ICW Medical Pavilion – South Wing
The antiseptic scent of magic lingered heavily in the air—clean, crisp, almost painfully bright. It was the kind of magic that masqueraded as pure, even as it adhered itself to blood-soaked bandages, a stark reminder of the battles fought and the wounds endured.
Arcturus Prince strode forward with determination, his footsteps echoing sharply against the gleaming white marble floor. Enchanted lanterns overhead flickered to life in his wake, illuminating the tense atmosphere. His wand hand twitched, not from fear but from a cold, seething fury that coursed through him like ice.
Eileen walked beside him, her posture rigid, her dark eyes betraying no hint of the tempest within. Her expression was meticulously composed, yet every breath she drew seemed to be carved from the very essence of restraint, each inhalation a battle against the turmoil trying to surface.
As they reached the threshold to the recovery wing, two uniformed guards stood at attention, their demeanor shifting as they straightened, wands at the ready in a silent salute to the impending confrontation that followed Arcturus like a shadow.
"Let us through," Arcturus commanded, his voice steady and low, a quiet storm that did not require raising in volume to be heard.
In an instant, the guards parted, stepping aside to grant them passage.
Upon entering, the silence enveloped them, deeper and more profound than outside, almost tangible, layered over a shimmering hum created by stasis wards and muted healing charms designed to protect those within.
Two beds had been cordoned off, the fabric of reality and time bending around them, containing the gravity of the moments that were unfolding.
One figure stood beside James Potter, his head encased in a delicate diagnostic weave, while his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of a mild magical concussion. To an observer, he appeared almost serene, as if lost in restful slumber. It was as if he were completely oblivious to the turmoil wrought by his own actions.
On the opposite side of the room—separated by the distance of unspoken tension—lay Severus. His arm was suspended in a shimmering band of golden light, effortlessly cradled within a sling of enchanted mist that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. One leg was tightly wrapped in bandages from thigh to knee, a testament to the injuries he had sustained. Dried blood speckled the area near his collarbone, where protective runes glowed faintly, working diligently to prevent further swelling. Though his face was pale and marked by the hollows of exhaustion, a steady, even rhythm of his breathing signified that he still clung to life.
Arcturus's jaw tightened in barely contained rage.
Across the room, Charles Potter and Dorea stood rigidly by the wall, the weight of their vigil made palpable in the atmosphere. They both looked up sharply as the Princes entered the room, sensing the gravity of the moment.
Arcturus wasted no time in unveiling his fury.
"You should be ashamed," he declared, his voice slicing through the silence like tempered steel, sharp and uncompromising.
Charles bristled, instinctively adopting a defensive stance. "Arcturus—"
"No." The single word shattered the air between them. "No explanations will suffice. You stood there and watched your son bring humiliation upon my nephew. Not merely a challenge—humiliation. In front of an international audience, following a sixty-minute duel that would have overwhelmed most adults."
"He accepted the challenge," Charles said, his voice laced with a tense shame that he was struggling to conceal. "It was his choice, after all."
"He shouldn't have had to!" Eileen's voice rose, each syllable sharp and infused with fury. "You know what your son did to him at Hogwarts. You heard the rumors. You heard what he said. What he called him."
Dorea flinched at the accusation, her instincts kicking in as she automatically reached for her wand, not to draw it, but to grasp something solid amidst the chaos of emotions.
"We didn't know it was that bad," she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely above a breath. "Not really."
Eileen's eyes narrowed, her expression a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Don't lie to yourselves. You knew. Deep down, you knew, and you let yourselves believe it was just boys being boys. A little teasing here and there. Just harmless house rivalries."
Charles looked down at the floor, his throat tightening as he grappled with his own guilt. "He wasn't supposed to… I didn't raise him to be like this—"
"But you didn't stop him either," Arcturus interjected, his tone flat and accusatory. "And now your failure is written in headlines across every paper in Europe."
Charles's lips tightened into a thin line, the weight of his son's actions pressing heavily upon him. "He's young. He made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes."
"No," Arcturus said, his voice dropping to a tense whisper. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, laced with a terrifying intensity. "He made a choice. Out of pride. Out of ego. And he dragged a barely-standing champion into a farce of a duel just to satisfy that hunger for victory."
"He's your son, Charles," Eileen replied, her tone icy and unyielding. "Is this what you envisioned for your legacy? A boy so desperate for triumph that he has forgotten what it truly means to be a Potter?"
