A/N: This may be a contentious chapter. I spent all day thinking about this. Would David spare an enemy who he knows has no desire to change? I don't think he would.
o--o--o--o
September 28th, 1972
The joyful laughter rang out in the Slytherin common room, many of his fellow pure-bloods celebrating what they called the great victory of the day. Their parents would be so proud, they said. They'd all been told there was a Lord who was going to bring the true order back to the Wizarding World, where the blood of witches and wizards bled pure and true. This Lord would be so proud of what they had accomplished.
Edmund Mulciber tried to join in the merriment. His own father had clapped him on the shoulder before he had left home, told him that once he completed his last year at Hogwarts, he would join the new order. The pride in his father's voice had been unmistakable. The expectation clear.
But instead of the pure satisfaction he should be feeling, everything was colored by fear.
David Price.
By Merlin, he hated him. Hated him in a way he had never hated another person in his seventeen years of life.
Edmund thought he'd hated the Mud—he cut himself off as a tremor ran through his hand, a shiver down his spine—Muggleborns, he corrected himself forcefully. They stole the magic of their betters. Of the pure. At least, that was what he had always been taught. What he'd always believed.
Until that day in December. Until a Muggleborn nobody had done things with magic Edmund still couldn't replicate no matter how much he tried. No matter how many hours he'd spent in empty classrooms attempting to recreate what he'd seen, what he'd felt.
He had tried to stop the fear. Tried to push down the terror that lived in his chest like a cold stone. But he couldn't shake it.
Thaddeus and Caractacus were of a similar mind. They understood. The others couldn't. They hadn't been there. Hadn't felt their own blood crawl out of their skin and transform into something alive, something that grabbed and pulled and wanted.
Evan Rosier had tried to take over as de facto leader of the house when Lucius Malfoy had graduated. He'd been partially successful—more successful than Edmund liked to admit. The people who held real sway now were his group. And it was Edmund and his group who had been opposing open attacks on the Muggleborns. It had been that policy that had been protecting Snape, no matter how much they loathed the Muggle-lover.
Because David Price had made it clear what happened to people who touched his Circle members.
The Circle. It wasn't difficult to find out the name. Price practically announced it when his people started moving together, wearing matching pendants. A declaration of intent, just like the declaration that night with the mud creatures.
So Edmund and his friends did what they could. Redirected their compatriots to targets that didn't bear the pendant. Steered clear of anyone who might bring Price's attention down on them. Survived by staying invisible.
Until today.
Rosier had led an attack on a group of Muggleborns. Mostly new first years, younger students who should have been easy prey. They'd chased them into a hallway that led to a dead end. No witnesses. No professors nearby.
Rosier hadn't killed them—Edmund had been told it had been a close thing. The Muggleborns were in the Hospital Wing now. Battered. Bruised. Humiliated.
And now the common room celebrated while Edmund's guts churned and his hands shook.
He didn't know if any of the attacked students were from the Circle. He didn't think it would matter. Price wouldn't care about the distinction between his official members and random Muggleborns. He walked through Hogwarts like he was king of the castle and all Muggleborns were his vassals to protect.
He would not take this lying down.
"Come on, Mulciber! Celebrate!" The voice of Evan Rosier cut through his thoughts like a knife.
Edmund looked up. Rosier stood over him—tall and lean with sharp aristocratic features that spoke of generations of careful breeding. Sandy blonde hair fell perfectly styled across his forehead, and his hazel eyes gleamed with the particular cruelty that came naturally to those who'd never been truly afraid. He wore his Slytherin robes like a uniform of conquest, the green and silver immaculate, his prefect badge polished to a shine. Everything about him screamed confidence. Superiority. The unshakeable certainty of someone who'd never been broken.
"We've finally avenged the attack on us by the Mudblood!"
The word hit Edmund like a physical blow. Terror clawed up his spine. He felt the mud on his skin, on his throat, climbing toward his mouth, ready to cover his nose, to suffocate him in his own blood turned to earth—
He let out a wet, shaky breath. Forced his hands to unclench from where they'd gripped the arms of his chair.
Rosier loomed over him, his expression shifting from triumph to something uglier. Contempt mixed with cruel amusement.
"Look at you." Rosier's voice was loud enough that several nearby students turned to watch. "The filth really broke you lot, didn't he? I thought Malfoy had been wrong when he said you were broken goods, but I see it now. He was right."
Edmund's face burned. Shame and fury warred in his chest, both of them losing to the fear that had become his constant companion.
