout from below. Ophelia barely noticed in time before the explosion of fire barrelled towards her. Tailfeathers were burnt as she swooped out of the way, more and more fireballs flung up at her. Ophelia tried to find cover, but there was none up in the air; each attack forced her closer to the ground, where she'd be forced to defend herself unless someone stepped in.

She knew her uncle hated her—everyone knew—but was now really the time to try and humiliate her again? To mercilessly attack her?

Finally Ophelia tumbled to the ground, shifting back into her human form, and she rolled through the grass as she felt the burns to her skin crying out in pain. Kieran Ashcourt walked leisurely over to her, loosening the tie around his neck like he was preparing to wind down for the day; Ophelia grabbed for her wand, desperate to defend herself, and she found it just as he aimed a hand in her direction.

Wandless magic? Kieran had never been capable of such a feat before. Even Ophelia would've known if he'd accomplished that much.

She half-rose to her feet, casting a shield charm as she did so, but the force of Kieran's spells knocked her back to the ground with each impact. She was struggling to keep up, and with each strike she blocked her wand found itself closer and closer to being thrown from her grasp.

"What are you doing!?" Ophelia screamed at him. "Now isn't the time, Uncle!"

"Now is the perfect time," Kieran said calmly. He raised his hand again, and just as Ophelia prepared to cast another shield charm, Kieran hissed, "Expelliarmus."

Her wand was flung from her hand, Ophelia knocked back to the ground once more. Panic filled her chest. As others began to panic around them, realising that the dead had come back as soon as Florence had let the Obscurus out—more so that some were truly dead this time—Ophelia could see the remnants of the wedding tent set ablaze by a stray spell.

She turned her back to Kieran, desperate to arm herself again, and as she did so he let out a laugh. "I'm going to enjoy finally purging you from this family, half-blood."

Kieran started his incantation, getting a single syllable out, and Ophelia choked back a sob as her hand failed to reach for her wand. She squeezed her eyes shut—she was going to die. He was really going to kill her this time. She was going to die.

And then a loud thwack echoed through the small patch of grass they were isolated in. Ophelia heard a body hit the ground, a thump so heavy she swore it had to be Kieran, but she didn't dare look. She didn't want him to be the last thing she saw.

A body crashed into her, significantly smaller than her uncle's, and Ophelia couldn't find the words to describe how relieved she was when a girl her age yanked her to her feet. Ophelia grabbed her wand at the last minute, tucking it back into her sleeve, and she finally dared a glance back at her uncle. Kieran was on the ground, a large gash on his head leaking blood to the ground; by his side, a bloodied folding chair lay with a dent on its back. She looked back at the girl, who already had her own wand ready, and slowly pieced together what happened.

She gave him the chair. Just… ran over and whacked him with a chair so hard he was bleeding. Ophelia would never critique American wrestling shows for being unrealistic ever again if she survived this.

Kieran gasped loudly, jolting awake, and Ophelia let out a loud, "Oh my fuck!"

The other woman seemed to notice her panic, and she seemed to react a bit more appropriately for their situation. Rather than scream like Ophelia had, the brunette grabbed her free hand and tugged her behind her as she waved her wand and wheezed, "Fumos Duo!"

Smoke exploded from the wand, blinding Ophelia and even a slowly rising Kieran. He screamed, angered by the way this stranger took his prey, and his screams only got angrier as he blindly flung fireballs through the smog. One barely missed Ophelia, but she didn't pay it much mind. She was far too busy trying not to trip as the woman led her through the smoke and to safety at last. The further Kieran's howls descended into the smog, the more Ophelia's heart began to beat once more and remind her that she survived.

While the reception tent had been burning, other smaller installations were untouched. Ophelia was dragged past others, people who were still unconscious or processing what had happened, and good God, this wedding had turned into a nightmare. She couldn't tell the dead from the fake-dead or even the living. There was so much blood, so many injuries, and even the woman guiding her to safety looked battered to the point of incapacitation. But the grip on her hand never wavered, not until they were out of sight and over a small hill; as soon as Ophelia was tucked behind the natural trench's walls, the young woman readied her wand again.

Breathlessly she asked, "Do you need healing?"

Ophelia shook her head. For all the minor burns she had, they were nothing compared to everyone else. She was lucky—she got away thanks to being an unregistered Animagus.

