Remnants

July 13, 1993, 3:00 PM, New York State

Unknown

He stumbled through the forest, his boots catching on roots and rocks he couldn’t see beneath the blindfold pressed tight against his face. The late afternoon air hung heavy with the scent of cedar and wet moss, a sharp wind slicing through the trees, carrying the faint tang of smoke.

His wrists throbbed where the enchanted bonds cut into his skin, their strange, earthy magic buzzing faintly— a craft unlike anything he’d encountered in his Auror days. He’d tugged at them for days, his flesh now chafed and raw, but the ropes held fast, tightening with every struggle. Brute strength wouldn’t break these; they were woven with something older, something foreign to the wandwork he knew.

His captors marched ahead, their moccasins making barely a sound against the forest floor. They spoke little, their voices low and clipped in a tongue he didn’t recognize, treating him as if he were no more than a burden to be hauled.

The Outsiders, they called themselves— he’d caught the name during the brutal hours of interrogation, before they’d tired of his resistance. Native wizards, fierce and unrelenting, who’d razed MACUSA to ashes and turned their wands on every ‘non-native’ they could find. Jonathan’s lip curled beneath the blindfold. He’d retired a decade ago, thinking the wars were behind him, but now here he was, snared by a new enemy he hadn’t even known to fear.

He’d overheard enough to glean their intent. They were dragging him toward ‘the summit’, a place they spoke of with reverence, somewhere near the peaks of the Catskills.

There, he was to be a sacrifice— part of some ritual tied to their crusade against the invaders who’d brought their magic to these lands. Why him, an old man long out of the fight, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was spite, or maybe his name still carried weight from the old days. Either way, the thought of his blood spilling for their cause lit a slow, smoldering rage in his gut.

The forest murmured around him, a symphony of clues for his blinded senses. A branch cracked underfoot, sharp and deliberate. A hawk screeched overhead, its cry echoing off unseen cliffs. The ground tilted upward, his calves straining as the climb grew steeper. They hadn’t Apparated, hadn’t used any familiar magic to speed the journey, and that nagged at him.

Perhaps their ritual demanded this slow march, a consecration of the land beneath their feet. Or maybe their magic shunned the shortcuts he knew. Whatever the reason, it gave him time— time to listen, to plan, to turn their confidence into a weapon.

His body ached, each step a reminder of the beatings he’d taken and the years of quiet that had softened his once-hardened frame. He’d been a power in his youth, an Auror who’d faced dark wizards and walked away victorious, but retirement had dulled his edge. The Outsiders had caught him off guard, storming his cabin with spells he couldn’t counter fast enough.

Now, hunger gnawed at his stomach, and exhaustion tugged at his limbs, but the fire in him refused to gutter out. These weren’t Grindelwald’s lackeys, driven by greed or fanaticism— this was something deeper, a vengeance he didn’t fully grasp. But he’d fought for survival before, against odds just as bleak.

Jonathan steadied his breath, his mind sharpening despite the weariness. Every word his captors let slip, every rustle of leaves, every shift in the air— he cataloged it, building a map in the dark. They saw him as a relic, a broken old man too weak to resist, but they didn’t know the steel that still ran through him. He’d escaped tighter binds than this, outsmarted deadlier foes. All he needed was a chance, a single slip. And when it came, he’d show them what a non-native wizard could do.

He pressed on through the forest, the blindfold forcing him to rely on the uneven ground beneath his boots and the faint sounds that pierced the stillness. The terrain grew rougher, roots and pebbles shifting underfoot, each step a small battle against the ropes that jerked at his wrists.

His captors, the Outsiders, moved ahead with silent purpose, their soft-soled steps barely disturbing the earth. They spoke sparingly, their words a clipped murmur in a language he couldn’t parse, as if he were beneath their notice. That indifference grated on him, but it also steeled his resolve— they’d underestimated him, and he’d make it cost them.