At these words, Dorea looked up, and something in her expression crumbled. "We didn't want this," she murmured, her voice filled with regret. "We tried to stop him."
"You didn't try hard enough," Arcturus shot back, frustration seeping through his carefully controlled demeanor. "I hope he learns. I hope this experience teaches him something of value. Because if it doesn't—next time, it won't be Severus facing him. And mark my words, the world won't be watching to intervene."
Charles opened his mouth, prepared to retort, but the words failed him, and he slowly closed it again.
There was nothing left to say.
Arcturus stepped away from the heated exchange and moved to Severus's bedside. He reached out, not making contact but instead adjusting a stasis rune ever so slightly, reinforcing the shimmering containment glow that surrounded his nephew's fragile ribs. Eileen followed closely behind, her voice barely above a whisper.
"We'll take him back to Ilvermorny the moment he stabilizes," she stated, her eyes scanning Severus's pale face with deep concern.
Arcturus nodded in agreement, his expression troubled yet resolute.
Behind them, Dorea settled slowly onto the edge of her son's bed, her hands trembling as they cradled her face in anguish. Her wand slipped from her grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.
Charles Potter remained standing, but for the first time in years, he bore the unmistakable look of a man grappling with the realization that he had, perhaps irrevocably, lost sight of the legacy he intended to leave behind.
Recovery Ward – Midday
The enchanted ceiling above shimmered with a gentle charm-light, mirroring the clouds drifting outside. Daylight gradually morphed into soft evening shades, only to brighten again, as if taunting him with time slipping away from his grasp. James remained uncertain of how long he had been stretched out in this disorienting limbo.
He hadn't bothered to ask.
His wand lay far out of reach. The last remnants of his pride shattered the instant his body collided with the dueling platform. Pain radiated through his shoulder where the stunner had struck, and his ribs pulsed with a dull ache from the brutal impact.
Yet, nothing stung quite as deeply as the silence that enveloped him.
The scrape of a chair against the floor broke through the quiet.
James turned his head slightly.
Sirius occupied the chair beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a scowl furrowed into his features—not directed at James, not entirely. Instead, his frustration seemed aimed at the world itself, at the crowds, at the weight of expectations, and at the overwhelming presence of those who had cheered for someone else.
Behind them, Remus stood resolutely, clutching a thick folder—no, an entire stack of newspapers. His expression was inscrutable, concealing whatever emotions churned beneath the surface.
"Here," Remus said, his voice low but steady, infused with an air of quiet determination. He passed the newspapers over with no hint of ceremony.
James hesitated for a moment, glancing at the titles before finally taking them from Remus's outstretched hand.
The Daily Prophet.
The Caledonian Herald.
Le Magique.
The Trans-Atlantic Magical Times.
Each of these front pages featured bold headlines, shouting at him the urgency of the news they contained.
"SHAFIQ ENDS POTTER IN UNDER TWO MINUTES"
— Daily Prophet, Evening Edition
"A duel called under ancestral law ended in what many are calling a mercy defeat. Witnesses confirm Heir James Potter landed only one spell."
"Hubris on Display: Ilvermorny Champion Defeats British Heir in Unprecedented Duel"
— The Caledonian Herald
"What was meant to be a final celebration turned sour as the British Heir challenged a fatigued champion—only to fall swiftly. The ICW issued a formal statement criticizing the misuse of honor duels."
"Even in Victory, Shafiq Showed Restraint. That's the Difference."
— Trans-Atlantic Magical Times
"Observers agree: Shafiq did not fight to humiliate. He fought to end it quickly. Potter, on the other hand, fought to erase."
"From Prodigy to Punchline?"
— The Whispering Quill (op-ed)
"James Potter had the pedigree, the training, the spotlight. And he used it to prove a point no one agreed with. That's not legacy. That's ego."
James stared at the ink on the page, the letters swirling together until they formed an indistinct smear. His throat tightened with an uncomfortable pressure. The heat pooling behind his eyes had shifted; it was no longer fueled by rage, but by something much more unsettling—an emotion he struggled to name. Shame, perhaps, or something even darker.
"I thought I could beat him," he finally admitted, his voice rough and unsteady. "He was tired. He was hurt. I thought…"
"You didn't want to just beat him," Remus interjected softly, stepping closer, his expression sympathetic yet firm. "You wanted to humiliate him. You aimed to undo everything he'd achieved this week, to drag him down to your level."