"Th—Thank you," Ophelia gasped, out of breath compared to the other woman. "He was—He really was gonna kill me."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"He didn't see where we went, right?" When the brunette shook her head, Ophelia sank into the dirt and felt her limbs go numb. The tumble really did a number on her, she must not have transformed fully back until after hitting the ground. If she'd broken a wing… Ophelia tried not to entertain the thought. "I'm fine."

"You were the one next to Florence, right?" The brunette inched closer to Ophelia, lowering her voice. The chaos back at the reception tent was much easier to hear now. "Did you see where he went?"

Ophelia sucked in a deep breath. This person wasn't about to hurt Florence, right? It wasn't his fault—Leopold had clearly intended on stressing him to this point. But when Ophelia gave the woman a proper look, actually took in her expression, she didn't see anything like anger or determination or some drive to hunt him down. She saw fear—fear for a friend.

Ophelia exhaled slowly and shook her head. "He flew off high and I lost sight of him. With any luck, he'll have fled for somewhere safe—Obscurials do that, right?"

The woman slumped, resting her head on Ophelia's shoulder. She let out a relieved laugh. "Thank goodness. I hope he doesn't blame himself…"

It was an awkward position. Ophelia tried not to ruin the moment of peace this woman was feeling by pointing out that her shoulder was already blistering under her forehead.

But the moment of peace ended as soon as it came to her. She pushed herself into a crouch, still hiding from view beyond the trench, and she sucked in a steeling breath. She gave Ophelia one more check over, offering a third time to heal her, but Ophelia denied all the same. She had her own wand with her—a simple spell would be easy enough to manage on her own.

So her saviour gave her a reassuring smile, strained among the stress she was obviously experiencing now that her concern over Florence had been settled. Without so much as another word, the woman climbed over the trench wall and fled from Ophelia's sight. And when Ophelia dared a peek at where she was going, all she saw in the woman's place was a golden retriever making a beeline for the burning reception tent.

The smoke in the air was suffocating, the chaos of Florence's outburst leaving a stain on the meadow the wedding had been set up in. Aurora had been cradling Elias in her arms, praying he wasn't truly dead, and now their roles were reversed. An impossibly alive Elias, looking not quite like he should, was carrying her from the tent and begging her to stay with him—don't breathe in the smoke, don't pass out, don't anything.

Aurora had followed the lead that showed her husband coming here. She'd argued with her brother that she wouldn't get hurt, that she'd leave if things got dangerous; but things got dangerous, and in her grief she'd barely been able to protect herself from the whirlwind of chaos that followed Leopold's revival. Aurora could feel blood dripping down the side of her face, throbbing from a single spot on her scalp, and she could feel the neckline of her dress soaking it up and becoming heavier by the second. But compared to Elias, she was just scratched—Elias had taken the brunt of the Obscurial's attack, flipping their positions just in the knick of time and having his—

Oh God, Aurora thought as she felt his arm crack and shift under her knees. His arm had been blown off. It snapped right off, she'd felt the bone fragments land on her, and now it was writhing under its grip on her as it—it what? Regrew? Reattached? She'd blacked out for who knew how long, anything could've happened in that time. But she saw that arm come off, she saw it fly through the wall of the tent.

Elias set her down a good distance away from the tent. He was looking more and more off the longer she stared at him, his skin transparent and his features almost resembling a reaper's. Were Aurora not so sure her injuries weren't fatal, she would have panicked and thought she was being ushered into the afterlife. He pushed her hair from her face, wiping some blood as he did so, and he murmured under his breath as the hand that stroked her hair slowly began to emit warmth. Aurora recognised this feeling—the sensation of someone casting a healing spell, of wounds closing and pain easing. The throbbing in her head slowly subsided—and when Aurora was able to, long before Elias was done casting, she grabbed the hand at her head and yanked it away.

"Since—" Aurora wheezed, dizziness setting back in now that she'd interrupted him. "Since when—Wandless—"

Elias hushed her. "It's okay, love," he reassured her. "Let me help you."

She looked at his hand, turned it over in her own. She could see each individual bone and joint, the way they bent and shifted as he flexed his hand.

"What did you do?" Aurora sobbed. She couldn't think of anything that could do this to a person, much less someone with magic. He didn't look like he was alive anymore—no, he didn't even look human anymore. He was something else entirely.