His thoughts drifted back to the night they’d taken him, a memory that replayed in sharp, bitter fragments. He’d been in his cabin, the fire crackling low, a cup of coffee gone cold in his hands. Retirement had suited him, or so he’d thought— a quiet life after decades of chasing dark wizards.

Then the wards had flared, a warning too late.

The door had burst inward, and three figures had swept in, their faces painted with streaks of ochre and black, wands of unfamiliar wood leveled at him. He’d lunged for his own wand, reflexes dulled by years of peace, but a bolt of jagged light had struck him down before he could cast. An Auror once feared across continents, brought low in his own home. The humiliation burned, a coal lodged in his chest.

One detail from that night lingered, cutting through the haze of his capture. As they’d bound him, one of the Outsiders— a lean figure with a voice like dry leaves— had slung a woven sack over his shoulder. It bulged, heavy with the clatter of wands, dozens of them, confiscated from wizards like him. Jonathan had seen his own— ebony, dragon heartstring, a faithful companion through every fight— tossed into the pile with a casual flick.

His stomach had twisted at the sight. These weren’t mere raiders; they were stripping non-native wizards bare, hoarding their tools to wield against them or to arm their own. The thought of his wand, forged in a world they despised, serving their vengeance made his blood simmer. He wouldn’t let it stand.

He flexed his wrists again, testing the bonds out of instinct more than expectation. The ropes tightened, their magic earthy and unyielding, like vines rooted in the land itself. Brute force was useless here— he’d need guile, a moment of weakness to exploit. Jonathan let his posture sag, his head dipping as if weariness had claimed him.

Let them see an old man, broken by their fists and their cause. Beneath the act, his mind churned, plotting. The Outsiders had destroyed MACUSA, hunted his kind with a fury he didn’t yet understand, but he’d faced annihilation before and emerged breathing.

The air cooled as the day waned, the scent of pine giving way to the musk of damp soil. At last, the captors stopped, their movements halting with a rustle of gear.

“We rest here.” One said, the first English he’d heard from them in hours. A rough shove sent Jonathan stumbling, and he felt the jagged bark of a tree against his back as they lashed him to it, knots pulled tight without a word. They turned away, their voices fading into the clink of setting camp, leaving him tethered and ignored. Jonathan sat still, his breathing shallow, but his senses stretched outward. That sack of wands was near— he could almost feel its pull, a faint echo of his own magic calling back. He’d bide his time. When they slipped, he’d be ready.

Jonathan slumped against the tree, the rough bark digging into his spine as the Outsiders secured the ropes around him. The blindfold still cloaked his vision, but he felt the forest settle into dusk— the air growing crisp, the distant hum of insects rising as daylight faded. His captors moved away, their soft steps muffled by the earth, and soon the crackle of a fire sparked to life.

The scent of pork stew wafted toward him, rich and savory, curling into his nostrils and twisting the hunger in his gut into a sharper ache. They hadn’t fed him in days, and they wouldn’t now— shoving him aside like a discarded tool was their only acknowledgment. He didn’t react, didn’t flinch or beg. Instead, he let his body go limp, his head lolling slightly, playing the part of the broken old man they expected.

The three Outsiders settled around their fire, their voices a low murmur in that unfamiliar tongue, punctuated by the occasional clink of a spoon against a pot. Jonathan listened, straining to catch any scrap of meaning, but the words slipped past him like water over stone.

He didn’t need to understand their language to know their intent— they’d made that clear enough in the bruises they’d left on him, in the hissed threats about ‘cleansing’ the land of invaders like him. MACUSA’s fall had been their triumph, a blow against the non-native wizards who’d claimed power here, and now they hunted the remnants. Jonathan, retired or not, was just another name on their list.

His stomach growled, a traitor to his silence, but he ignored it. Hunger was an old companion, one he’d endured in the field during his Auror years. The real pain was in his bones— the dull throb of days without rest, the stiffness from their beatings settling deep. 