Across the room, Sirius remained silent, his gaze fixed intensely on the far wall, his foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the floor. The tension hung thick in the air.
"Say something," James pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation. "Both of you. Tell me I was right or that I was being stupid. Just… say something."
Sirius released a long, sharp sigh that echoed with discontent.
"I didn't think you'd actually go through with it," he responded, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern. "I mean… yeah, I was angry too. He's always been insufferably smug. But honestly, I didn't care enough to confront him. He's left from Hogwarts, for Merlin's sake. He's not even part of our world anymore. You could've walked away victorious in your own right, with more dignity than he could ever possess."
James blinked, confusion swirling in his mind. "Then why didn't you stop me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sirius turned to him, his dark eyes filled with an inscrutable depth that made James uneasy. "Because I figured you'd either make him bleed or embarrass yourself," he said, his tone steady. "I didn't expect you to do both."
An awkward silence enveloped them, heavy and charged, until it was pierced by Remus's voice, calm yet unwavering. "You've been hearing me for years, James. But you've never truly listened."
James's brow furrowed, agitation creeping into his voice. "That's not—"
"It is," Remus interjected, his expression firm yet patient. "I warned you about this back at school. I warned you about your obsession with Severus. I warned you about what pursuing him would ultimately cost you."
"I wasn't obsessed—"
"You were," Remus replied, not unkindly. "And you still are. You've simply dressed it up as rivalry and pride to make it more palatable."
James exhaled shakily, feeling the weight of Remus's words settle like a stone in his chest. "I just wanted… to prove I was better than him."
"You didn't need to," Remus said softly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "And that's what makes this hurt."
James stared at the articles once more, their headlines glaring back at him like accusations. "Shafiq Ends Potter." The words felt like daggers, twisting painfully in his gut. He had the overwhelming urge to tear the pages apart, to set them ablaze, or even to scream at them in frustration. But instead, he found himself whispering, "What do I do now?"
Remus regarded him silently, weighing the gravity of the moment before he settled down at the foot of the bed, looking up at James with an intensity that demanded his attention. "You start by owning it. No excuses. No clever lines. No blaming fatigue or bias or bloodlines. Just own what happened," he advised, his voice steady and resolute.
James felt a lump in his throat, a dryness that seemed to sap his strength. He didn't know how to respond, words lodged in his chest like stones.
Sirius, who had been brooding in the corner, finally leaned back against the wall, breaking the heavy silence with a quiet mutter. "For what it's worth… that last spell he used? It was beautiful. Like, sickeningly elegant."
The compliment hung in the air, but James couldn't muster a reply. He remained silent, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Deep down, he knew Sirius was right, and that realization—cutting and bitter—was what hurt him the most. It gnawed at him, the acknowledgment that beauty could exist in something so dark, and in that moment, it felt like the last threads of his resolve were unraveling.
Potter Family Suite – Later That Evening
The Potter family's ICW-assigned guest suite was enveloped in an unsettling silence. It wasn't the kind of tense quiet that predates a duel or the strained stillness that often accompanies a heated argument. This was the silence that follows the shattering of something precious.
Charles Potter stood rigidly by the fireplace, his hand pressed firmly against the cool, polished mantel. The flickering flames cast a warm glow on his face, but no warmth reached his heart. Dorea sat perched on the edge of the couch, her hands twisted tightly in her lap, the knuckles turning white under the pressure of her grip.
In the center of the room stood James, his hands nervously twisting against one another, the weight of impending words hanging heavily in the air. His shoulders slumped as if carrying an invisible burden; his head hung low, avoiding the gaze of those around him. Over on the far wall, Sirius leaned casually, arms crossed and chin raised, but there was no defiance in his stance tonight. It felt more like an attempt to shield himself from the gravity of the moment. Meanwhile, Remus stood silently near the door, his posture suggesting uncertainty—caught between the desire to offer comfort and the feeling of being an outsider in a moment that felt intensely private.
"I didn't come here to yell," Charles finally broke the silence, his voice steady yet tinged with restrained emotion.
His words fell like a heavy stone into the still waters of their tension.
James flinched, as if physically struck by the weight of his father's tone.
"I came here to understand," Charles continued, turning slowly to face his son, the pain of confusion etching deeper lines into his brow. "I need to know how we ended up here. How the boy I raised—the boy I believed in—decided that it was somehow honorable to challenge someone who was already half-dead, someone who had already won."
