Donna Avery stood before Livingston No. 5, her wand gripped tightly in her hand.
The house was unnervingly quiet, so still that for a brief moment she wondered if Sally Avery and John Flint had already fled with whatever they'd come for.
But then she remembered — Sally Avery was a Squib. Apparition was out of the question. That meant they were still here.
"Alohomora."
The spell was almost redundant; the door's lock had already been kicked in earlier by Sally and never repaired. With a cautious push, Donna stepped inside. The dim light swallowed her, and before her eyes could adjust, a massive hand shot out from the shadows, wrapping around her throat.
"Ugh—!"
She was dragged violently into the living room and thrown to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. As she gasped, her senses caught a sharp, acrid stench that stung her nose. Frowning, she turned her head toward the source.
Suspended in mid-air were Sally Avery and John Flint. Their bodies convulsed uncontrollably, eyes rolled back, limbs trembling. The stench came from them — they had lost control of their bladders. Though their faces twisted in agony, their screams were silent. Some sort of sound-isolation charm had been cast.
A chill clawed up Donna's spine. It wasn't the spellwork that frightened her — silencing charms were simple enough — it was the sheer cruelty of the scene, the deliberate torment, and the terrifying ease with which the unseen assailant had overpowered her moments ago.
"Donna Avery," a calm voice spoke from behind an armchair. "You've come at a perfect time."
Her gaze darted to the figure seated leisurely with a book in hand — Dana.
In the fragments of intelligence she'd gathered, Donna knew that Dana had suspected John Flint's motives. He'd tracked him because of rumors surrounding Merlin's Secret Treasure. By now, Donna herself had likely grown impatient from waiting and had come to confront him directly.
But this didn't fit the memory Dana possessed of her — and he didn't like inconsistencies. Fortunately, there were ways to fix that. A single Memory Charm, carefully adjusted, would do.
Donna reacted on instinct, snatching up her wand and raising it to strike. But the wand instantly writhed in her grasp, twisting like a living serpent. The snake's fangs flashed toward her wrist.
Startled, she dropped it — and in that same instant, it was just a wand again.
"Transfiguration?" she muttered. "No… too fast. Illusion?"
Before she could process it, Dana flicked his wrist. Invisible force seized her, hoisting her into the air beside the others.
"It's a pity," he said casually. "Without your soul crystal, I can't let you enjoy the same… 'package deal' as them. But don't worry — you'll have your turn soon enough."
His tone was light, almost conversational, but his eyes glimmered with cold malice.
This wasn't idle cruelty. Dana's mother, Anna, was dying — trapped in an inescapable curse. The helplessness gnawed at him, a storm of grief and fury threatening to tear him apart. Merlin, his ancestor, had warned him: control your emotions, or your demonic power will devour you.
So, to remain "obedient," Dana vented his rage through torture instead of destruction. In a way, it was his act of filial piety.
Yes — Merlin's beard — there was no one more "filial" than him.
"Cruciatus."
The curse struck her like molten metal poured into her veins. Donna's body arched, every muscle seizing, but her screams were trapped in silence. Dana ignored the spectacle and turned another page in his book, On the Relationship Between Gaze, Emotional Transfer, and Curses.
He read calmly, methodically, until he reached the final sentence. Only then did he close the cover and end the spell.
The three bodies collapsed to the floor like discarded puppets.
Donna had fainted. Sally and John twitched weakly, barely clinging to consciousness. Their skin was pale, lips cracked, bodies trembling from dehydration and shock.
"Scourgify."
"Aguamenti."
"Obliviate."
He cleaned the filth from the floor, summoned a stream of water to revive them, then raised his wand again. Cold detachment replaced fury in his gaze. If his emotions could take physical form, the ice in his eyes would have pierced their hearts.
Now it was time to rewrite the story.
In the version he crafted, John Flint would believe he had successfully obtained the tapestry and, in a fit of rage, had beaten Sally Avery half to death. While leaving, he'd run into Donna Avery, who coerced and enticed him into cooperating to search for Merlin's Secret Treasure.
Donna herself would remember joining them willingly, convinced of her own cunning.
But as Dana reviewed the fabricated narrative, something felt off. In this timeline, Donna didn't yet admire Gilderoy Lockhart — in fact, she considered him a pompous fraud. That wouldn't do at all.
