The violet fire in the central brazier had dimmed to a soft, pulsing ember, casting long, gentle shadows across the circular chamber of the Black Lighthouse. Lysander had retired to the upper levels to prepare the next phase of their concealment, leaving the two teenagers alone for the first time since their frantic escape.
The silence wasn't heavy or fearful anymore; it was the comfortable, exhausted silence of survivors.
Lucien sat on the edge of the stone platform, his legs dangling over the dark stairwell, staring up at the high, shattered glass dome of the lighthouse. Through the jagged opening, the Scottish night sky was a sprawling tapestry of stars, sharper and brighter than he had ever seen from his mother's cottage.
Ira sat a few feet away, nursing a mug of something warm and spiced that Lysander had conjured. She wasn't looking at the stars; she was looking at a small, rusted bolt she had found on the floor, turning it over in her pale fingers with fascinating precision.
"You've been staring at that bolt for ten minutes," Lucien noted, a faint smile touching his lips. The exhaustion still weighed on him, but the crushing anxiety had receded, replaced by a strange, quiet curiosity.
Ira looked up, her dark eyes blinking slowly. "It's iron," she said, as if that explained everything. "Oxidized. Rough. In my cell, everything was stone. Cold, smooth, damp stone. Or magic barriers that hummed if you got too close. We didn't have... things. Small things. Imperfect things."
She held the rusted bolt up to the violet light. "It's beautiful. It has a history."
Lucien shifted, turning to face her. "I guess I never thought about rust as beautiful. My mum—" he hesitated, the pang of betrayal still fresh, "—Cho used to scold me if I let my bike get rusty. She wanted everything clean. Normal."
"Normal," Ira repeated the word, testing its weight. She set the bolt down gently. "I used to dream about 'normal.' But I think my version was different from yours."
"What was your version?" Lucien asked softly.
Ira drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her oversized, conjured robes around her. For the first time, her expression wasn't guarded or calculating. It was just... young.
"I thought 'normal' meant seeing a tree," she said. "I read about them in the few books the guards left behind. They sounded impossible. Wooden giants that breathe? That change color?" She let out a short, dry laugh. "When we were running in the woods, and I scraped my arm on that pine tree... it hurt. But I was so happy. I was touching a tree."
Lucien chuckled, a genuine sound that echoed lightly in the vast chamber. "I'm pretty sure you're the first person to enjoy getting scratched by a pine."
"I have low standards for entertainment," Ira countered, a glint of dry humor in her eyes. "In Azkaban, my best friend for three years was a damp patch on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a rabbit. I named him Barnaby. We had very deep conversations about the weather."
Lucien laughed again, louder this time. "Barnaby the Damp Patch. Sounds like a riveting conversationalist."
"He was a good listener," Ira said with a straight face, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Better than the Dementors, anyway. They're terribly boring. All they do is rattle and sigh. Very dramatic. Like bad actors in a tragedy play."
Lucien studied her. He knew who she was—the daughter of the monster who had murdered his grandparents (as far as he knew). He knew the world was terrified of her. But sitting here, joking about ceiling stains, she seemed less like a harbinger of doom and more like a girl who had been lonely for a very long time.
"It must have been... hard," Lucien said, his voice dropping. "Being there. Without magic."
Ira shrugged, taking a sip from her mug. "Actually, I think it was easier for me than the others. The Dementors... they feed on happy memories, right? On hope. The wizards in the other cells, they went mad because they had things to lose. They remembered flying, or magic, or their families."
She looked at him, her gaze clear and devoid of self-pity. "I didn't have any of that. I had no magic to mourn. No happy memories to be sucked away. The Dementors would glide past my cell, pause, realize there was nothing delicious inside, and move on. Being 'empty' was my shield."
She paused, then looked at Lucien with a piercing intensity. "That's why you scared me, in the woods. You were so full. You shine, Lucien. To someone who's lived in the dark, you're blinding."
Lucien looked down at his hands, the hands that had shattered a ward and transmuted stone. "I don't feel blinding. I feel... confused. My whole life, I thought I was just Luke Granger. Just a bit weird. A bit lucky. Now Lysander says I'm... a paradox. A weapon."
"You're only a weapon if you let them aim you," Ira said firmly. "Lysander, Hermione, the Ministry... they all want to point you at something. But you're the one with the trigger."
She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a second rusted object—a small, bent washer. She tossed it to him.
Lucien caught it instinctively, his reflexes sharp.
"Keep it," Ira said. "A piece of imperfection. A reminder that you're not just a magical battery for a prophecy. You're a boy who likes... what? What do you like, Lucien Potter?"
Lucien rolled the washer between his fingers. "Physics," he admitted, feeling slightly embarrassed. "Muggle science. How things work. Gears, levers, gravity. Things that make sense. Magic... magic doesn't make sense."
"Then make it make sense," Ira said simply. "Lysander talks about will and intent. Isn't that just physics with your mind? Cause and effect?"
Lucien stared at her. "Physics with your mind..." A slow grin spread across his face. "That... actually helps. A lot."
"See?" Ira smirked, leaning back against the cold stone wall, looking more relaxed than he had ever seen her. "I may be a Squib, but I'm brilliant."
"Modest, too," Lucien teased.
"I'm Voldemort's daughter," she deadpanned, though her eyes were dancing with amusement. "We're known for our humility."
They sat in the quiet of the lighthouse, the weight of the prophecy and the hunt suspended for a moment. Above them, the stars wheeled through the Scottish sky, indifferent to the wars of wizards. And for the first time, amidst the ancient stone and dark history, Lucien didn't feel like a paradox, and Ira didn't feel like a prisoner.
They were just two teenagers, sharing the dark, finding the light in the absurdity of it all.
"Barnaby would have liked you," Ira murmured, her eyes drifting closed as exhaustion finally overtook her.
Lucien looked at the girl who was supposed to be his enemy, then up at the stars. "I hope so," he whispered. "I really hope so."