The days after Saria Vale's death passed in a blur.
Harry didn't dream anymore—not of Voldemort, not of the war, not of the people he'd lost. Now, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the flash of green light, the way her body crumpled, and Lucian's voice echoing in his head:
"You didn't hesitate."
But it wasn't guilt that haunted him.
It was how good it had felt.
The Covenant's Approval Was Immediate.
Whispers followed Harry through the halls of Academia Nocturna, not in fear but respect. Students stepped aside when he passed, their eyes lingering with equal parts fascination and envy. He was no longer just the Boy Who Lived—he was the Boy Who Killed.
And that made him powerful.
But power had its price.
The Night After the Kill
Lucian didn't knock when he came to Harry's room. He never did.
Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands—the same hands that had held his wand, steady and sure, as he'd ended a life.
Lucian leaned against the doorframe, his silver eyes gleaming in the low light. "You've been quiet."
Harry didn't respond.
Lucian crossed the room, his movements lazy but predatory, like a cat that knew it owned the space. He stopped in front of Harry, tilting his head slightly. "Regret?"
Harry finally looked up. "No."
Lucian's grin was sharp, almost pleased. He reached out, his fingers brushing over Harry's jaw, tilting his face up. "Good. Regret is for the weak."
Their mouths met with bruising force, teeth clashing, hands gripping too hard. It wasn't about affection. It never was.
It was about claiming something—each other, the moment, the power that thrummed between them like a live wire.
When it was over, they didn't speak.
Lucian left without looking back.
And Harry stared at the door long after it closed, his chest hollow and full all at once.
Weeks Later—The Cracks Began to Show.
Harry's magic grew unpredictable. Stronger, yes—but volatile. Spells burst with too much force, shattering objects, leaving scorch marks on walls. His temper flared without warning, a slow burn beneath his skin that never fully cooled.
Lucian noticed. Of course he did.
"You're slipping," he said one night, after Harry nearly hexed a fellow student during a duel.
Harry's jaw clenched. "Maybe I like it that way."
Lucian stepped closer, his smile dark and dangerous. "No, you don't. You like control. You just don't know how to hold it anymore."
Harry shoved him, hard enough to make Lucian stumble. But Lucian only laughed, his eyes gleaming with something that wasn't anger.
Challenge.
They crashed together, mouths meeting with more violence than passion, hands tangled in hair, nails digging into skin. It wasn't about desire. It was about dominance.
And when they were done, lying tangled on the floor, sweat and bruises marking the battle, Lucian whispered against Harry's neck, "You're mine."
Harry didn't argue.
Because it was true.
The Relic Changed Everything.
The Covenant's next mission wasn't about blood. It was about power.
The artifact Saria Vale had stolen was called the Aether Shard, a fragment of pure, ancient magic capable of amplifying spells beyond their natural limits. It had been recovered after her death—but it wasn't safe.
Because it wasn't just magic.
It was sentient.
And it wanted Harry.
The moment he touched it, the world shifted. His vision blurred, reality fracturing like glass. He saw flashes of things that weren't real—or maybe they were.
Himself, standing over bodies he didn't recognize.
Lucian, kneeling before him, blood on his lips, a broken smile on his face.
Darkness, whispering promises he couldn't understand.
When he came back to himself, he was on his knees, the Shard burning in his hand. His magic roared under his skin, wild and untamed.
Lucian was there, his face pale, eyes wide—not with fear, but something worse.
Recognition.
He pulled Harry up roughly, shaking him. "What did you see?"
Harry's voice was a whisper, raw and ragged. "Everything."
That Night, There Was No Control.
Lucian didn't come to Harry's room. Harry went to his.
He didn't knock. He didn't wait. He pushed Lucian against the wall, their mouths meeting in a clash of teeth and desperation. It wasn't sex. It was survival.
Lucian fought back, as he always did, but this time Harry didn't let him win.
When it was over, they were both gasping, bruised and bloodied, their bodies tangled on the cold floor.
Lucian's voice was a whisper in the dark.
"You're not afraid of power anymore."
Harry's laugh was hollow.
"No. I'm afraid of what I'll do with it."
End of Chapter 8