Beyond the Tapestry - Chapter 6

So as you may have noticed, I'm really bad at working on what I'm supposed to be working on! November was supposed to be all about WWDtS, I had a vote for it and everything, but I've had...minimal success with that project 😭.

Still, I haven't done no writing and I do want to give you guys something! This is the project that has captured my limited writing attention this past month or so. Not sure its going to go anywhere yet, but I've really enjoyed working on it so far.

Beyond the Tapestry is sort of a non-quest revamp of Harvesting the Multiverse, a story I wrote a lot of at the start of this year. That story has developed a lot of cracks and ended up being terribly unbalanced, but I did really enjoy the initial concept and wanted to iterate on it. Its a Harry Potter/Magic: the Gathering/Multicross fic following an OC Black character (as in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black). The magic system is heavily revamped and based loosely on elements I've loved in other stories, and I've also changed a lot of the mechanics found it HtM to fix some of the problems that I ran into there.

Anyway, I think that's more than enough Author's Note. This is chapter 6/6 that will be coming out in 15 minute increments. Let me know what you think!

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Grindelwald’s eye’s weren’t gray, they were silver. Seer silver, like an Olivander’s. Dorea had no idea how she’d missed it before, how everyone had  missed it. Not a single person she’d spoken with had told her Grindelwald was a thrice-damned seer.

Dorea tried not to react, meeting the younger mage’s gaze squarely, but something must have shown on her face because his small smile turned vicious. Or maybe his sight had told him something?

Dorea smiled back at him, cool and polite. “It’s quite impressive to see a mage of your age get this far. When was the last time a sixteen year old placed second, 1811?”

Dorea wasn’t sure if Grindelwald spoke English, but Russian was a safe bet. It was one of the official languages taught in at Durmstrang and she’d been tutored in it for years by her grandmother who’d wanted her to attend the dark-arts focused school. That plan had died once her family noticed her unusual affinity, but she’d continued her lessons regardless. 

He responded in perfect, if slightly accented, English. “I could not say. I do know the last time a mage of my age won was in 1742. Twas your countryman, Raghnal Bones.” He even pronounced the Gaelic name correctly. “I must admit he was an inspiration to me. I was greatly saddened to hear of his recent passing.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “And I do not intend to see his record broken on this day so it may stand and inspire for generations to come.”

Grindelwald laughed at her words, Dorea’s lips tightening into a narrow line. “And there is that Black pride I was warned about. What you intend or not matters little on this stage, my lady,” he declared, her title spat like an insult. “Only magic.” And then he flared his aura, as black as pitch and as hot and dense as molten rock.

Dorea barely managed to stop herself from taking a step back. Her own magic bubbled around her, the interference generated by their clashing auras visible even without her newly acquired magesight. The air between them hissed and spit, sunlight burning away deep shadows, but it was clear to anyone with eyes which aura was more developed.

(It wasn’t Doreas.)

“Neat trick,” Dorea told him, keeping her voice as calm and even as she could manage under the circumstances. “But you’re not the first sorcerer I’ve dueled and you will not be the first one I have defeated either.” Of course all of those had been her tutors, teachers, or relatives, but it still counted. 

(It didn’t matter that when she won, it was because they were restricting their strength and restricting their spells. Grindelwald was just a boy, not an old and experienced mage.)

Grindelwald smiled, his eyes shining like moons in a starless sky. “I would offer you the chance to resign and spare yourself the shame of defeat, but I know you would not accept it. Lose well, Lady Black.” And without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked back towards his side of the field.

Dorea watched him go for a moment, then spun around and marched back towards her own place. She could feel the eyes on her skin, tens of thousands of them. Mages and lesser beings had traveled from throughout Europe and beyond to watch the annual championship. For most of the tournament they’d been spread across a dozen dueling halls to accommodate the hundreds of duels needing to be fought, but today, the final day of the tournament, there was only one field left. 

The junior division had had their finals earlier in the day. Beauxbaton had taken the team event and the trios, while one of the few new-worlders in the competition, Pious Justice Smith of Massachusetts, had won the singles bracket for the Salem Institute of Wizardry. 

Dorea hadn’t bothered watching the finals for the senior division’s team and trios events. She’d spent the extra hours before her own duel—the last of the event—meditating and stretching. The crowd had grown since then, perhaps as much as doubled since she’d sat as one of them. The senior division’s duels were always far more interesting and exciting than those amongst the junior division. When you were fourteen or fifteen, a single trick—quick stepping, rapid conjuration, spell deflection—could quickly end a fight. Older mages put on more of a show, and she certainly didn’t plan to disappoint.

So much attention was exhilarating. Never in her life had she felt such a weight of eyes on her shoulders, not even when she’d been presented at her first formal function as a lady of the House of Black. The eyes blended into an indistinct pressure that straightened her spine and made her magic purr, yet tightened her chest until it was a minor struggle to draw breath. 

She breathed, slowly and deeply, each breath drawing in more than just air and each exhale releasing what shreds of doubt and fear she had allowed to creep into her mind until only certainty and confidence remained. 

Dorea drew her wand, clasping the slender length of wood in three fingers with her ring finger and pinky curled down to the base of her palm. Some instinct had her left hand reaching for the athame sheathed beneath her robe, but she contended herself with simply brushing it through the fabric before assuming her stance properly.

The crowd faded away, her eyes fixed on Grindelwald. He stood casually, his hands at his sides and his wand pointed down towards the earth. His golden blonde hair was messy, as though this event was not even worth the effort of combing out the tangles, and his expression was jovial and relaxed, a far cry from the viciousness she’d seen from him just moments before.