"What I had to," Elias told her. More people were shouting, screams of horror filtering through the air. Even with her mind lagging and the dizziness dulling her senses, Aurora's drive to find the truth told her exactly what she needed to know—this wedding had been a gathering for that damned group, and she'd walked right into the lion's den.

Aurora's expression contorted into something akin to pain, her reflection clear in Elias's eyes. She could feel her heart splitting in two, her grip on his hand turning vice-like.

"People are hurt," she tried. Elias shushed her.

"A message was sent," he corrected her. "This is the only way we can make them listen—even if there's no going back for any of us."

"What do you—"

"I died, Rora. All of us who collapsed—we died. And now we're back, capable of spreading our cause without the limitations of a mortal life." As he said this, sending his wife into a spiral of dread, Elias reached under his shirt and pulled at the chain around his neck. A soft light could be seen through the fabric of his dress shirt, and then he was producing a ring from beneath it. Aurora's engagement ring, left behind when she fled for England while Elias remained in Israel. The four carat diamond that adorned the gold band pulsed every few seconds, expelling light like a heart pumping blood. "We can make this world better for our daughter now."

Elias cradled Aurora's hand gently. As he helped her lift her ring finger, with her wedding band still worn, he slowly slid the ring down to rest beside it.

"All I ask is that you keep me with you."

Aurora's throat closed up. She could feel the pulsing against her finger, a warmth of life that Elias's hand didn't possess. Ever so slowly she shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes as Elias gracefully laid her down on the ground properly. He stood up, fixed his jacket, and even as Aurora begged him not to side with murderers, with people who'd sooner see their daughter dead, he walked back into the burning tent.

She could only watch and scream, tears streaming down her face. No matter how much she tried to roll herself over and stand up, chase after him, Aurora's body wouldn't listen. All she could do was sit there and weep.

People gathered around her, lifting her to her feet. Aurora couldn't stand, the woman who'd found her calling for someone named Wes and realising as much very quickly. She was one of the Aurors who'd jumped into action earlier, covered in her own injuries but never resting even as she pulled Aurora into her arms and carried her away from the fire, just as Elias had not long ago. Aurora leaned her head on the woman's shoulder, unable to hold her grief in any longer.

"Wes, back me up!" the Auror yelled, and then a tall man was jogging after her, wand in hand and constant uses of disarming and shielding charms thrown about, as she ran further away from the fire and chaos erupting from within.

"I want to go back to talking about birds!" Wes yelled, clearly stressed as he deflected more spells that stayed too close to the trio.

"And I want my Jack Rose!" the woman called back at him. "Save the complaining for when we know what's going on!"

"Russel! Russ, where are you?"

Celia tumbled out of the fire with smoke in her lungs. She was covered in bruises, silverware having hit her during the accident and leaving dents in her skin like burns from a hot poker, and her dress had suffered greatly in the chaos. Fabric torn away, holes burned into the skirt; that was what Celia could see through the mess her hair had become, her bun coming loose and blood and sweat making her hair stick to her face.

"Russ!" she called again, crawling to her feet. Celia kicked off her block heels, practically flinging one of them back towards the fire. She'd tried running when Leopold gave the warning, but the force of the Obscurus emerging and Celia's lost balance made her roll her ankle—she'd crashed into the tent wall, and had come to with a man dead on top of her and fire licking at her skin.

And she'd lost Russel. He'd been right next to her, at the very back of the wedding banquet, and now he was missing.

She couldn't find his scent among the smoke, and the taste of blood tainted her mouth too much. Despite the daylight they were standing under, the thick billows of smoke clinging to the meadow still obscured even Celia's vision.

"Celia!"

She whirled on her feet. That came from inside the tent. Celia's heart leapt into her throat. "Russ!?"

"Help me with this!"

Celia didn't even hesitate. She jumped through the wall she'd just escaped through, one hand over her mouth and nose as the other swatted away smoke and embers. Russel needed help. She had to help him as fast as possible.

Though her eyes stung and her lungs burned, Celia found her way to him. More flames burned at her skin and dress, singing stray hair, but she was beyond caring about her own injuries now. Russel was kneeling on the ground, visibly straining to lift a burning tellis wall off of two people, and it was obvious that the blood covering one of his eyes was making it hard for him to see.