There was no use fighting them just yet. He’d wait, let the night deepen, let their guard slip. They thought him frail, a relic of a defeated order, and he’d use that. The stew’s aroma lingered, teasing him, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the sounds— the fire’s snap, the rustle of leaves, the faint hoot of an owl in the distance.

Time stretched, the Outsiders’ voices softening as they finished their meal. Jonathan let his breathing slow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked sleep. Exhaustion tugged at him, real and heavy, but he fought it just enough to stay alert.

His mind raced, turning over every detail he’d gathered— the sack of wands somewhere in their gear, the summit they were marching toward, the ritual they planned. He didn’t know their full purpose, but he’d be damned if he let them spill his blood for it. As the fire died to embers, a heaviness settled over him, and he let himself drift into a shallow doze, a thin veil between rest and readiness.

He woke with a start, the night thick around him. The air was cooler now, the stew’s scent reduced to a faint memory clinging to the breeze. The camp was silent save for the soft snores of his captors, their shapes dim lumps beyond the smoldering coals. Jonathan’s heart thudded, a sudden clarity cutting through the fog of fatigue.

This was it— the moment he’d waited for. They thought him weak, undone by age and hunger, but they didn’t know the will that still burned in him. He steadied himself, his senses sharpening. The sack of wands was out there, close. Now was the time to act.

He focused inward, summoning the will that had carried him through darker nights than this, and called to his wand.

It wasn’t a spell, not in the way he’d been taught— words and flicks and rigid forms. This was raw, a pull from his core, a silent plea to the ebony wand that had been his partner since his Auror days. He pictured it, nestled in that woven sack among the others, and felt a flicker— a thread of connection tugging back.

The air shifted, a sudden rustle breaking the stillness as the sack jolted from its place near the fire. It crashed through branches, leaves snapping, the clatter of wands within loud enough to pierce the night. Jonathan’s breath caught as the Outsiders stirred, their snores cutting off into groggy murmurs, but he didn’t falter. He felt it— the sack hurtling toward him, guided by his will alone.

A thud sounded as it struck the ground beside him, and then warmth bloomed in his palm. His wand had slipped free, pressing against his skin like a lost friend returning home. The familiar hum of its magic surged through him, chasing away the ache in his limbs, igniting a fire in his chest. He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp flick, he willed the restraints away— no incantation, just intent— and the enchanted ropes unraveled, falling to the earth in a whisper of defeated magic. The blindfold followed, sliding off his face, and he blinked into the dim moonlight filtering through the trees.

The camp sprawled before him, shadows dancing in the glow of the embers. The three Outsiders were rousing, their painted faces turning toward the noise, hands groping for wands of their own.

Jonathan gripped his tighter, the weight of it steadying him as adrenaline flooded his veins. He saw the sack spilled open at his feet, wands scattered like fallen soldiers— stolen lives, stolen power. Rage flared, hot and bright, at the thought of these hunters stripping his kind bare, but he shoved it down.

There’d be time for anger later. Now was for survival.

Jonathan stood in the moonlit clearing, his wand steady in his grip, its familiar warmth pulsing against his palm as the Outsiders sprang into chaos. The spilled sack of wands gleamed like shards of bone in the fading firelight, but he had no time to dwell on it. The broad one with feathers woven into his hair was already on his feet, wand raised, a harsh chant rumbling from his throat. Jonathan’s instincts flared— his wand sliced the air, a severing charm ripping free.

Diffindo. The spell cut through the night, a swift crescent of light, and the man’s head parted from his shoulders in a spray of dark blood. His body hit the ground with a heavy thud, lifeless before the echo faded.

The lean Outsider— the one with the dry, rustling voice— whirled toward him, wand already in hand, clutched tight from where he’d kept it close. Jonathan didn’t pause.

“Avada Kedavra!” Jonathan snarled, the curse erupting in a flash of green that lit the trees in an eerie glow. The lean man thrust his wand forward, a desperate shield charm shimmering to life— golden and fleeting. It shattered under the Killing Curse’s weight, the green light punching through to strike him square in the chest.