"You weren't there," Edmund said, and his voice came out rougher than he wanted. "You don't understand what—"
"What? That a fourth-year Mudblood scared you?" Rosier laughed, and others joined in. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the common room, bouncing back at Edmund from all directions. "That he gave you a bit of choking and you fold like wet parchment? That's exactly my point, Mulciber. You let him break you. You, Nott, Avery—all three of you. Cowering like house-elves ever since."
Edmund shot up in furious indignation, his wand already in his hand before he'd consciously decided to draw it. The Muggleborn may have beaten him down, may have carved terror into his bones with blood magic, but Rosier wasn't Price.
Rosier was just a seventh-year with a big mouth.
Edmund rose his wand to Rosier's eye level. The other boy wore a smirk—confident, mocking, utterly certain of his superiority. Around them, the common room had gone quiet. Students were watching now, drawn by the promise of conflict.
"So you can't turn your wand on Mudbloods, but you will turn it on those who are pure?" Rosier's voice dripped with contempt. He laughed again, the sound harsh and cutting. "What a joke. You're a Muggle-lover too now, Mulciber? Do you kiss Price's toes as well?"
The words hit something deep and raw in Edmund's chest. All the fear, all the humiliation, all the rage that had been building for nine months with nowhere to go—it erupted.
Before he could stop himself, before rational thought could catch up with pure instinct, he was already moving his wand in the sharp, slashing pattern he'd learned from his father. The incantation tore from his throat, fueled by fury and shame and the desperate need to prove he wasn't broken.
"CRUCIO!"
The spell shot from his wand in a flash of sickly red light.
It hit Rosier square in the chest.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Rosier's smirk remained frozen on his face, his eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected Edmund to actually cast. Hadn't thought he had it in him.
Then Rosier screamed.
His body went rigid, every muscle locking at once. He crashed to the floor, convulsing, his mouth open in a soundless shriek that quickly found its voice. The sound was terrible—raw and animal and full of agony.
The common room erupted into chaos.
Edmund stood there, wand still extended, watching Rosier writhe on the stone floor. His hand was shaking. His heart hammered against his ribs. The fury that had driven him to cast was already draining away, leaving behind something cold and sick in his stomach.
What had he done?
The Cruciatus Curse. An Unforgivable. In the middle of the Slytherin common room with dozens of witnesses. He would go to Azkaban. He would have his wand snapped. He would have his soul sucked out through his eye sockets by the Dementors.
No. No, he couldn't allow it.
Edmund looked around at the chaos—students backing away, some staring in horror, others in fascination. Rosier was still twitching on the floor, whimpering now instead of screaming. The spell had broken when Edmund's concentration faltered, but the effects lingered.
He took a deep breath. Drew himself up to his full height. Let the fury back into his voice, his posture, his expression.
"ENOUGH!"
The common room went silent. Everyone turned to look at him.
Edmund swept his gaze across them all with a look of pure menace. Let them see what he was capable of. Let them remember that he might be afraid of David Price, but he was still a pure-blood heir with power and connections and the willingness to use Unforgivables.
"This is what will happen," he said, his voice cold and commanding. "Everyone will go back to their rooms. They will not speak of what happened here. Not to each other. Not to their parents. Not to professors." He paused, let that sink in. "It will be as if it never happened."
He turned slowly, making eye contact with as many students as he could.
"But it did happen. And what can happen once can happen again." His wand was still in his hand, still pointed loosely at the crowd. "Remember that."
They all watched him, frozen to their spots. Fear in their eyes now. Good.
"GO!"
They scrambled to obey. Students practically fled toward the dormitory staircases, some helping friends, others just running. Within seconds, the common room was nearly empty.
"Not you, Snape."
Edmund's voice cut through the exodus. "A word."
Severus Snape had been near the back of the crowd, probably trying to slip away unnoticed. He turned slowly, his dark eyes meeting Edmund's directly.
Edmund was surprised to see very little fear in those eyes. Wariness, yes. Calculation. But not the terror he'd expected. Not the kind of fear that most first-years—no, second-year now—would show after watching an Unforgivable cast in front of them.
What was David Price teaching these people to inspire such fortitude? To make a half-blood Muggle-lover stare down the caster of a Cruciatus Curse without flinching?
Edmund motioned to Thaddeus Nott, who was still standing near the wall, white-faced but steady. "Get Rosier to his room. Make sure he's quiet."
Nott nodded and moved to help Rosier up. The other boy was still shaking, still whimpering softly. His robes were soaked with sweat. He flinched when Nott touched him but didn't resist as he was half-carried toward the seventh-year dormitories.
