When Isabelle suddenly lunged, her movements weren't those of a frightened student; they were the fluid, practiced motions of someone who had rehearsed this exact murder in her head for years. A jet of red light tore through the gloom, but it wasn't a Stupefy. It was the jagged, sickly red of the Torture Curse.
The Crucio slammed into Rowena Smith's chest, and for a second, the world seemed to tilt. The Professor's polite, academic smile didn't just fade—it shattered. Her face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated agony, her skin turning a waxy, translucent gray as she collapsed onto the damp forest floor.
"You... you never took the bait," Smith wheezed, her fingers clawing at the rotted leaves. She looked up at Isabelle, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and twisted admiration. "You had a second wand. You were never under my thumb."
Albert felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He didn't have time for a dramatic reveal or a monologue about the power of friendship. He knew how these things went in stories—the hero talks too long, and the villain finds a hidden dagger.
"Less talking, Isabelle," Albert snapped.
He didn't wait for her to finish her revenge. He flicked his borrowed wand, and a silent Expelliarmus hissed through the air, catching Smith's primary wand and sending it spinning into the darkness of the undergrowth. He wasn't taking any chances. This was the Forbidden Forest; the rules of school dueling didn't apply here. This was about survival.
Isabelle didn't seem to hear him. She was staring down at Smith, her wand hand trembling with a terrifying intensity. "You were his best friend," she whispered, her voice cracking like dry ice. "He trusted you with his research, with his life. And you broke him just to see what was inside his head."
"Your father... was a beautiful obstacle," Smith sneered, even as her body continued to twitch from the aftershocks of the curse. "He had the key to the Wildsmith legacy and he treated it like a paperweight. I didn't kill him. I simply tried to enlighten him. If his mind couldn't handle the truth, that was his failure, not mine."
"Crucio!" Isabelle screamed again.
This time, the spell was clumsier, fueled by raw grief rather than focused intent. Smith gasped, her face growing paler, but she didn't scream. She just watched Isabelle with a predatory, mocking glint in her eyes.
"You're not ruthless enough, dear," Smith mocked. "A curse requires a certain... hunger. You're just a hurt little girl playing with fire."
"Enough," Albert interrupted, stepping forward. The Felix Felicis was singing in his ears now, a golden hum that told him the window of opportunity was closing. "If you want her dead, do it now. Or move aside and let me finish it."
Isabelle blinked, looking at Albert as if seeing him for the first time. "What?"
"She wants us dead, Isabelle. This isn't a detention. It's a clearing of the board," Albert said coldly. "If you can't pull the trigger, stun her and we'll leave her for the Acromantulas. The spiders don't care about her academic pedigree."
He raised his wand to cast a high-output Stupefy, but Smith was faster than a woman in her condition should have been. As if by magic—or perhaps a hidden spring-loaded holster—a second wand snapped into her hand.
Clang!
She deflected Albert's spell with a casual flick, the impact showering the clearing in sparks.
"Did you really think I only brought one?" Smith laughed, scrambling to her feet with a grace that suggested she'd been faking the extent of her injury. She brushed a stray leaf from her robes, looking every bit the poised Professor again, despite the blood trickling from her nose. "You kids are good. Truly. But you're still just playing at being wizards."
In one swift motion, she lashed out. A bolt of raw kinetic energy slammed into Isabelle, throwing the girl backward into a thick trunk.
"Damn it," Albert hissed.
He didn't bother with verbal incantations anymore. He leaned into the Felix Felicis, his mind becoming a high-speed processor. He unleashed a barrage of silent spells—shivers of silver light, concussive blasts, and localized Transfigurations. He turned the very air around Smith into a swirl of razor-sharp glass.
Smith parried them all with an effortless, swirling motion of her wand. "Silent casting? Impressive, Albert. Really. If you weren't currently trying to murder me, I'd give you a glowing recommendation for the Ministry."
"I'd rather take your job," Albert retorted, his voice calm even as his heart hammered against his ribs.
He flicked his wand low. A Diffindo sliced through the roots at Smith's feet, causing the ground to heave. As she stumbled, Albert didn't go for a stunner. He went for the throat.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A bolt of blinding green light tore through the darkness, illuminating the ancient trees like a strobe light. It was the first time Albert had ever cast it with the intent to kill, and he felt a cold, heavy weight settle in his chest.
The spell missed by an inch, obliterating a boulder behind Smith and sending a spray of granite shards into the air.
"The Killing Curse?" Smith's voice rose an octave, a mix of genuine fear and hysterical delight. "You really are a monster in sheep's clothing, aren't you? Most adults can't even produce a spark with that spell, and you nearly took my head off."
"I missed," Albert said, his eyes tracking her every micro-movement. "I won't miss twice."
He checked the Marauder's Map in his periphery. The dots were closing in. He needed to end this, but Smith was a master of the duel. She used Apparition in short, flickering bursts—popping in and out of existence to bypass his line of sight. It was a high-level combat technique that few Aurors could maintain for long.
"Protego!" Albert shouted as a purple flame erupted from his left.
The shield held, but the impact sent a shudder through his bones. He felt his chest tighten—the physical toll of the Luck was starting to manifest. He couldn't keep this pace up forever.
Isabelle rejoined the fray, her face a mask of bruised determination. She launched a volley of Expulso charms, trying to pin Smith against the treeline. But the gap in their experience was too wide. Smith moved like water, ducking under one spell and batting another aside as if it were a common fly.
"You're struggling, Albert," Smith noted, her voice echoing through the trees as she Disillusioned herself again. "The Luck is running out, isn't it? I can see the sweat. I can see the hesitation."
"I'm not hesitant," Albert said, closing his eyes and relying on his other senses. "I'm just waiting."
Suddenly, the air behind him turned cold.
"Crucio!"
Albert didn't dodge in time. The curse caught him in the shoulder, and for a few horrific seconds, the world became nothing but white-hot needles. Every nerve in his body screamed in a dissonant choir of agony. He collapsed, his wand skittering across the dirt.
"Albert!" Isabelle screamed. She rushed forward, casting a desperate Avada Kedavra of her own.
The green light flickered weakly and died out before it even reached the Professor.
"I told you," Smith said, stepping out of the shadows and wiping a smear of blood from her lip. "You don't have the stomach for it. You don't have the power."
She flicked her wand, and a lash of magical fire caught Isabelle across the face, sending her spiraling to the ground beside Albert.
Smith stood over them, her chest heaving, looking down with a mixture of pity and triumph. "It really is a shame. You two would have been the greatest wizards of the century. But the Wildsmith secret is mine, and dead candidates don't get to protest the inheritance."
Albert looked up, his vision swimming. He saw the wand pointed at his heart. He saw the shadows shifting in the trees behind Smith—massive, multi-legged shadows that moved with terrifying silence.