He convulsed, eyes wide with shock, then crumpled, dead before he hit the earth. Jonathan’s breath hitched, the curse’s bitter aftertaste coating his tongue, but there was no time for regret.

Pain flared across his shoulder, sharp and sudden, yanking his focus. He spun, wand up, and saw the third Outsider— a witch, smaller and quicker— crouched near a tree, her painted face fierce in the moonlight. Her wand trembled slightly, but her aim was true; a jagged cut now wept blood down his arm, his robe torn where her curse had struck. He gritted his teeth, shoving the pain aside, and leveled his wand.

“Stupefy.” He barked, red light bursting forth in a tight beam. She was ready— her wand flicked, a shield charm blooming like a ripple of water, and the stun deflected harmlessly into the trees, splintering bark.

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, his pulse thundering as she stared back, her stance firm. She didn’t charge, didn’t flee— just held her ground, wand poised, her shield flickering faintly as it settled. He shifted his weight, testing his footing, the ache in his shoulder a dull roar now. Blood trickled warm beneath his sleeve, but he ignored it, his grip on his wand unwavering. The clearing stretched between them, a silent battlefield lit by moon and embers, the bodies of her comrades sprawled like shadows at its edges. She was young, her face streaked with ochre and black, but her eyes burned with a resolve that matched his own.

Neither moved, their wands locked in a wordless standoff. The forest held its breath— no rustle of leaves, no distant calls, just the faint crackle of the dying fire. Jonathan’s mind raced, cataloging her stance, her grip, searching for an opening. She’d blocked his spell cleanly, her magic swift and rooted, unlike the rigid forms he knew. He’d taken down two, but this one wouldn’t fall so easily.

His shoulder throbbed, his strength waning, yet he stood tall, an old Auror facing a new foe. The Outsiders had burned MACUSA, hunted his kind, but he wasn’t done yet. This was the first dance of their duel— a cautious probing of skill and will— and he intended to learn her measure.

He took a slow breath, the night air sharp in his lungs, and flicked his wand. A jet of red light— another Stunning Charm— sang through the darkness, aimed at her chest. She moved like water, her wand tracing a swift arc, and a Shield Charm rippled into being, deflecting his spell with a soft hiss. It crashed into a nearby tree, splintering bark, and she countered without pause.

A bolt of silver light arced toward him, shimmering with an earthy hum he didn’t recognize. Jonathan sidestepped, his own shield snapping up with a muttered word, the silver shattering against it in a spray of sparks. They circled, footsteps crunching on leaves, each testing the other’s rhythm.

She sent a coil of vines snaking from the earth, their thorns glinting in the moonlight, and he slashed them apart with a quick Severing Charm, the ends writhing briefly before falling still. He retaliated with a Disarming Charm, a red flash aimed to strip her wand away, but she twisted, her shield reforming just in time.

The spell ricocheted, singeing the air, and she answered with a gust of wind— sharp and wild— that buffeted him back a step. He steadied himself, eyes narrowing as he tracked her movements, her speed, the way her stance shifted with each cast.

Then her voice broke the silence, low and urgent.

“Let me go.” She said, her wand still raised but her tone edged with something raw. “I don’t want this fight. Just let me walk away.”

Her eyes darted to the bodies of the other Outsiders, a flicker of grief crossing her face, but Jonathan said nothing. His jaw tightened, his silence a wall between them. She’d hunted his kind, burned MACUSA, spilled blood— hers and hers alone— and mercy wasn’t his to give. Not tonight.

He attacked instead, his wand slashing down as ropes shot toward her, thick and coiling, meant to bind her where she stood. She leapt aside, her shield flaring again, but one rope grazed her arm, drawing a hiss of frustration. She retaliated, a jagged shard of stone hurtling from her wand, and he ducked, the projectile whistling past his ear to embed in a tree trunk. They resumed their dance, spells clashing in bursts of light and sound— his calculated strikes meeting her instinctive weaves.