Edmund turned his attention back to Snape, who hadn't moved. Just stood there, watching. Waiting.
"You're going to tell Price what happened here," Edmund said. It wasn't a question.
"Of course," Snape said simply. No hesitation. No attempt to deny it.
That was problematic. Edmund needed to control this situation before it spiraled further. "I want you to organize a meeting. It will be a long year at Hogwarts if yours and mine are at each other's throats all year. I have only this year left and I don't intend to be turned inside out by your leader."
Snape looked at him. Stared with those dark, unreadable eyes for a long moment before finally replying. "He says he will meet you near the Boathouse after classes tomorrow. Bring whoever you like. He will as well."
What?
He... he already knows? How?!
Edmund's blood ran cold. Price already knew about the meeting Edmund wanted? Already had an answer ready?
The blood magic. It had to be the blood magic.
Edmund's hand went unconsciously to his palm, where the scar from that night still remained—a thin white line that never quite faded. Price had taken their blood. Had used it to create those things. What if he'd kept some? What if that blood let him track them somehow, see through their eyes, know what they were doing?
Edmund had read about dark rituals like that. Blood connections that lasted. His father had mentioned them in hushed tones—magic so dark that even pure-blood families spoke of it with distaste.
Price had their blood. And blood magic didn't just disappear.
The thought made Edmund's skin crawl. How long had Price been watching through that connection? What had he seen? What did he know?
"Is that acceptable?" Snape's words broke through his haze.
Edmund nodded, fighting to hold his composure together. "Yes. I will be there."
Snape nodded and moved to walk up the stairs toward the dormitories, his footsteps echoing in the now mostly-empty common room.
Caractacus moved to stand next to Edmund, his voice low and worried. "Are you sure about this, Edmund? What's to stop Price from telling Dumbledore that you cast an Unforgivable? Everyone knows Dumbledore has been giving him special treatment for years. He would believe him. He did last time."
Edmund stared out into the common room, feeling almost numb. Things had spiraled so far out of his control. He had effectively neutered Rosier and his faction in Slytherin. He had taken the leadership role—a position pure-blood heirs had been politicking over for as long as Slytherin House had existed. And yet... and yet it felt as if he had less power than he ever had.
He couldn't fight Price. He could lie to himself, could pretend otherwise, but he knew the truth. They wouldn't win. Price had beaten three sixth-years when he was a fourth-year. Now he was a fifth-year with another year of magical development, with an organization at his back, with Dumbledore's protection.
They would lose. Badly.
So give him Hogwarts. Give Price free run to make this castle his kingdom. What did it matter? Those that were pure would take over the real world, not the schoolyard.
"He won't tell Dumbledore," Edmund said quietly. "He doesn't need to. He knows we won't fight him. We tried and failed, and he will not be as merciful if we do it again." He turned to look at Caractacus, let the cold certainty show in his eyes. "Give him the school. What does it matter? We will join the new Lord after the school year ends, and he will ensure that all of his kind will be put to the wand."
Caractacus was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "The Heir of Slytherin."
"Yes," Edmund said. "Let Price play king in his castle. Our Lord will give us the real world."
o–o–o–o
Classes went quickly and Edmund tried and failed to contain his nerves.
He couldn't focus. Professor Slughorn's voice droned on about Amortentia properties, but all Edmund could hear was the phantom sound of his own screaming. The memory of mud crawling up his face, thick and wet and alive, pressing against his nostrils—
His hand went to his throat. He forced it back down to his desk before anyone could notice.
Beside him, Thaddeus was equally distracted, staring at his parchment without writing anything. Caractacus at least appeared to be taking notes, but Edmund could see his quill hadn't moved in five minutes.
They all knew what was coming. The meeting at the Boathouse. With him.
Edmund had spent the night replaying that corridor scene over and over. The temperature dropping. The casual way Price had caught three lethal curses mid-air and compressed them like they were nothing. The blood crawling from their palms, defying gravity, transforming into those things.
Price had done it as a fourth-year. Made it look easy.
And now he was a fifth-year. Another year stronger. Another year more dangerous.
Edmund's hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists under the desk, willing them to still. He was a Mulciber. Pure-blood heir. Seventh-year. Soon to be initiated into the their Lord's service.
But none of that mattered against David Price.
He knew he was going to capitulate. Knew he'd come to the Boathouse to surrender, to beg for mercy in everything but words. The knowledge sat in his stomach like lead.