"Help me out, Celia!" he shouted, still unaware of how close she was. His hearing and sense of smell had been damaged by the commotion. "I'm over here!"

Celia jumped into his field of vision, hands grabbing at the opposite end of the trellis. Her nerves were alight with pain—the splintering and the burning and the blistering—but she held her grip steady. For all the muggle myths about werewolves and their superior strength, even in human form, the truth was that they were just like any other man or woman up until the week of the full moon. There were no perks, no upsides—even being able to tell people apart by smell had its downsides more than anything else. So when Russel and Celia combined couldn't lift the trellis off of the unconscious duo between them, hope was quick to leave Celia's body.

"We can't, Russ," she half-shouted. Her strength was leaving her voice the long she stayed in this death trap. "We have to leave them."

"They didn't say people would die!" Russel insisted. He was digging his feet into the ground, that same look on his face as the night he'd bitten her and transformed back. "They said we'd be treated as equals from now on!"

Celia stared at him. What in the world was he talking about?

"And we meant it," came a calm, commanding voice from behind Celia. She whirled around, stunned that she'd been snuck up on, and only found herself more and more confused by who she saw. The bride herself, alive and well and covered in her own blood, moving so smoothly towards them that she may as well have been floating—and in the middle of her chest, no longer hidden by the collar of her dress, a pulsing diamond much like her husband's announced her presence.

Clotilde Ainsworth looked almost ethereal—ghostly, phantasmal—as she smiled down at the werewolves.

She raised a hand, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the trellis. Celia could see the outline of bones through her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Depulso," Clotilde said sweetly, and then the trellis was flying off the unconscious guests. Russel was thrown back by the force, surprised like Celia was, and Celia could only stare. Stare and wonder just what the hell was going on. "Go on. Get them out. I need to find my husband."

And with that, Clotilde glided away—deeper and deeper into the chaos of the wedding tent.

"What… in the fu—"

"Lia, hurry!"

Russel was already lifting one of the guests up, supporting the man with one of his shoulders and practically holding him up. The man was conscious, if dazed, and he was cradling his midsection with his free arm as Russel helped him. Celia, already back to her senses, dove for the young woman who'd been trapped with him.

The sister of the bride. Celia hesitated. When she pictured meeting Meridian Sinister again, this time as adults, she didn't imagine anything like this. Her shoulder was clearly dislocated, a large gash running down the same arm. One of her heels was snapped in two, and Celia would bet she'd rolled her ankle in those things to boot.

She lifted Meridian and did her best not to agitate her shoulder. The arm hung limply at her side, facing the wrong direction and swaying with every step Celia took.

"I can't tell which way we came from," Celia admitted. The smoke—the intensity of the flames—had grown since Clotilde showed up. If she could see even a sliver of the outside world, she and Russel could flee and get to safety in a split second.

The man Russel supported coughed, and as he coughed the sound of a dog barking rang out. Celia and Russel looked to each other, confused—but then the man was slowly working something out, having heard the barking as well.

"Lena?" he wheezed. That was a rib damaged if Celia ever heard one. Louder, he shouted, "Lena!"

Almost as soon as he'd raised his voice—and broke into another coughing fit—the barks got closer. Celia held her breath, looked to Russel with equal amounts of confusion and astonishment. The closer those barks got, the more she could make out the animal's shape bounding towards them. Finally, through the thick cloud of smoke, a soot-covered golden retriever skidded to a half right in front of the man.

The man reached down as best he could, but when he coughed again, the golden retriever stood up awkwardly on its hind legs and yapped. It looked to both Russel and Celia, far too intelligently for a regular dog, and it yapped at the werewolves before turning back and waddling through the smoke.

"Follow her," the man wheezed. "She's an Animagus—she'll lead us out."

"No arguments here," Russel said quickly. As soon as he spoke, the Animagus barked again.

It was a bumpy trek outside, but when the fresh air and the cold breeze hit their skins, both Celia and Russel dropped to the ground and let their passengers lay atop them. The man rolled off of Russel, curling in on himself as he landed on his side, and Celia watched as the golden retriever turned into a very dirty, very breathless woman.

"Enzo!" she gasped, patting him down gently—but not without panic. "Where are you hurt? I'll do my best to help before—"

"The woman," Enzo coughed. He pointed over at Celia, at the sister of the bride. "Heard her arm pop. She landed under me."