Their breaths grew heavy, yet the duel remained a stalemate. Jonathan’s shoulder pulsed with pain, his grip firm despite it, while her movements stayed fluid, her resolve unbroken.

Jonathan pressed forward in the moonlit clearing, his wand slashing through the air as he hurled spell after spell at the witch. The forest rang with their duel, the clash of magic a jagged symphony against the night. His Severing Charm streaked forward, aiming to dismember her, but she twisted aside, magic humming in a way he didn’t fully understand.

His shoulder burned, the cut seeping blood down his arm, and his legs quaked beneath him— days of starvation, torture, and sleeplessness gnawing at his core. Exhaustion crept in, a heavy fog dulling his edges, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on, desperate to end it.

He flicked his wand again and used a spell from her own repertoire, vines surging forth from the forest floor to bind her, but she danced back, her movements fluid and mocking. A whip of her very own thorns lashed from her wand, snagging his ankle with a sharp sting.

Jonathan stumbled, pain flaring up his leg, and slashed the vines free with a hoarse Diffindo. His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat stinging his eyes, and the world tilted as dizziness clawed at him. She seized the opening, her wand sweeping upward, and a blast of raw force erupted— wild and unformed, but brutal. It slammed into his chest like a hammer, hurling him backward. He crashed to the forest floor, leaves crunching beneath him, his wand nearly slipping from his sweat-slick grip.

The witch advanced, her painted face splitting into a grin that gleamed in the moonlight.

“Look at you.” She taunted, her voice dripping with glee, her earlier plea for mercy nowhere to be found. “The great Auror, broken and bleeding.”

She twirled her wand, a flicker of delight in her eyes as she sent a curse slicing toward him— a thin, violet arc that grazed his ribs, opening a fresh gash. Jonathan grunted, rolling to dodge the worst, but the pain seared through him, hot and relentless. She laughed, a high, cruel sound that echoed off the trees, her elation palpable as she loomed over him.

“I’ll make you scream before the end.” She promised, her wand already weaving another spell.

Jonathan’s chest heaved, his vision swimming as he clawed at the dirt, trying to rise. His body betrayed him— limbs heavy, muscles screaming, the hunger and torture of days past dragging him down. She’d overwhelmed him, her youthful vigor a stark contrast to his faltering strength.

He’d thought her grief real, a crack in her resolve when she’d begged to be let go, her eyes flickering to her dead comrades. But now, as she reveled in his pain, he saw it for what it was— an act, a lure to lower his guard. The realization hit like a spark on dry tinder, igniting a fury deep within him.

She’d played him, mocked him, and now she danced over his ruin.

He gripped his ebony wand tighter, blood dripping from his ribs to stain the leaves, and glared up at her through the haze. Jonathan’s rage flared even hotter— white-hot and primal. He was down, battered, but not finished.

He surged to his feet, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, and attacked with the abandon of a man unmoored.

His wand slashed wildly— Confringo!— a blast of fire exploding toward her. She threw up a shield, the flames licking at its edges, but he didn’t stop.

Reducto! The spell flew forward with savage intent, a burst of force that shattered her defense, sending shards of magic spiraling into the night. She stumbled, her grin faltering, and lashed back— a curse that sliced across his thigh, blood welling hot and fast.

Jonathan ignored it, his vision tunneling, pain a distant echo to the wrath driving him. Another spell grazed his arm, a shallow burn, but he pressed forward, his wand a blur of motion as he unleashed everything he had.

The witch regained her footing, her wand weaving more of the same thorns that had laid him low. They snaked him, but he blasted them apart with a feral Reductor Curse. She snarled, desperation creeping into her eyes, and he saw his chance.

He aimed high, at a towering pine looming above her and roared. His spell burst forth and cleaved through its trunk with a crack like thunder, while quickly hitting her with another Reductor Curse, forcing the woman to stand still. The tree groaned, swaying, then toppled in a cascade of splintering wood and needles. She twisted, too slow to cast another Shield Charm, and screamed as it crashed down, pinning her legs beneath its weight. Blood streaked her face, her wand slipping as she clawed at the earth, trapped and broken.

