Dana returned to 27 Livingston Street in silence.
He couldn't save Anna—but he could stop that wretched Sally Avery. Even with all his power, stronger than any wizard alive, he could only watch helplessly as weak, pale Anna took the one hundred Galleons she had borrowed from Ollivander Avery to the Ministry of Magic, still clinging to a shred of desperate hope.
Ever since her last attempt at Divination, Anna's ability to earn money had withered. Once, she had been able to create small alchemical charms and sell them to support the household. Now, with her magic power reduced to a mere shadow—barely ten percent of what it had once been—her success rate in carving runes was pitifully low. Each failure wasted precious materials, until her losses far exceeded whatever meager profit she might have made.
Dana had offered to help her, of course. He would have given her anything she needed, but Anna refused. She was determined to stand on her own feet, to care for her small, broken family with dignity. Her quiet resilience moved him deeply.
She went to the Ministry with hope and returned each time with disappointment etched into her face. The next day she went again, only to come home looking even more defeated. The third day. The fourth. Again and again.
Dana watched from the shadows, powerless, his heart carved open a hundred times over.
When he pulled the eleventh whisker from Merlin's ancient familiar—a task few would dare even to attempt—Anna finally stopped going to the Ministry. She had accepted what Dana already knew: her child could not be brought back.
From that day forward, Dana made a habit of peering one day into the future, every single morning. He would never again allow Flint or Avery to so much as approach his mother. He would not permit them even to appear before her.
So when John Flint and Sally Avery crept quietly into Emrys Residence that night, they found a strange white-haired young man sitting calmly in the first-floor parlor, waiting for them with eyes like winter frost.
Neither intruder had seen him before, yet both felt a disturbing sense of familiarity.
After a moment's scrutiny, realization struck: the man's features bore a strong resemblance to Anna Avery's son.
Yes—Dana had chosen to meet these "old acquaintances" wearing his own face.
"John Flint. Sally Avery."
His voice was soft, but it carried the kind of weight that made the air itself tighten. He gestured casually, and both intruders were yanked forward by an invisible force, their bodies flung to the floor before him as if they were no more than dolls.
"Long time no see."
Their expressions changed instantly, fear replacing arrogance. Suspended in mid-air, neither could move even a finger. The moment their eyes met Dana's—those glacial, merciless eyes—something deep inside them began to quake.
"Who… who are you?" John Flint stammered. He had seen much in his life, but nothing like this. "I am from the Flint family, and she is of the Averys. I advise you not to touch us, or you will regret it!"
Dana's lips curved slightly, not in amusement but in contempt.
"This is my home," he said coldly. "You break into it, and I have every right to kill you in self-defense. Or would you rather I hand you over to the Aurors for attempted theft?"
John Flint's expression flickered. "Your home? Don't be ridiculous! This is Anna Avery's residence. Sally here is her relative. You, stranger, are the intruder."
Dana gave a soft, derisive snort. His form shimmered, shrinking, his hair darkening. Before their horrified eyes, he transformed into the small, seven-year-old boy they themselves had once condemned.
Sally Avery gasped, pale as parchment. John Flint's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. The smooth-tongued antiquarian could only stammer, "You—you—you—"
Dana resumed his true appearance, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"See clearly now? Yes. I'm Dana Avery—the one you sent to Azkaban."
"Impossible!" Flint shouted, struggling against invisible bonds. "The real Dana Avery is still rotting in Azkaban! You're not him!"
Dana ignored the outburst. From the pendant around his neck, he withdrew two crystalline objects that glowed faintly in the dim light.
"Gentlemen," he said lightly, "can you guess what I'm holding?"
They stared, feeling a chilling, inexplicable pull toward the two crystals. Something deep within their souls shuddered in recognition.
"You don't know? That's fine," Dana said. "You'll understand soon enough."
With a flick of his finger, two threads of light shot from the crystals into their foreheads.
"What did you do?" Flint choked out.
"Nothing serious," Dana replied. "I merely linked your souls to your own soul crystals."
