The days after the ritual blurred into one another—a haze of forbidden spells, bruised skin, and breathless encounters in dark corridors. Harry had stopped asking himself why it felt right. It just did.
Lucian was everywhere—in his classes, in his space, under his skin. Their dynamic wasn't soft. It was fire, volatile and consuming, burning hotter each time they collided, whether with wands or hands or mouths. It wasn't romance. It was something darker, something sharp-edged and necessary, like drawing blood just to feel alive.
But under the pulse of lust and power, something was shifting. The shadows around Academia Nocturna seemed to watch more closely. Whispers clung to the stone walls like cobwebs—rumors of a secret society that thrived in the dark, older than the school itself.
The Covenant of Ash.
It was nearly midnight when Harry received another letter—slipped under his door like a phantom. No signature. Just a single line written in ink so dark it seemed to shimmer:
"Do you crave more, Harry Potter?"
No instructions. No invitation. But Harry knew exactly where to go.
The meeting place was deep beneath the academy—a part of the school not marked on any map. He followed the pulse of his own reckless curiosity through winding tunnels until he reached a door carved from blackened bone, runes etched deep into its surface.
The door creaked open as if it had been expecting him.
Inside: a chamber lit only by flickering candles placed in a perfect circle. Figures in dark robes stood around the perimeter, faces hidden, masks etched with the same serpent symbol—the Ouroboros. Endless. Eternal.
Harry stepped into the circle, his heartbeat steady, not from calm but from the thrill of walking into the unknown.
One of the masked figures spoke, voice distorted by enchantment. "You seek power."
It wasn't a question.
Harry's jaw clenched. "I don't seek it. I already have it."
A ripple of amused murmurs echoed through the chamber.
The figure stepped closer. "Power isn't just what you wield. It's what you're willing to sacrifice." They paused, then held out a small, ornate dagger—its blade black as obsidian, pulsing faintly with dark magic.
"Prove yourself."
Harry's fingers closed around the hilt without hesitation. The dagger was cold, but the magic thrumming within it was alive.
"Blood is the oldest currency," the figure murmured. "Give us yours."
Harry didn't flinch. He dragged the blade across his palm, crimson welling instantly. The pain was sharp, but it anchored him—real, tangible. He clenched his fist, letting the blood drip onto the floor, where it was quickly absorbed into the runes carved into the stone.
The symbols flared, casting the chamber in a sinister red glow.
The masked figure stepped forward, pulling back their hood. Harry's breath hitched—not from surprise, but from something more volatile.
Lucian.
Of course it was Lucian.
His smirk was familiar now, lazy and sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to make every cut linger longer.
"Did you think power came without strings?" Lucian murmured, his fingers grazing Harry's blood-slick hand. "You're not here by accident, Potter. You've been chosen."
Harry's pulse roared in his ears, a mix of fury, desire, and something darker—need.
"You knew," Harry hissed, stepping closer, their faces inches apart.
Lucian's grin didn't falter. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."
And then, without warning, Lucian grabbed him by the collar and kissed him—rough, claiming, as if daring Harry to push him away.
But Harry didn't.
He kissed back, biting hard enough to draw blood, tasting iron and magic and everything he wasn't supposed to want.
The Covenant watched silently, their approval evident in the way the room seemed to hum with energy, dark and ancient.
When they broke apart, breathless and bruised, Lucian whispered against Harry's lips, "Welcome to the Covenant of Ash."
Later That Night…
Harry lay in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, the taste of blood and magic still lingering on his tongue. His palm throbbed where the dagger had bitten deep, the wound refusing to heal—a mark, a brand.
Chosen.
Not for being a hero. Not for saving the world.
Chosen because he was willing to burn it all down for what he craved.
And for the first time in his life, Harry didn't feel lost.
He felt found.
End of Chapter 4