Jonathan staggered closer, his chest heaving, his body a tapestry of wounds— thigh bleeding, arm scorched, ribs oozing— but he felt none of it. The fury of his youth roared in his veins, a wildfire that wouldn’t be quenched. She glared up at him, defiance flickering through her pain, and spat a curse that went wide, sizzling into the dirt.

He didn’t flinch. His wand trembled in his grip, slick with sweat and blood, and he leveled it at her.

“Defodio.” He rasped, the spell tearing from him in a flash of silver. It struck her head-on, gouging a chunk out of her skull with a sickening snap-crunch. Her body jerked once, then stilled, her eyes glazing over as blood pooled beneath her in the moonlight.

The forest fell silent, save for Jonathan’s ragged breaths, the crackle of embers long faded. He stood over her, the crushed ruin of her legs pinned beneath the tree, her split skull a testament to his wrath. His wand dropped to his side, his arm shaking as the fury ebbed, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the leaves, and his legs buckled, forcing him to lean against a nearby trunk. He’d won— taken her life as she’d meant to take his— but the cost carved itself into his bones. The night stretched on, indifferent, and Jonathan stared at the carnage, the fire of his younger self flickering out, leaving only the old man who’d survived.

His chest heaved, each breath a rasp that scraped his raw throat, and his wand trembled in his grip, slick with sweat and grime. The three Outsiders lay dead but victory was a hollow echo in his chest. Defeating them was only the beginning; he needed to ensure no others lurked nearby, ready to finish what they’d started.

His body screamed with every movement— his shoulder oozing blood, his thigh and ribs throbbing— but he forced himself to focus, years of Auror training clawing through the fog of exhaustion.

He raised his wand, its tip flickering faintly, and cast a revealing spell. The spell pulsed outward, a ripple of invisible energy sweeping the clearing and beyond, searching for human presence.

Nothing— no heartbeat, no breath beyond his own. He exhaled, a shaky plume of mist in the cold night air, but didn’t relax. Next came a sharper incantation, his voice a hoarse whisper as he scanned for magical traps. A faint shimmer traced the air, outlining the trees, but no hexes or wards glowed back at him. The Outsiders hadn’t expected resistance, it seemed, or hadn’t had time to fortify their camp. Good. That arrogance was his edge.

One more spell to confirm his bearings. He pointed his wand skyward, muttering a coordinate charm, and a ghostly grid of numbers flickered into view— latitude and longitude glowing briefly before fading. Jonathan nodded, his jaw tight.

He was close to the base of the mountain, the very peak these bastards had been dragging him toward for their ritual. The realization sank like lead in his gut: enemy reinforcements couldn’t be far off. If they were disciplined, they’d notice their scouts missing within half a day— twelve hours, maybe less.

He couldn’t linger, not with his blood painting the ground and his strength fraying at the edges, but half a day was enough. Enough to breathe, to scavenge, to plan.

His eyes swept the clearing, taking in the carnage— the witch’s gouged skull, the lean one’s lifeless sprawl, the broad one’s severed head staring blankly into the dark. The fight had been brutal, a storm of rage and survival, but now the silence pressed in, heavy and expectant.

He flexed his fingers around his wand, the wood warm against his palm, and took a step toward the camp. Pain lanced up his leg, the gash on his thigh protesting, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Safety wasn’t assured yet— not until he’d stripped this place bare and vanished into the night.

The firepit still smoldered, a faint curl of smoke rising from the ashes, and scattered around it were the Outsiders’ belongings— packs, a pot, a few glinting vials. Jonathan’s pulse steadied slightly, the methodical part of his mind kicking in. He’d check the perimeter once more before looting, but the spells had bought him a moment’s peace.