James remained silent, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, lost in a world of his own thoughts. The silence in the room expanded, pressing against them all like a thick fog, each moment stretching painfully long.
"You dishonored your name, James," Charles said, his voice heavy with disappointment and concern. "Not because you lost the duel. But because you lost yourself long before it even began."
"I…" James swallowed hard, finding the weight of his father's words difficult to bear. "I didn't know what else to do."
"There's always another path," Dorea interjected softly, her tone almost a whisper, filled with a mother's tenderness. "There's dignity. There's silence. There's the chance for reflection."
James's lip trembled as he grappled with the truth of her words. "I just… I didn't want to feel like he was everything and I was nothing," he confessed, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions.
Charles's expression briefly crumpled—just a flicker of pain crossing his features, quickly masked by a stern resolve. "Son, you are not nothing. But right now? You're lost. And worse—you dragged someone else down with you."
Dorea turned to Sirius, her voice thin but sharp, cutting through the tension. "And you. You stood by. You laughed at every hex. You fueled it for years, allowing it to happen."
Sirius tensed at the accusation, his defenses rising. "I didn't make him do it," he protested, though the weight of her words lingered in the air.
"No," Charles cut in, his gaze steady and unwavering, "but you never stopped him. You encouraged him. You gave him the crowd, the backup, the laughter. You made cruelty look like friendship, and that's a dangerous illusion."
Sirius looked away, shame creeping into his chest. "I didn't think it mattered. He was just Snape back then. Greasy, moody—always acting like he was better than everyone else." The words hung in the air, a feeble attempt to justify a past he couldn't escape.
"That boy," Dorea said, rising slowly to her full height, her expression a mixture of sorrow and disappointment, "was the one who nearly lost his life in the pursuit of a global title. That boy has now become a person whose value is recognized worldwide. And you two—you allowed your egos to convince you that he never deserved to reach such heights."
Her words landed like heavy stones in the still air, leaving a palpable sting. But the next statement was sharper, cutting deeper into the heart of the matter.
"You believe you're different from your family, Sirius," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Different from Walburga. Different from Bellatrix. But what, I ask you, is the true difference between the horrors they inflicted on those they hated and the way you treated Severus?"
Sirius opened his mouth as if to protest but found no words. It slammed shut again, leaving him speechless.
James glanced up, his eyes wide and shaken, searching for reassurance. "We're not like them—"
"Aren't you?" came Charles's soft but piercing reply. "Bellatrix reveled in the humiliation of those she deemed beneath her. Walburga didn't hesitate to curse her own blood simply for being 'lesser.' And here you are—you and Sirius—you turned cruelty into a game, tormenting someone simply because you couldn't bear that he wouldn't submit to your authority."
The room fell into silence.
Not the kind of silence born of defensiveness, but rather one thick with shock.
Even Remus, usually the voice of reason, found himself looking away, unable to meet the weight of the truth laid bare before them.
"I didn't hex him," Remus said softly, his words barely above a whisper. "I didn't join in."
"No," Dorea agreed, her eyes narrowing as she fixed her gaze on him, "you didn't. But you were there. You witnessed it all. And you didn't stop it."
Remus felt a heaviness settle in his chest. "I should have," he admitted, his voice laced with regret.
Charles shook his head slowly, disbelief etched on his features. "I thought… I thought we were doing better. I thought we were raising you differently. Not like the old families. Not like the Blacks. Not like the Malfoys."
He turned his attention to James, a mix of disappointment and concern in his eyes. "But you're not so different right now, are you?"
The question hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.
It wasn't meant to sting, yet it did.
James felt his eyes welling up with tears, the weight of his shame settling heavily upon him. "I didn't want to be this," he confessed, his voice trembling, raw and unguarded.
Charles stepped forward with purpose, his expression softening. "Then don't be," he urged, a gentle determination in his tone.
"I'm sorry," James whispered, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions. "I really am. For Hogwarts. For the duel. For everything."
He spun around to face Remus, desperation etched on his face. "You were always right. I just didn't listen like I should have."
"And I should've shouted louder," Remus responded, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, wanting to provide comfort and understanding.
Sirius broke the tension that enveloped them next, stepping in with quiet resolve. "I'll… talk to him. One day. Properly. We both owe him that," he said, his voice steady and firm.
Charles nodded once in agreement, a sense of solidarity forming amongst them.
"Then let that be the start," he said, placing his hand resolutely on James's shoulder. "Because everything that came before—that ends now."
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