The mark on Harry's palm hadn't faded.
It pulsed with every heartbeat, a faint, crimson glow beneath his skin—a reminder that he wasn't just Harry Potter anymore. He was something else. Something darker.
Something free.
The days at Academia Nocturna grew colder, the shadows longer. But Harry didn't feel the chill. The darkness suited him now.
The Summons Came at Midnight.
No parchment. No formal invitation. Just a whisper through the walls—"Covenant. Now."
Harry dressed quickly, black robes sliding over his skin like second skin. His wand felt heavier in his hand, not because of fear, but anticipation. He craved this—the rush, the danger, the promise of power.
The meeting chamber was darker than usual, lit only by a single brazier burning with black flames. The members of the Covenant of Ash stood in a loose circle, their masks reflecting the firelight like polished bone.
Lucian wasn't wearing a mask.
Of course he wasn't.
He stood at the center, his silver eyes gleaming, that familiar smirk carved into his face like it belonged there permanently. When he saw Harry, the smirk deepened, something wicked flickering in his gaze.
"Tonight," Lucian announced, his voice carrying through the chamber like a spell, "we move beyond ritual. Tonight, we teach Harry Potter the difference between power… and control."
The masked members stepped aside, revealing a figure kneeling on the cold stone floor, hands bound behind their back, a blindfold covering their eyes.
A prisoner.
Harry's pulse quickened—not with fear, but something darker. Excitement.
Lucian approached Harry, standing so close their shoulders brushed. His voice was a low whisper, meant only for him.
"This is your test, Potter."
Harry didn't flinch. "What do you want me to do?"
Lucian's smirk grew wider. "I want you to break them."
The Prisoner's Name Was Dorian Cray.
An ex-student. A traitor, they said. Someone who'd crossed the Covenant. Harry didn't care. He didn't ask for details.
He didn't need to.
Lucian handed Harry a blade—slender, black, etched with runes that pulsed faintly under the brazier's light. A ritual dagger.
Harry felt its weight, its hunger. The metal hummed against his skin, eager, impatient.
He stepped forward, his heartbeat steady, his grip firm.
The room was silent, save for the ragged breathing of the man kneeling before him.
Lucian's voice was soft, but it carried. "Hesitation is weakness, Potter. You know that better than anyone. The war taught you. But this…" He gestured to the blade. "This will teach you something more important. How to take what you want without asking. Without regret."
Harry's hand didn't shake.
The first cut was shallow—a line across the man's forearm. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick, dripping onto the stone floor, seeping into the runes.
Magic thrummed in response, eager and hungry.
Harry's heart pounded—not with guilt, but with power.
The second cut was deeper.
The man screamed.
Harry's grip tightened.
Lucian was beside him in an instant, his hand curling around Harry's wrist, guiding the blade. His breath was warm against Harry's neck, his voice a sinful whisper.
"Do you feel that?" Lucian murmured. "That pulse? That heat? That's magic, Potter. Real magic. Not the sanitized spells they teach at Hogwarts. This is raw. This is truth."
Harry's pulse roared in his ears. His magic surged, dark and wild, feeding off the pain, the blood, the power.
When it was over, the man lay crumpled on the floor, unconscious, blood pooling beneath him.
Harry's hands were slick with crimson, but his mind was clear.
No hesitation. No regret.
Only control.
Lucian's hand slid from Harry's wrist to his throat—not choking, just resting there, a silent claim. His thumb brushed over Harry's pulse, feeling the steady, unbroken beat beneath his skin.
"You're mine now," Lucian whispered, not a question, not a demand—just a truth.
Harry didn't argue.
Because it felt true.
Later That Night…
The blood was gone, cleaned away with magic. But Harry could still feel it—under his nails, soaked into his skin, etched into his soul.
Lucian's mouth was on his again before Harry could even close the door. Their kisses were messy, violent, tasting of sweat, blood, and something darker—ownership.
Harry didn't care if it was wrong.
He didn't care if it broke him.
Because for the first time in his life, he wasn't the boy who lived.
He was the man who took.
End of Chapter 6