And then Lena was turning back to Celia, wand drawn already. Celia sat up and gently laid Meridian down on the ground, and Celia was quick to ask, "Do you know how to put a shoulder back in place? I can bind it once you do."

It was a stressful process. The ground wasn't as flat as Celia would have liked, and while she and Russel had worked with worse—hell, Russel had to pop his shoulder back in at one point using a door frame—she didn't want to cause someone irreparable damage. When she heard it pop, watched the slight deformity of the shoulder return to its proper shape, Lena nudged her aside and told her, "Sit her upright. I'm going to bind the arm to her torso for now."

Celia did as she was told. While the unconscious Meridian was lifted into a sitting position, her previously dislocated arm positioned so that her fingertips touched her other shoulder, Lena sucked in a deep breath and aimed her wand at the injury.

"Ferula," she said, and with a tap of the wand to the skin, bandages were conjured and wrapped around the woman's arm and shoulders.

With everything resolved—for the most part—Lena was back on her feet and announcing, "I'm going back in. Get somewhere safe and wait for someone to help you—some of the herbologists brought tonics."

"Damian's got his jacket ready!" Kamilah wove around other Aurors as Armand followed, having switched hands once his dominant one began to ache from overuse of his wand. No matter how they looked at this situation, neither of them could make heads or tails of it.

People died, they did it to themselves—Armand assumed. And when they came back, the first thing they did was… Harm others? It felt too unbelievable, too much like something out of a terrible fantasy novel or something. But Kamilah had reacted so fast, so much like she needed to when a dark wizard was on the run. She had the expression of justice all over her—in her posture, her face, her voice—and she was trying to reduce the casualties as best she could while her coworkers fended the assailants off.

If Kamlah was in her element, Armand wondered if maybe this wasn't some massive… thing. Some unreal thing. It felt so real when Kamilah was serious.

With conventional fleeing out of the question, it had become apparent that Damian's jacket—the one he always kept with him, linking him to his menagerie—was everyone's best bet for peace. Aurors had crowded around him, some of the injured were passed his way; for once in his life, Armand thought as he caught sight of that hideous getup, Damian was doing something good with his recklessness.

A stray bolt struck Damian just as Armand and Kamilah made it past the first line of defense. He was flung back, having tried to move away, and when he stood back up he was in visible pain. One of the basilisk fang earrings he'd worn had been thrown off his ear, splitting the lobe in half as it did so. Blood dripped at a steady pace onto Damian's shoulder, but he went back to holding up his jacket and ushering people inside.

"Jesus," Kamilah remarked. "I forget he took some beatings in Duelling Club back in the day."

Only at first, Armand almost reminded her. He more than anyone was well aware how proficient Damian's duelling capabilities were. Armand had been a fool to try and challenge him—

Armand shook his head. Now wasn't the time. Ophelia had denied his apology, and he'd sooner choke than apologise to Damian for that day. Right now he had to focus on not getting hit with a spell.

As soon as he thought it, another bolt flew nearby. It missed Armand by a few feet, but soon it was careening up into the sky and plummeting straight down for him. Had someone homed a spell on him? Armand panicked, aiming his wand at Kamilah and flinding her and the woman they'd found closer to Damian. Kamilah crashed to the ground, screeching in shock, and then Armand was pointing his wand up at the bolt heading his way.

"Protego Duo—" Almost as soon as the shield began to form, the bolt collided and sent a powerful shockwave out around Armand. The force was enough to knock him off of his feet, sending him tumbling down the small hill with his wand snapped in two. Armand gasped for breath, his dominant hand not only sore but his other hand now swollen and fractured around the wrist.

"My, my," came a woman's voice, approaching at a rapid pace. Armand wasted no time standing back up, raising one fist in preparation to strike. When he caught sight of the woman—despite the deathly appearance she took on—she conjured images of Damian to his mind.

Christ. Violetta Valie, the Valie matriarch, was smiling at him with that sickeningly sweet expression.

"Wes!" Kamilah screamed, and there was fear in her voice. Rightfully so—Damian may have been a pro when it came to using his Animaspeech, but his mother was on a whole other level entirely.