Before they could protest, he kindled a small flame beneath the crystals.
A soundless agony erupted.
Their bodies convulsed as if pierced by invisible knives, their screams echoing within the sealed space. Dana had cast a silencing barrier around the entire floor; no matter how violently they howled, no sound escaped—not even to the rooms above.
Cruciatus was agony of the flesh. But what Dana inflicted now was torment of the soul.
Do you know why Western legends say the devil's torture is the most terrifying of all? Because the pain of hell is carved into the soul itself.
The body has defenses—it can faint, it can shut down awareness when pain becomes unbearable. But the soul has no such mercy. When the soul is torn, the pain is endless, inexorable.
Dana watched the two writhe and scream with a cold detachment that chilled even the shadows. Then he turned away, walking gracefully up the stairs.
In the hallway, his form shimmered again, becoming Dak Emrys—the identity he sometimes wore when he had to hide who he truly was. He entered his mother's room quietly.
Anna lay on the bed, her breathing shallow. When the door creaked open, she turned her head weakly.
"Dak… you came."
Her voice was faint, the words barely audible. Dana's heart tightened painfully.
"Mother," he said gently, "I heard something had happened, so I came as fast as I could."
Anna gave him a weary, bitter smile.
"I… I have one thing to ask."
"Tell me."
"Take care of… Dana… for me."
His throat tightened. He nodded quickly.
Anna's trembling hand lifted with great effort, pointing toward the tapestry hanging on the far wall.
"Keep… it safe… our family's…"
Dana interrupted softly, forcing steadiness into his voice. "I know. I'll take care of him—and I'll keep the tapestry safe. I promise."
Her lips curved faintly, as though relieved. "You're a good boy… Dak…"
"Don't talk anymore," he said hoarsely. "Just rest. You'll recover soon."
Anna shook her head weakly. "No… I won't make it."
Her eyes drifted toward the tapestry once more, lingering there with longing and sorrow. Dana followed her gaze, walked over, and carefully took it down from the wall.
"The tapestry is… in your hands," she whispered. "I'm relieved."
Every word felt like a blade through his chest. He wanted to weep, but he couldn't—not yet. Instead, he raised a hand and cast a gentle Stunning Spell.
"Sleep well," he whispered.
Anna's eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing softened. Dana stood by the bed for a long time, watching the rise and fall of her chest, then turned away, clutching the tapestry tightly against him.
When he returned to the first floor, the two intruders were barely recognizable. Their bodies were filthy, soaked in sweat and waste, their eyes rolled back, mouths foaming. Yet their flesh bore no wounds. The agony was within—bound to their souls, relentless, inescapable.
Dana sat down at the dining table and placed the tapestry beside him. From his robes, he drew out a worn leather notebook—one he had taken long ago from Morgan le Fay herself. He had been studying it, searching for traces of her research into Merlin's lost magic.
He began to read. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackling of energy from the tortured crystals.
Every few minutes, Dana would lift his hand and tear the soul crystals apart—shattering, then restoring them again. He had learned that burning was too gentle. Tearing, on the other hand, was excruciating. The very act of rending a soul into fragments and stitching it back together was a pain no body could comprehend.
He turned a page in Morgan's book, his expression calm, almost scholarly.
Outside, the world continued as if nothing were happening.
Under the great oak near Livingston's public Floo Network, Donna Avery waited, arms folded, glancing toward Emrys Residence with growing unease.
"They've been in there a long time," she murmured. "Did I guess wrong?"
But then she shook her head, reassuring herself.
"No, I can't be wrong. Sally Avery may be a useless Squib, but John Flint doesn't waste his time. If he's interested in Anna Avery's place, there must be something valuable inside."
A sly smile touched her lips.
"They put on quite a performance, didn't they? Almost fooled me. But I won't sit here waiting like a fool. I'll see for myself what's going on."
And with that, she stepped out from under the tree and started toward the house.
Inside, the screams continued—silent, unending, and unseen.
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