Half a day wasn’t much, but it was a lifeline, a sliver of time to turn the tables. The mountain loomed ahead, its shadow swallowing the stars, and he knew the ritual site waited somewhere up there— close, too close. He wouldn’t let them have it. Not after this. With a final glance at the dead, he turned toward the camp, his resolve hardening like steel in his chest, ready to claim what he could before the clock ran out.

Jonathan limped toward the Outsiders’ camp, the clearing’s silence broken only by the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the labored rasp of his breath. The adrenaline that had fueled his fight with the witch drained away, leaving a hollow exhaustion that sank into his bones.

His shoulder throbbed where her curse had cut him, his thigh and ribs ached with every step, and his stomach gnawed at itself— a relentless, clawing hunger that had grown over days without food. He’d secured the perimeter, bought himself half a day, and now survival demanded he take what he could from the dead. His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, scanned the scattered remnants of their camp— packs tipped over, a pot by the smoldering fire, a glint of glass catching the moonlight.

He knelt by one of the packs, wincing as his wounds protested, and rummaged through it with trembling hands. His fingers closed around a small leather pouch, and he tugged it open to reveal a stash of Potions— vials of cloudy green and vibrant amber. Healing draughts and energy tonics, he recognized, his Auror training cutting through the haze.

He uncorked the green one first, the bitter scent stinging his nose, and tipped it back. The liquid burned down his throat, harsh and thick, but warmth spread through him, knitting the edges of his cuts, dulling the sharpest pangs. Next came the amber tonic— sweet and sharp— and as it hit his stomach, a faint jolt of vigor stirred his limbs, pushing back the fog of starvation. It wasn’t enough to make him whole, but it was a start.

Then he saw the pot of pork stew, still half-full, its surface congealed but its scent a siren call to his ravaged body. Days without a morsel had left him a shell— his cheeks hollow, his ribs stark beneath his torn robes— and now the aroma of meat and herbs flooded his senses, dizzying him with need.

He raised his wand, a shaky Incendio sparking the fire back to life, and before long, the stew bubbled, steam curling upward. He didn’t wait for a spoon; he grabbed the pot’s edge, ignoring the heat searing his palms, and scooped a handful into his mouth. The first bite hit like a revelation— hot, salty, the pork tender and rich, broth coating his tongue.

His jaw ached from disuse, but he shoveled more in, ravenous, broth dribbling down his chin to stain his robes. He tore at it with his fingers, a starving man unleashed, the warmth filling the void in his gut, spreading to his chest.

He ate until his stomach cramped, a dull ache of fullness replacing the gnawing emptiness, and leaned back against a tree, the pot still clutched in his lap. His hands shook less now, the tremors easing as the food and Potions worked their magic, but his breaths still came hard, his body a patchwork of scars and weariness. The forest faded into the background, the night’s chill a distant thing as he savored the fleeting relief.

He wiped his mouth with a grimy sleeve, the taste lingering, and felt a flicker of strength return— not the fire of his youth, but enough to keep going. Calmer now, his mind sharpened, and he turned his gaze to the bodies sprawled nearby. The stew had steadied him, but there was more to do— secrets to uncover before he could escape this cursed place.

Jonathan sat by the rekindled fire, the pot of stew resting beside him, its warmth seeping into his side as the last of its heat faded. The food had quieted the hunger that had clawed at him, and the Potions had dulled his wounds to a manageable ache, but exhaustion still lingered, a weight pressing on his shoulders.

His breaths steadied, though, and with his hunger sated, his mind cleared, sharpening into the focus of the Auror he’d once been.

He pushed himself up, grunting as his thigh protested, and limped to the broad one’s body first. His hands, steadier now, patted down the blood-soaked robes, searching for markings or clues. The man’s arms bore faint tattoos— spirals and lines that might’ve meant something to the Outsiders— but nothing distinctive enough to decipher now.

No papers, no orders, just the stink of death. Jonathan moved to the lean one next, his fingers brushing the rough fabric until they snagged on a folded scrap tucked inside a pocket. He pulled it free, unfolding it with care, and his breath caught.