Dana smiled faintly. He already had plans for her future — and they required that admiration to exist. He intended to twist her love into a weapon, to make her heartache a punishment she couldn't escape.
Artificially creating love, though, was an almost impossible feat. No spell could truly forge affection. But Dana was not one to bow to impossibility.
He carefully erased every unfavorable impression Donna had of Gilderoy Lockhart. Then, in her mind, he wove the image of an ideal partner: a man with a dazzling smile and perfect teeth, eloquent, gifted, brimming with charm, and crowned with countless accolades.
And, for good measure, he inserted two dream memories — fleeting visions of Lockhart saving her, speaking to her, smiling at her just so. Enough to plant a seed that would, in time, grow into an infatuation so strong she'd lose the ability to distinguish love from obsession.
Perfect.
As for Sally Avery… Dana's expression darkened. The woman's earlier words — venomous, mocking, cruel — still echoed in his ears. He had lost control then, killing her in a fit of rage. Even recalling it made his jaw tighten.
He wasn't interested in weaving another memory for such filth.
Fortunately, he had another solution — one that didn't require his direct involvement.
Drawing upon Ravenclaw's ancient teachings, Dana constructed a temporary magical intelligence, a single-use sentient spell designed for dream fabrication. He pressed his wand to Sally's temple and murmured an instruction:
"From the moment Sally Avery was beaten by John Flint, construct a five-hour memory consistent with her experiences and personality."
A soft, neutral voice answered in his mind:
"Instruction received."
"Beginning to read Sally Avery's memory…"
"Analyzing character traits…"
"Analysis complete. Constructing memory…"
"Memory construction complete. Please confirm before implantation."
Dana didn't bother to look. "Implant."
"Memory implantation successful."
And just like that, all three had their new realities. The web of lies was complete.
The future, once again, aligned with the version of history Dana knew.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing. The storm inside him had calmed. His outburst had been necessary — destructive, perhaps, but cleansing. He could think clearly again.
Opening the Spandim Gate, he returned each unconscious figure to their respective locations — John Flint to his dingy apartment, Sally Avery to her narrow bed, Donna Avery to her London flat. Each would wake with a hazy memory of what they believed had happened, and the world would continue along its intended path.
When the last gate closed, the house fell silent again. Dana surveyed the living room — overturned chairs, a shattered lamp, faint scorch marks from errant spells. With a flick of his wand, everything slid neatly back into place. Dust vanished, air freshened, carpets smoothed.
Satisfied, he climbed the stairs to the second floor.
He needed to see his mother.
The door creaked open.
Anna lay asleep beneath the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Once vibrant and full of warmth, her face now seemed carved from wax — skin stretched thin, cheekbones sharp beneath the translucent flesh.
To Dana, she was still beautiful. But the sight made his heart clench. Every shallow breath she took stabbed at him like a knife. His throat tightened; his eyes burned.
"Phew…"
He released a slow, trembling breath and crossed to the window. With a soft push, he let the cool, humid night air drift into the room.
From his pocket, he drew a gerebato magic crystal — faintly pulsing with blue light — and tucked it gently beneath the bedframe. Merlin's bloodline, he believed, thrived in environments rich in magic. Even now, when time was slipping away, he wanted to give his mother every possible comfort.
He adjusted the bedsheets, straightened the pillow beneath her head, then conjured a reclining chair beside the bed. The wood creaked softly as he lowered himself into it.
For the first time in hours, Dana allowed himself to breathe without thinking, to simply watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his mother's chest.
He remembered the nights of his childhood when she would sit by his bed, reading aloud from her favorite stories — tales of heroes, fools, and dreamers. Back then, the world had seemed endless, full of promise. Now, all that remained was this dimly lit room, the faint hum of magic, and the fragile thread of life he clung to with desperate devotion.
He smiled bitterly.
"Merlin's beard," he whispered. "Still trying to be the obedient child."
His voice was low, but there was warmth beneath the irony. He wasn't sure if she could hear him, yet he spoke anyway — of memories, of regrets, of everything he'd done to protect her and everything he'd destroyed along the way.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, carrying the damp scent of rain. Inside, Dana sat in silence, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and sorrow.
The night stretched on.
And though the pain in his chest refused to fade, he knew that for now — just for this fleeting moment — his world was quiet again.
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