Darkness.
That was all Harry knew when he woke.
No flickering torchlight, no whispers of distant voices. Just endless, suffocating dark.
His wrists burned where enchanted cuffs bit into his skin—magic-dampening restraints, designed to suppress even the most volatile spells. His wand was gone, but that didn't matter. His power wasn't in the wand anymore. It was under his skin, woven into his blood like poison.
But the Aether was quiet now, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
And it was waiting for him to break.
The Cell
The space was small, carved into the stone beneath Academia Nocturna, colder than any dungeon at Azkaban, though the true prison wasn't the walls. It was the silence.
Until it wasn't.
The door creaked open hours—or maybe days—later. Harry had lost track. But he didn't need to see to know who it was. He felt Lucian before he spoke. That electric tension, sharp as a blade pressed to his throat.
Lucian stepped into the dim light, his silver eyes reflecting just enough to cut through the dark. He looked… composed. Immaculate as always, robes pristine, hair perfectly tousled in that way that made Harry want to rip it out by the roots.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They weren't cold. They weren't distant. They were burning.
"Potter."
A simple word, but it hit like a curse.
Harry didn't respond. He kept his chin high, even though every bone in his body ached.
Lucian moved closer, crouching in front of him, fingers resting lazily on his knee—too familiar, too casual, too much.
"You look like shit," Lucian murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Harry's laugh was raw, scraping out of his throat like broken glass. "Takes one to know one."
Lucian's grin faltered for a second, but only for a second. Then his hand shot out, gripping Harry's jaw hard enough to bruise. His thumb brushed over the corner of Harry's mouth, smearing dried blood across his skin.
"You should've listened," Lucian whispered, leaning in, their faces inches apart. "I told you the Aether would ruin you."
Harry's heart didn't race. Not from fear. But from rage.
"Then why did you let me touch it?" Harry spat, his voice low and sharp. "Why did you—"
—pull me in, break me open, and leave me hollow?
The words stayed in his throat, too bitter to speak.
Lucian's grip tightened, but not out of anger. Something else. Something worse.
"Because I wanted to see how far you'd fall." His voice was softer now, almost tender. "And you didn't disappoint."
Harry surged forward, as much as the chains allowed, their foreheads colliding, breath mixing in the space between words they'd never say.
"Fuck you," Harry hissed.
Lucian's smile was razor-sharp. "You already did."
The Interrogation
Lucian didn't ask questions. He didn't need to.
Instead, he talked. About the Covenant. About power. About how Harry was never really in control—not of his magic, not of his emotions, not of anything.
And Harry let him talk. Because it was easier than admitting that every word cut deeper than the last.
Until Lucian leaned in again, his hand sliding from Harry's jaw to his throat, fingers pressing just enough to steal breath without stealing life.
"Do you hate me, Potter?" Lucian whispered, his lips brushing Harry's ear.
Harry's pulse roared.
"Yes," he gasped.
Lucian's grip tightened—and then he kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. Messy.
Harry bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but he didn't pull away. He pulled closer, chains rattling, metal digging into his skin as if trying to remind him that he was trapped.
But this—this—was the real cage.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, blood smeared between them like war paint, Lucian's eyes were wild.
"You feel it, too," he whispered, voice shaking for the first time. "Don't fucking lie."
Harry's head fell back against the wall, laughter bubbling up again—mad, broken laughter.
"Of course I feel it," he gasped. "That's the problem."
The Escape—or the Beginning of It
Lucian returned the next night. And the one after that.
Not with threats. Not with torture.
With touch.
With whispers.
With the kind of intimacy that felt more dangerous than any curse.
But Harry was waiting.
Beneath the pain, beneath the hunger, beneath the addiction—he was waiting.
Because the Aether wasn't gone. It was just… quiet. Watching. Growing.
And when the time was right, Harry would let it out.
Not for revenge.
Not for freedom.
For himself.
For the version of him that Lucian had tried to break but had only sharpened.
End of Chapter 10