The Aether Shard had changed something inside Harry.
It wasn't just magic—it was a parasite, burrowing into the raw spaces of his mind, whispering in a language older than any spell he'd ever learned. Its voice wasn't loud. It was patient, seeping into his thoughts like ink in water, staining everything black.
Harry didn't fight it.
He was tired of fighting.
Weeks Later — The Fracture Grows
Harry stood at the edge of the dueling arena in Academia Nocturna, his wand hanging loose in his fingers. His opponent—a cocky pureblood student named Theron Malrick—smirked with the kind of arrogance Harry used to despise.
But now?
Now, he didn't feel anything at all.
The duel began with formalities. Spells shot across the room, bright and controlled. But control wasn't what Harry wanted anymore.
When Theron's shield charm deflected a hex, Harry's patience snapped.
He whispered something under his breath—words he hadn't learned in a classroom.
The spell hit Theron square in the chest. Not a curse. Not even a hex.
It was something worse.
Theron screamed, his body convulsing as dark veins spread across his skin like cracks in porcelain. His wand fell from numb fingers.
The arena fell silent.
Harry didn't stop.
Not until Lucian's voice cut through the haze:
"Enough."
Harry's magic obeyed Lucian before he did. The spell dissipated, leaving Theron crumpled on the floor, unconscious—or maybe worse.
Lucian crossed the arena slowly, his silver eyes sharp, calculating. There was no smirk this time. Just something harder.
"What the fuck was that?" he hissed under his breath when they were close enough to not be heard.
Harry didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Lucian's gaze flicked to the faint glow beneath the cuff of Harry's sleeve—the Aether's mark. A thin, dark vein of power etched into his skin, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat.
Lucian grabbed his wrist, pulling the sleeve back roughly. His fingers tightened when he saw the mark. "You're losing control."
Harry pulled free. "No." His voice was calm. Too calm. "I'm evolving."
Lucian's jaw clenched. "This isn't evolution. It's corruption."
Harry's laughter was low, bitter. "Is there a difference?"
Later That Night — The Confession
Lucian didn't come to Harry's room. But Harry didn't expect him to.
Instead, Harry sat in the dark, his fingers tracing the mark on his skin, feeling the pulse of the Aether like a second heartbeat. It whispered to him—promises of power, freedom, more.
But beneath the hunger was something else.
Doubt.
When the knock finally came, Harry almost didn't answer.
But it was Lucian. It was always Lucian.
He didn't waste words. He never did.
Lucian pushed Harry back into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The space between them burned with tension—not the sharp edge of desire but something deeper. Something raw.
"I know what the Aether is doing to you," Lucian whispered, stepping closer, his hands gripping Harry's face roughly, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I've seen it before."
Harry's breath hitched. "How?"
Lucian's jaw tightened. His next words were quieter, filled with something Harry couldn't quite name.
"Because it happened to me."
Silence stretched between them.
Harry's mind raced—not with judgment, not with fear, but with something like understanding.
Lucian let go, stepping back as if the admission had cost him something. "I thought I could control it. That it made me stronger. But it doesn't give you power, Harry." His eyes darkened. "It takes it."
Harry's laugh was soft, bitter. "Maybe that's what I want."
Lucian grabbed him again, this time with less violence and more desperation. Their mouths met, not in hunger but in something closer to need. It was messy, clumsy, filled with unspoken words neither of them could afford to say.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads pressed together, Lucian whispered, "You'll lose yourself."
Harry's answer was a breath against his lips.
"Good."
The Covenant's Betrayal
The next day, everything unraveled.
Harry was summoned to the Covenant's inner chamber—a space he'd never been invited to before. The walls were lined with ancient symbols, the floor etched with runes older than the academy itself.
The masked members stood in a circle, their faces hidden, their power palpable.
Lucian wasn't there.
The leader—a figure known only as The Whisper—stepped forward. Their voice was soft, distorted by enchantment.
"You've served us well, Potter," they said. "But you've become… unstable."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened.
This wasn't a meeting.
It was an execution.
The Ambush
Spells flew before Harry could even process the betrayal. Bright flashes of green and red lit the dark chamber as he ducked, rolled, and retaliated.
His magic exploded—wild, unchecked. The Aether pulsed under his skin, feeding on his rage, amplifying his power until he was a storm, tearing through masked figures like parchment in fire.
But it wasn't enough.
There were too many.
His body hit the floor hard, spells binding him, his magic flickering under the weight of enchantments layered over him.
And then—Lucian's face appeared above him.
Not with concern.
But with cold, calculating eyes.
"I told you," Lucian whispered, kneeling beside him, his hand brushing Harry's bloodied cheek. "You'd lose yourself."
Harry's heart cracked—not from the betrayal.
But from the fact that it still felt like love.
End of Chapter 9