Ron and I stood in the courtyard, the crisp autumn air swirling around us. I held the old wooden sword carefully, feeling the weight of history embedded in its grain.

“I need to meditate with it briefly. Then it’ll be your turn,” I assured Ron, gripping the hilt as I prepared myself.

Closing my eyes, I whispered the phrase meant only for me: “A Blade Beyond Death’s Grasp.”

Instantly, the world shifted. A blinding white void stretched infinitely in every direction, and before me stood the towering figure of Godric Gryffindor himself.

Or rather, a magical imprint of him—his consciousness preserved within the training sword.

The man’s sharp eyes scanned me at first in confusion, then flickered with recognition. “Who…?” He squinted, then suddenly gasped. “The password is… Grim?”

Before I could react, he rushed forward and lifted me into a bone-crushing hug.

“Godric… that hurts…” I rasped.

“Oh? Yes,” he said, unceremoniously dropping me before straightening his posture into something far more dignified.

The man before me wasn’t the real Godric Gryffindor, but a reflection of his mind—his will forged into this blade. Long ago, he had created this remnant of himself to test his own spells and swordsmanship, but in the end, he had abandoned the path of the blade, choosing to dedicate his remaining years solely to magic. This sword was meant to continue where he left off, to pass on his legacy to a worthy descendant.

And that descendant was waiting for his turn back in the courtyard.

“I always knew someday you’d set foot in this world, Grim,” Godric’s copy grinned.

“Well, it took an immortal Dark Lord to get me here. I’d rather you’d been wrong about that, but here I am.”

Godric’s brows furrowed, his expression sobering. “That bad?”

“Worse. And that’s why I need your help,” I said, waving my hand. An image of Ron Weasley manifested beside me. “This is the one. He’s your descendant, and he’s the one who will inherit your legacy.”

Godric stared at the projection, unimpressed. At that unfortunate moment, Ron was picking his nose.

The legendary warrior made a face. “He… doesn’t look like much. Scrawny. Poor stance. No real presence.” He folded his arms. “Not a lot to work with there.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Godric, he’s the spitting image of a young you.”

Godric shifted uncomfortably, pulling at his collar as if the room’s nonexistent temperature had risen. “What are you implying?”

“That you were a scrawny, reckless idiot before you nearly got yourself killed by that troll. It took me recognizing your potential for you to even think about swordsmanship. If that moment hadn’t happened, you’d have never reached the heights you did.” I crossed my arms. “So trust me when I say he’s worth your time. And just so you know, he’s one of Fate’s chosen to fight the Dark Lord.”

That got his attention. His gaze flickered with something thoughtful before he let out a heavy sigh. “Fate’s chosen, you say?” He rolled his shoulders and groaned. “Fine! Fine! Twist my arm, old friend. I’ll do this favor for you.”

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I smirked. “I knew you’d see reason.”

With that, the void faded, and I snapped back into reality.

Ron looked at me, expectantly. I held out the wooden sword to him. The moment he grabbed it, his eyes snapped shut, his body going rigid as the magic of the sword pulled him into Godric’s world.

Dumbledore had arranged for Ron to have the rest of the day off from classes, rescheduling his lessons. The headmaster hadn’t told anyone why, only that certain things needed to be “delayed.” It wasn’t hard to guess that Ron’s training had been prioritized.

As for me? I had Potions class next. And with Snape as my instructor and Hermione still refusing to talk to me, I was in for a miserable time.

----------------------------------------

Walking into the castle classroom, I caught sight of Hermione seated at her usual station. I raised a hand in a small wave.

She didn’t react.

Didn’t even glance in my direction.

I sighed, resigning myself to the silent treatment.

With her newfound power, Hermione had excelled far beyond her peers, earning the rare privilege of working alone. That left me to partner with Neville once again.

Not that I minded. Ever since getting a new wand, Neville had transformed. Where he had once struggled, now he flourished—especially in Potions. The newfound confidence radiated off him, and with a wand that truly suited him, it was clear now that his past failures had never been his fault.

Even Snape, though still his usual sneering self, had taken notice. He still delivered his biting remarks, but there were moments—fleeting as they were—where something like pride flickered in his gaze.

Still, my focus wasn’t on Neville’s progress. My mind was elsewhere.

“She’s really mad at you, huh?” Neville murmured, following my gaze to Hermione.

“Seems that way,” I muttered.

“You should probably apologize.”

I shook my head. “I can’t apologize for what I am, Neville. She’s mad at the way things are, and neither of us can change that.”

Neville frowned but didn’t respond. If Hermione had told him why she was angry, he wasn’t letting it show. He simply looked frustrated, unhappy that the rift between us hadn’t mended.

Class began, and Snape wasted no time directing his usual questions at me and Hermione. Neither of us missed a single answer. The only time Hermione so much as acknowledged me was when I wasn’t looking—like she could feel my attention disappear.

If this was a game, I wasn’t playing.

The potion we were assigned today was a simple healing salve for cuts and scrapes. It was a safe, straightforward mixture. Nothing should have reacted.

That’s what I thought.

Boom!

An explosion rocked the room. Glass and wood splintered into the air. A jagged piece of desk struck my upper chest, narrowly missing anything vital. Sharp shards of glass and debris nicked my face, leaving stinging cuts, though my robes shielded me from the worst of it.

It all happened in less than a second.

I looked up, immediately searching for Hermione—but she was gone.

The explosion had been magical in nature. I could tell that much. And after her sorcery ritual, her body had an unnatural resistance to magical forces—meaning the blast itself wouldn’t have truly harmed her.

But she wasn’t here.

The window where she’d been seated was blown wide open.

Without hesitation, I sprinted toward it.

“Hermione!” I yelled and leapt through.

The rush of cold air hit me instantly as I plummeted, my eyes locking on Hermione’s unconscious form far below.

We were falling at the same rate—I wouldn’t reach her in time.

"Accio Hermione!"

The spell yanked her toward me, her body colliding into my arms just as the ground loomed dangerously close.

I tightened my grip around her and bellowed at the top of my lungs, “Annartam!”

As Death, I could know the names of all things. I had long avoided using this ability on the witches and wizards of this world—to preserve the illusion of my identity—but Thestrals were different. When I had claimed his hair, I had memorized his name.

A piercing shriek tore through the sky.

My companion answered my call.

The Thestral broke free of its bindings, rushing toward us with a speed no broom could match. My heart pounded. I had no way of knowing if he would reach us in time—

But then, less than a hundred feet from the ground, he did.

The Thestral swooped beneath us, and I seized hold of its back, securing Hermione against me as we soared just above the earth.

Holding her unconscious form tightly, I felt the weight of the moment settle in my chest.

This was the second attempt on her life.

Someone inside Hogwarts—someone close—was working for Voldemort.

We had a spy among us.