"Keep going!" Armand shouted back. He shifted his weight around on his feet. Okay, if he could just get close to her before she cast anything, maybe he could take her out. Older witches and wizards focused more on their magic than their physical capabilities. She'd go down easy, even if Damian would yell at him for it later.

Armand could live with that.

"I do believe I recognise you," Violetta mused as she approached. She shouldn't be able to move so fast, Armand thought, and he slowly moved in the direction of Damian. The other Aurors in the area had been knocked down, unconscious thanks to the shockwave, and it was just Armand facing her down now. Just Armand, the beast hunter. "My Dami showed me many photos of you. He suddenly stopped one year, though. Perhaps you know why?"

Armand felt sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He told his mother about Armand? What, did he also say Armand fucked up so bad that—

Armand shook his head. No, he didn't fuck up. Damian did. Armand was in the right.

"Ah, I think I know why, though." Violetta tilted her head at him, and Armand's hairs stood on end. That was not a very hospitable smile she was giving him now. "I've seen heartbreak before. But I've never seen my Dami suffer from it so horribly before."

She raised an arm at him, not even uttering a word—the green light that erupted, hurtling straight for him, he knew this spell—he knew this curse—

Violetta wanted him dead. Dead enough to use the Killing Curse on him.

Armand couldn't even fend for himself with his wand. All he could do was hold his breath and shield his face, hoping that it would end quickly. Please, God, don't let the Killing Curse be a slow, suffering death.

A mass of heat erupted through the area, a screech almost deafening him as he prepared for his fate. And when the Killing Curse was supposed to hit him, something dove in front of him and took the blow.

"Maman!" Damian shrieked. "What are you doing!?"

Armand opened his eyes slowly. He was still alive? His gaze slid from the now angry Violetta, to the scared Damian running towards them—and then, following Violetta's own gaze, to the phoenix being reduced to ashes in front of him.

"Ce qu'une mère fait de mieux," Violetta said, this time with an edge to her voice that made Armand flinch. She raised her arm again, ready to strike Armand down proper—

And then black fire shot out from Damian's wand, hurtling straight for Violetta and forcing her on the defense. Armand looked back at him, bewildered; Valies and their dark magic, he swore, when did they ever stop? A ring of black fire surrounded Damian, and those who approached him were met with no harm. They passed through the flames unburnt, and they were jumping into his jacket as he threw the fire at assailants who got too close.

"Armand, hurry!" Damian yelled. The phoenix was already coming back to life, rising from its ashes and gaining its glow once more. Armand picked it up, cradled it with his good arm—and then stopped.

Protego Diabolica only killed those who wished the caster harm. As much as Damian thought he was saving Armand, he was just giving him another choice of execution.

"I can't!" Armand shouted back. "I can't cross the flames!"

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Damian's expression was blank, empty, and then his face contorted. Pain, heartbreak, resignation. He knew what this meant. He knew the scars of the past were still going to keep that rift between them.

Damian turned away from his mother, bringing a hand to his lips, and he let out a sharp whistle. The woman holding his jacket open let out a surprised shout as it shook and flopped about, and then she was screaming as one of the man's beasts sprang forth. The Zouwu let out a yowl as it ran through the flames, straight for Armand; for a moment it hesitated, stopped by the sudden shout Violetta let out, but then Damian was assaulting her with flames once more and the Zouwu continued on.

It picked up Armand with one long, clawed paw, and then it was looking back to Damian for instructions. Armand was hugged close to the creature's body, the phoenix cushioned between them and recovering from its blow.

"Take him somewhere safe!" Damian shouted at the Zouwu. Its chest rumbled in response, and Armand was more than aware now of how vulnerable he was in its grasp. "I'll find you!"

The Zouwu let out a cry so deafening that Armand had to bury his face in its fur. Bright sparks of red and yellow began to emit from its mane, and when it broke into a run as best it could with just three legs, the sparks became more intense.

Armand only got one last glance at the Valies before the sparks turned bright blue, exploding around the Zouwu, and the world around him vanished altogether.

Pardon my French, literally; I haven't practiced it in forever and those I knew who are fluent aren't people I keep in much contact with sadly. If there's a better translation for "What mothers do best", hit me up and I'll replace it ASAP.

That said - here we go! We see the effect of everyone collapsing and the aftermath of Florence! Let me know what you guys think and I'll try get the next done soon!