Orion Black was a newfound man.
A man who had reached the end of a long, suffocating tunnel—and now that he could see light, he intended to do more than walk toward it. He would run. No—he would sprint.
That was exactly what he was doing.
He tore through the forest like a hunted beast, breath steady, eyes sharp, senses stretched thin. Every snapped twig, every shift in the air felt like a warning. He moved not like a wizard, but like something primal—an animal that knew it was being watched.
"You know, Orion," Abarax's voice boomed from somewhere behind him, echoing through the dense canopy, "if you told me what we're supposed to be finding, I might actually be useful. Instead, you're driving me mad—and I'd quite like to remain presentable for my Meena."
Orion didn't slow."You know this forest," he said shortly. "This forest."
Abarax caught up, his expression tightening. "I know. The forest where our wives fell into our world."
They exchanged a look—shared irritation, shared unease.
Their magic felt wrong here.
Suppressed. Muted. As though the land itself had wrapped invisible fingers around their cores, holding them back. Any sensible wizard avoided this place. The outer regions were infamous—infested with lethal magical creatures and curses that devoured the careless.
But that was only the surface.
Those who pushed past the outer boundary and survived found something else entirely. The inner region was a treasure trove—ancient herbs, plants long thought extinct, magic so pure it hummed in the air. You could feel it seep into your skin, into your bones. Train here, and your magical core could expand beyond its natural limits.
The forest was sentient. Of that, Orion was certain.
Only those who passed its unknown trials were allowed deeper—and somehow, impossibly, they had passed.
"Exactly," Orion said, finally stopping. His voice lowered, intense. "Which means we may find them here again. Or at least—find a way to communicate with them."
Abarax's eyes sharpened. "The rip."
Orion nodded. "A tear in the dimension. They said they came through it. We've never seen it—but now the curse is weakening. If it's real, it will reveal itself."
He inhaled slowly. "We just have to find the disturbance. The difference in the air. You can feel it, can't you?"
Abarax grinned, something feral and eager breaking through his usual polish."Oh yes, mate. I can feel it."
And with that, he took off—magic forgotten, instincts leading—vanishing deeper into the heart of the forest.
******
"We've been searching for what feels like years, Abarax," Orion said hoarsely. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was all an illusion and maybe—"
His thoughts fractured.
The magic around him—magic that should have been muted—surged instead. It slipped past the forest's suppression like water through cracked stone, turning sharp, volatile. The air thickened, vibrating with barely restrained force.
Abarax reacted instantly.
"Orion—enough." He stepped forward, gripping his shoulder hard. "Relax."
Then his gaze shifted—past Orion.
"We might have just found it."
Orion stiffened. "What are you staring at?"
He turned.
Before him stood a banyan tree.
Old. Massive. Its roots hung like frozen serpents, its trunk gnarled and ancient—but otherwise unremarkable.
"This is just a banyan tree, Abarax," Orion said, confusion bleeding into his voice.
"That's because you've grown careless," Abarax snapped. "Clear your mind."
He pointed sharply. "We've passed this tree three times—walking straight. I checked. It's not the forest looping. It's only the tree. The surroundings change. The tree doesn't."
Something cold settled in Orion's chest.
Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward.
Five steps.
That was all it took.
The air shifted.
Not the dull suppression of the forest—but something else entirely. This magic was violent. Chaotic. It pressed against him like a living thing, clawing its way into his core. His vision blurred as pain exploded behind his eyes. Warmth spilled from his nose, then his ears.
Blood.
He staggered back with a sharp breath.
"What—Orion, what happened? Why are you—" Abarax started.
But instead of an answer, he was met with laughter.
Not soft. Not relieved.
Maniacal.
It tore out of Orion's chest as he surged forward and crushed Abarax in a bone-breaking embrace.
"You were right," Orion breathed between fractured laughs, gripping him as if afraid he might vanish. "Absolutely right."
The banyan tree loomed behind them—silent, ancient, waiting.
******
Ted Tonks was nervous—nervous didn't even begin to cover it.
His wife, Andy—yes, Andy, a fact Ted had been informed was very odd for a woman by far too many people—had barely crossed the threshold when she started.
"Ted, you have to know—"
That alone made him frown.
He still hadn't installed a Floo connection. The paperwork alone was a nightmare. Merlin knew how many times the authorities had contacted him just to verify that this was, in fact, his home. Muggleborns weren't officially second-class citizens—not on paper—but no one did quiet discrimination quite like magical Britain.
Ted wanted their house to be a palace for her. A place where Andromeda Black—raised in silk, silver, and entitlement—would never feel the loss of luxury. He hated himself for it, but sometimes, in the quiet hours, doubt crept in. Not about her love—never that—but about himself. If he failed to give her everything, would she someday realize she deserved better?
Since Dora's birth, those thoughts had dulled. But the invitation—the family meeting—dragged them all back to the surface.
"My uncle," Andromeda continued calmly, as she lifted their daughter from his arms, "the Lord of the House, wants to see you. It's… tradition. The groom must formally approach the head of the bride's family to ask for her hand and be accepted."
Ted swallowed.
"You mean," he said slowly, "your uncle wants to see me?"
"Yes," she replied simply. "And I'm fairly certain he intends to accept you. Otherwise, he wouldn't bother summoning you at all—"
Thunk.
Andromeda paused mid-sentence.
Ted was on the floor.
She looked down at her unconscious husband, sighed deeply, and gently placed their daughter into her stroller.
"Hecate," she muttered, rubbing her temples, "give me patience."
With a flick of her wand, she sent a small jolt of magic his way.
Ted gasped awake.
"Andromeda?" he croaked.
She crouched beside him, entirely unimpressed. "You fainted."
"I—he—your uncle—"
"Yes," she said dryly. "The terrifying pureblood lord. You'll survive. If I did, you certainly will."
She softened then, just a little, brushing his hair back. "Ted, listen to me. He wouldn't call you if he intended to humiliate you. And anyone who stands before me as my husband is already worthy."
Ted exhaled shakily.
"Well," he muttered, "next time maybe warn me before you drop ancestral doom on me."
Andromeda smiled—sharp, fond, and utterly unafraid.