The days after Harry's blood marked the stone blurred into shadows and whispers. He was no longer just a student at Academia Nocturna—he was part of something older, darker, and far more intoxicating.
The Covenant of Ash didn't operate in the light. They met in hidden chambers beneath the academy, where the walls pulsed with ancient magic and the air was thick with secrets. Harry felt it in his veins now—a constant hum beneath his skin, as if the very stones recognized him.
But initiation wasn't just about blood. It was about surrender.
The Chamber of Thorns was unlike any place Harry had seen before.
The walls weren't stone—they were woven from twisted black vines, thorns glinting like obsidian under the dim glow of candles. Symbols written in blood and ash covered every surface. In the center, a large circular platform carved from dark marble, veins of crimson running through it like dried rivers.
Harry stood at its edge, his heartbeat steady but his blood roaring like a drumbeat. He wasn't afraid.
Fear was for people who still had something to lose.
The masked members of the Covenant formed a silent circle around him. At their center, Lucian stood without his mask, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His silver eyes glinted with something predatory—pride mixed with desire, dark and sharp.
"Initiation requires more than courage," Lucian's voice echoed through the chamber. "It requires submission—to power, to pain, to truth."
Harry's jaw clenched. Submission wasn't in his nature.
But that was the point.
Lucian stepped forward, holding a slender black vial filled with liquid darker than ink. "This is Vesper's Draught," he whispered, his voice like silk over steel. "A potion that strips away illusions—not the ones cast by magic, but the ones you build around yourself."
He held it out. "Drink."
Harry's fingers curled around the vial. It was cold, almost too cold, the glass slick with condensation. Without hesitation, he tipped it back.
The taste was bitter—like iron and smoke—and it burned all the way down.
The world shifted immediately.
The walls seemed to ripple. The floor pulsed beneath his feet. His heartbeat grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just in his chest—it was everywhere. The thorns on the walls writhed like snakes, and shadows bled from the corners of his vision.
And then the voices started.
"Murderer."
"Liar."
"Broken."
They weren't real, he told himself. Just echoes. Just the potion.
But they sounded like people he knew—Sirius, Dumbledore, Fred… Ginny.
Harry's knees buckled. The platform wasn't solid anymore—it was ice, fire, stone, all at once. His skin burned where his scars lay hidden. The voices grew louder, overlapping until they were a roar inside his skull.
He wanted to scream.
But then—Lucian's hands.
Strong, grounding, gripping his face, forcing Harry to see.
Lucian's silver eyes burned through the haze. "This is who you are," he whispered, his voice the only thing Harry could hear clearly. "Not the boy they made you. Not the hero they worshipped. You're not broken, Potter. You're free."
And in that moment—Harry believed him.
Something inside snapped. The pain didn't fade—it became power. The voices didn't vanish—they became fuel.
Harry surged to his feet, grabbing Lucian by the collar, their mouths crashing together with brutal force. It wasn't a kiss. It was a war.
Teeth. Tongues. Nails digging into skin.
The Covenant watched silently, their approval unspoken but palpable, the air thick with magic and lust and something darker—ownership.
Lucian pulled back, breathless, his lips swollen, his grin wicked. "You're ready."
Later That Night…
Harry sat alone in his room, the taste of Lucian still on his tongue, the echoes of the ritual thrumming beneath his skin.
The mark on his palm pulsed faintly—a reminder that he'd crossed a threshold.
There was no going back now.
And the most dangerous part?
He didn't want to.
End of Chapter 5