And still the unease remained. Still his hands shook.
Because what if Price said no? What if mercy wasn't on the table? What if those grey eyes looked at him and decided that Edmund Mulciber was a problem best solved permanently?
The bell rang. Edmund's stomach dropped.
It was time for the meeting, and he, Caractacus, and Thaddeus made their way to the Boathouse.
The path down from the castle was steep, winding through grounds still green despite the late September chill. The Black Lake stretched out before them, dark water reflecting the grey sky. The Boathouse sat at the water's edge—a sturdy wooden structure built into the rocky shore, large enough to house several boats and provide shelter from the Scottish weather.
Edmund had been here before, of course. First-years arrived by boat, and occasionally students took them out on warm days. But he'd never thought of it as a meeting place. It was isolated enough that professors wouldn't stumble across them, but open enough that screams would carry.
If there were screams.
The building loomed larger as they approached. Dark wood weathered by years of lake spray and wind. A peaked roof with old shingles. Large wooden doors that hung slightly crooked on iron hinges. Through the gaps, Edmund could see the gentle lap of water against the dock inside.
When they finally arrived and pushed through the large wooden doors, Edmund found that David was already there.
He stood at the center of his group like a general surveying a battlefield. Calm. Confident. Utterly in control.
He'd changed his robes this year from the regular Gryffindor uniform to something that made Edmund's throat tighten with recognition of what it meant. Finely tailored black and burgundy robes in the dueling style—open at the front, allowing for quick wand access, cut for movement rather than tradition. The kind of robes you wore when you expected combat. When you prepared for it.
On either side stood his lieutenants. Behind David, a small girl from Gryffindor Edmund didn't recognize watched with wide eyes.
On one side were Severus Snape and Lily Evans. Snape looked as he always did—dark-haired, pale, watchful. Edmund saw him in the common room often enough, though they'd learned not to bother him. Price's protection extended to Slytherins in the Circle too.
But Evans? She looked different. Completely transformed from the terrified first-year who'd cowered in that corridor nine months ago. She had a confidence now that Muggleborns typically lacked—the kind that came from knowing someone powerful had your back. She stood in a wide dueling stance, wand at the ready, green eyes glaring at Edmund with open hostility.
She hated him. He could see it clearly.
On the other side stood a Hufflepuff—Dirk something-or-other, Edmund vaguely recognized him—and a tall Ravenclaw he knew. Edmund couldn't keep his eyes from widening.
Frank Longbottom. A pure-blood. An heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.
Standing with Price. Standing with Muggleborns and half-bloods like it was the most natural thing in the world. His wand was out, his stance ready, and he looked at Edmund and his group with the same cold assessment David did.
A Longbottom. In the Circle.
The implications made Edmund's head spin. If Price had convinced someone like Frank Longbottom to join him—a pure-blood heir with everything to lose—then what did that say about the Circle's reach? About how far this had spread?
Both Longbottom and the Hufflepuff looked equally ready for a fight.
Edmund's group stopped a few meters away. The Boathouse suddenly felt very small. Very enclosed.
David stared at him. Not with anger. Not with hatred. With something worse—assessment. As if Edmund was a bug under glass. As if this meeting was between a king and a peasant come to beg.
"You asked for this meeting."
The voice was much deeper than Edmund remembered. Richer. More commanding. The voice of someone who'd grown into his power and found it suited him perfectly.
Edmund swallowed, gathering what courage he could muster. "Y-yes. I want you to know there will be no more trouble."
David raised an eyebrow. Took a single step forward. "Oh? And what trouble would you be talking about?"
Edmund blew out a breath, trying to steady himself. "The attack that Rosier led. We had no part in it. We've tried to steer the house away from this sort of thing."
David peered at him. It felt as if he was looking into Edmund's soul, past every defense, seeing every fear laid bare. He took another step forward until he stood only a few feet away.
"Have you now?"
Then he began circling them. Slow, deliberate steps that echoed off the wooden walls. The sound of boots on dock planks, steady and inexorable. Like a predator sizing up prey.
"You tasted terror," David said, his voice carrying steel beneath the calm surface, "that you have spent your entire lives inflicting upon others and now your preach peace?"
He paused, allowing the words to linger. Allowing them to cut.
"I know you have come here to offer a surrender. To wave a white flag in the hopes that your prospects beyond the walls of Hogwarts will not be tarnished. That you may eat the scraps from the table of your new lord."
He stopped directly in front of Edmund. Met his eyes.
What?