Coordinates— longitude and latitude— scrawled in a jagged hand, numbers that pulsed with significance. He cast his coordinate charm again, the ghostly grid flaring briefly, and compared them. Nearly identical. This mountain, this very slope, was the ritual’s heart.

The note was a treasure— vital intelligence that could turn the tide against the Outsiders— and his duty as an Auror surged, a fire rekindled. He pocketed it, then searched the witch, finding only a dagger with a carved bone handle, its blade stained with his own blood. Useful enough; he tucked it into his belt alongside a few more Potions from their packs.

Time to erase this place. He raised his wand, voice low but firm— Evanesco— and the broad one’s body dissolved, flesh and bone vanishing into mist. The lean one followed, then the witch, her broken form fading until only the fallen pine remained. Another spell swept the camp— fire extinguished, blood scrubbed from the earth, the pot and packs swallowed by magic. The clearing stood pristine, as if no one had ever been here at all.

Jonathan stepped back, his chest tight with the weight of what he carried. The coordinates burned in his pocket, a lifeline he couldn’t let slip— not after MACUSA’s fall, not after all of the blood that had been spilled over this pointless conflict.

He walked a short distance into the trees, each step a battle against his wounds, until the camp was out of sight. The forest thickened around him, shadows swallowing his trail, and he stopped, steadying himself against a trunk.

He turned on his heel, and with a crack, the world twisted, the clearing vanishing as he hurtled through space.

Jonathan landed hard just outside the place, and immediately looked around, the Apparition wrenching a groan from his battered frame as his boots sank into soft earth. The night was thick here, a copse of trees shielding the hidden refuge, their branches clawing at the starless sky.

His legs buckled briefly, the dagger and Potions clinking at his belt, but he caught himself, wand still clutched tight. Before he could take a step, shadows moved— five figures emerged, wands flashing in the dark, their faces taut with suspicion.

“Drop it!” One barked, a rope spell coiling from her wand, its tendrils snaking toward his wrists. Jonathan’s hand twitched, defiance flaring despite the exhaustion dragging him down, and he raised his wand, ready to fight again.

“Jonathan!” A voice cut through, sharp and familiar, freezing the others mid-cast. The ropes dissolved, and Jonathan turned, relief flooding his chest as he rasped.

“Rudy Garlan. You’re still alive— good.” He said as his old friend stepped forward— broad-shouldered, gray streaking his hair, eyes wide with shock.

“What the hell happened? You look dead on your feet.” Rudy said, his voice rough with concern. The dam broke then, words spilling from Jonathan in a frantic rush— capture by the Outsiders, the duel in the forest, the coordinates marking their ritual. He fumbled the note from his pocket, shoving it into Rudy’s hands, his knees giving way as the last of his strength bled out. Rudy lunged, catching him under the arms, and shouted. “Get him inside, now!”

Jonathan felt hands dragging him, his boots scraping the ground as they hauled him toward the safehouse— a blur of wood and lantern light. His vision swam, the coordinates’ weight lifting from his shoulders as Rudy clutched the note, barking orders.

“He’s got intel— move!” The words faded, blending with the thud of his own pulse, and Jonathan sank into the grip of his rescuers. A cot materialized beneath him, rough but solid, and he collapsed onto it, the ache of his wounds a distant hum.

He’d done it— delivered the note, given them a chance to strike back against the Outsiders who’d burned MACUSA. A faint smile tugged at his lips, cracked and dry, as darkness closed in.

The last thing he remembered was Rudy’s voice, softer now, muttering.

“Rest, you stubborn bastard. We’ve got it from here.” Jonathan’s smile held, small but real, knowing his duty was done— not just to survive, but to serve the country he’d sworn to protect all those years ago. The safehouse swallowed him, its walls a fragile shield against the war outside, and he let go, trusting Rudy with the fight to come. Sleep claimed him, deep and dreamless, a reprieve earned in blood and fire.