How could he know about that?! It was a secret! None of the heirs had been sworn in properly. They didn't even know the name of their new leader yet. Just whispers from their fathers about a Dark Lord gathering power, building an army. No one would have spoken outside their circles. It was forbidden.
And yet David knew. Somehow, he knew.
Edmund swallowed roughly. Of course he knew. This was David Price. He was... beyond Edmund. So far beyond him it made Edmund feel like a child playing at a game he couldn't understand. Playing with forces he couldn't control.
"I will be gracious," David said quietly. "I will allow you to surrender instead of me and mine pulling you all apart, piece by piece."
He leaned in slightly.
"But I will not give this freely. You will be working off this boon I give you for the rest of your living memory."
"W-what do you mean?"
David tilted his head as if considering. The gesture was almost casual, but Edmund recognized it now—the same way a wolf might tilt its head while deciding where to bite.
"First, Rosier and the others must be punished. Not by the Headmaster, no—you will make sure they are punished." David's voice was calm, measured. "Not in the way that Rosier felt yesterday evening, but by humiliation. They will apologize in the Great Hall in front of everyone. They will decry any action against Muggleborns as most foul. As a poison to Hogwarts."
He paused, let that sink in.
"They will praise the Circle for the good work that it does in helping aid Muggleborn integration into the Wizarding World. That we are what all should aspire to be." David's grey eyes fixed on Edmund's. "Am I understood?"
Edmund's mouth went dry. That... that was insanity. David expected him to convince pure-blood heirs—pure-blood heirs—to practically get on their hands and knees and praise those they despised? To publicly renounce everything they'd been raised to believe?
How would he even—
A flash of memory. Burning red light. Rosier's screams echoing off stone walls. The Cruciatus Curse.
Edmund closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
He would do it. He had the fear of that red light to motivate Rosier. Had his own newfound authority in Slytherin House. Had Caractacus and Thaddeus to back him up. They'd make Rosier and his group comply, one way or another.
He had no choice.
"Okay," Edmund whispered. The word tasted like ash. "I will do it. What else?"
David looked at him deeply, as if gauging his truthfulness. Those grey eyes seemed to strip away every layer, see every doubt, every calculation. Edmund forced himself not to look away, not to flinch.
Finally, David gave a single small nod. Satisfied, apparently, with what he'd seen.
"I said you will be working this boon off for the rest of your living memory, and I mean it." David's voice dropped lower, took on a weight that made Edmund's stomach clench. "You will do so with an Unbreakable Vow."
The words hit Edmund like a physical blow.
An Unbreakable Vow.
His blood ran cold. His hands went numb. Behind him, he heard Caractacus suck in a sharp breath. Thaddeus made a strangled sound.
"You—" Edmund's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. "You can't be serious."
"I am always serious," David said quietly.
An Unbreakable Vow. A binding so powerful, so absolute, that breaking it meant death. Not Azkaban. Not expulsion. Death. Your magic turned against you, stopped your heart, ended you.
"What..." Edmund's throat was so tight he could barely force the words out. "What would the vow entail?"
David tilted his head slightly, and something almost like amusement flickered in those cold grey eyes. "Did you know Muggles have fascinating myths about such vows? Myths about Fae and their notorious tricks. Their double-speak and loopholes." He paused, his smile sharp and humorless. "This vow has been made from that vein. Frank, your aid if you will."
The heir of Longbottom stepped forward, drawing his wand. His expression was neutral, professional. He positioned himself beside where David stood.
"The vow will be three parts," David said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "Simple in principle but exact in nature."
David held out his right hand. Waiting.
Edmund stared at it. This was it. The moment of surrender. The moment he admitted, truly and completely, that David Price had won.
He... he didn't have a choice. This was the only decision he could make. The alternative was war—a war he would lose. A war that would end with him broken, destroyed, turned inside out by magic he couldn't begin to understand.
Edmund reached out with a trembling hand and clasped David's right hand with his own. Their fingers intertwined, grips firm.
Frank Longbottom stepped closer, raising his wand. He placed the tip of it against their joined hands. Edmund felt the wood press against his skin—warm, thrumming faintly with magic.
"Will you," David began, his voice clear and carrying in the enclosed space of the Boathouse, "upon joining any organization that seeks to harm, subjugate, or eliminate Muggleborns or other magical beings deemed 'lesser' by pure-blood ideology, immediately inform me or my designated representative of your membership within said organization?"
Edmund's heart hammered. The wording was deliberate. Specific. "Any organization that seeks to harm... Muggleborns." That was the new Lord's group. That was exactly what his father had described—a leader gathering followers to restore pure-blood supremacy, to put Mudbloods back in their place.
David was making him swear to become a spy. To betray their new Lord from the moment he joined.
"I..." Edmund's voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "I will."
A thin tongue of brilliant flame shot from Longbottom's wand. It wrapped around their clasped hands like a red-hot wire, winding once, twice, three times. Edmund gasped at the sensation—not painful, but present. Burning without heat. Binding without rope.
The flame remained there, pulsing gently.
"Will you," David continued, his grey eyes locked on Edmund's, "provide truthful and complete information about this organization's activities, plans, membership, and objectives when I or my designated representative request such information, to the best of your knowledge and ability?"
No loopholes. No way to claim ignorance or give half-truths. "Truthful and complete" meant exactly that. If David asked what Voldemort was planning, Edmund would have to tell him. Everything.
"I..." Edmund closed his eyes. Felt the weight of it settling on his shoulders like iron chains. "I will."
Another tongue of flame erupted from Longbottom's wand. It wound around their hands again, layering over the first binding. The pressure increased. The magic hummed against Edmund's skin, sinking deeper, finding his core.
"Will you," David said, and his voice dropped lower, harder, "take no direct action to cause harm to members of the Circle, nor reveal the existence of this vow to anyone outside the Circle without my explicit permission, for as long as you shall live?"
The final clause. The one that would protect David's people from Edmund's vengeance. The one that meant Edmund could never tell anyone—could never warn the Lord that he was compromised, that his loyalty was bound elsewhere.
Edmund wanted to refuse. Wanted to pull his hand away, to run, to do anything but speak those words.
But David's grip was iron. Longbottom's wand pressed against his hand. The magical flames already binding him pulsed with promise and threat.
"I will," Edmund whispered.
The third tongue of flame shot out, brilliant and terrible. It wound around their hands, completing the binding. All three flames merged together, blazing bright red-gold, spinning faster and faster until Edmund couldn't tell where one ended and another began.
Then they sank into his skin.
Edmund gasped as the magic burned its way into him. Not painful—not exactly—but overwhelming. He felt it settle into his bones, wrap around his heart, thread through every fiber of his being. The vow wasn't just words anymore. It was part of him. Fundamental. Unbreakable.
If he violated any of those three clauses, his own magic would kill him.
The flames faded. Disappeared into nothing. But Edmund could still feel them inside him—a constant, thrumming presence. A reminder.
David released his hand and stepped back.
Edmund stared at his hand. There was no mark. No scar. Nothing to show what had just happened.
But he knew. He would always know.
"Caractacus Avery," David said, his voice carrying the same cold authority. "Step forward."
Edmund turned to see Caractacus go pale, his eyes wide with horror. But he stepped forward. What choice did he have? They'd come here together. They'd surrender together. They'd be bound together.
Edmund watched as Caractacus clasped David's hand. Watched as Longbottom placed his wand against their joined hands. Watched as the same three clauses were spoken, the same three tongues of flame wound around their grip.
"I will," Caractacus said, his voice breaking on each repetition.
Then it was Thaddeus's turn. The same process. The same binding. The same surrender.
When it was done, all three of them stood there—Edmund, Caractacus, and Thaddeus. Bound by magic. Bound by fear. Bound to serve David Price even as they prepared to join the man who would oppose him.
"You're dismissed," David said quietly. "Remember your vows. And remember—I showed you mercy today."
Edmund didn't wait to be told twice. He turned and walked toward the Boathouse doors, Caractacus and Thaddeus following. His hand still tingled where the flames had burned into him. His chest felt tight, compressed, like the magic had wrapped around his lungs.
They'd come here to surrender Hogwarts. To buy peace for their final year.
Instead, they'd sold their souls.
Edmund pushed through the doors and out into the fading afternoon light. Behind them, the Circle remained in the Boathouse—victorious, untouchable, led by a fifth-year who commanded Unbreakable Vows like they were simple hexes.
David Price had won. Completely. Absolutely.
And Edmund would spend the rest of his life serving him, whether he wanted to or not.
o–o–o–o
The meeting with Grindlewald effected David more then he is willing to admit. I'm not sure how many of you caught it but by the end of the Grindlewald meeting, David wasn't arguing that they are similar. Grindlewald was able to convince him they are alike, even in a small way. There is a line a movie I watched years ago, it went: "The longer you listen, the sweeter the pitch." David feel victim to this. It doesn't mean he is going to declare himself Godking of Earth but it has had an effect.