When the order to bow came, she did so properly. By the book. One hand over the chest, one hand behind the back, forty-five degrees down and then right back up. She might not like this Gallert Grindelwald, but she was a Black. She respected both power and conviction, and the boy had both in spades. Toujours Pur, Always Pure. Pure of heart, pure of mind, pure of will. They both had their own paths which they walked with eyes open and heads held high. It was just unfortunate that their paths had crossed on a day so pivotal. 

Unfortunate for him, that was.

The starting signal rose and fell, and Dorea cast. She began with her usual opening salvo that had won her dozens of duels against lesser foes. The combination of a spell designed to shatter magical shields, a second to break physical barriers, and a third to disable the opponent was highly effective against mages too slow or unskilled enough to dodge and Grindelwald had shown himself to be an immobile combatant the day before.

Grindelwald grinned at her, grinned at her, and vanished in the smoothest quick step she’d ever seen from someone other than a Master Auror or competitive duelist. It was only instinct that saved her, her wand slashing downward and an incantation falling from her lips without any conscious thought. 

A sphere of golden light burst from the tip of her wand, rapidly expanding outward into a shield large enough to cover Dorea’s entire body. A heartbeat later, the shield flickered but held as it was struck by a purple spellglow so bright it hurt to look at. Three more spells followed behind it, dark blasting curses that burst like thunderclaps against the shining barrier and tore great gouges in the earth outside it. 

Dorea spun to face Grindelwald, her eyes narrowed. He stood not ten feet from her, his wand pointed at her . His aura flared and pulsed, an inky miasma made only more intense by her newly acquired magesight. 

He was too close. Much too close. She could not dodge or deflect spells fired at such a short range, nor identify the types of spells he was casting so she could shield appropriately. Unfortunately quick step was not an ability she’d ever managed to get the hang of, so she had to resort to something much cruder.

Dorea twirled her wand between her fingers and leapt backwards. Her featherlight charm took effect a moment after her feet left the ground, sending her drifting up and away, and then her banishing charm sent her souring. Her golden shield came with her, flickering and cracked, but still solid enough to protect her from most spells.

It was not a trick she’d been forced to use before—most often it was her closing the distance, not her opponents—but Grindelwald did not show a hint of surprise. Instead, his damned grin widened even further.

Grindelwald shouted his incantation, his wand flashing forward, but his words were swallowed by the roar of thunder. A bar of crimson lightning as thick around as a greek column crashed against her shield and shattered it, sending her hurtling wildly through the air. Sparks of dark magic burned against her skin and left blackened scorch marks on her robe. 

As much as the carryover damage from Grindelwald’s spell hurt—she’d be dealing with dark magic toxicity again come evening and the duel was far from over—the backlash from her shield shattering in such a violent manner was much worse. Helios’s Protection was a very powerful protective spell, but that power came at a cost. Sunfire crawled through her veins and made her heart feel like it was going to burst out of her chest.

Dorea forced her eyes to open, spots half-blinding her to the world. She jabbed her wand frantically towards the ground and her stomach lurched as she shot downward. She was not a moment too soon, the spellglow of an unfamiliar stunning charm missing her by bare inches.

Her featherlight charm saved her from any serious damage, but the impact with the ground still knocked what little breath was left from her lungs. She wordlessly cancelled the spell and threw herself into a roll, frantically trying to drag in a breath not filled with dust and sand.

Dorea scrambled to her feet, her wand coming up just in time to deflect a bright yellow curse into the sky. The second curse was just too close though. All she could do was push it aside, not fully away from her!

Shards of crimson, wild and jagged like broken glass, shredded the arm of her dueling robe and bit deeply into skin and muscle. She flared her magic, a wandless dispel shredding apart the magic, but it was too late. Blood flowed freely from a dozen wounds, some almost deep enough to hit bone, and soaked rapidly into what was left of her sleeve.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be!

She twisted out of the way of another spell, her wand rising to tap against her shoulder. Despite being one of the things light magic was best at, Dorea had never had a hand for healing, but she knew a few things at least. Not enough to fix this, but hopefully it would keep her in the fight. 

Shimmering bandages, pale white and slightly translucent, spun from the tip of her wand and wrapped tightly around her wounds. The sudden pain made her stumble and left her seeing stars, but she still had the presence of mind to jump away from yet another or those dark blasting curses.

More spells flew at her, and she frantically dodged, shielded, and deflected. Grindelwald could not cast spells as quickly as she could, moving from wand movement to wand movement without chaining them together, but each spell shone with the amount of power he was pouring into them making them much harder to deflect or shield against.

The realization came upon her suddenly and horribly. She was losing. The duel wasn’t over yet, but she was undoubtedly losing. You couldn’t win a duel just defending yourself and she hadn’t had the chance to cast an offensive spell since that opening salvo. Grindelwald had had her on her back foot since that very first quick step.

Dorea couldn’t lose. She couldn’t! 

Dorea stepped into Grindelwald’s next spell, a crystalline-looking maroon spellglow she recognized as a particularly insidious shield breaker, and jabbed it with the point of her wand rather than knocking it aside, pouring magic into her deflection like water.  

With a sharp crack, the spell rocketed backwards, directly towards Grindelwald. It shattered against a hastily conjured copper shield, but that was alright. She’d never expected it to actually connect. She just needed a moment to act. 

Dorea’s vision spun and her arm protested—that had been a very costly technique in terms of magic use—but she ruthlessly ignored her body’s incessant complaining, her wand already moving. She drew it across her left arm, droplets of blood rising from her sleeve and beading unnaturally along the wood. She ended the motion with a broad sweep and then a half-circle that ended with it pointing directly at Grindelwald once again. 

She had to win. She would win. 

The incantation rolled off her tongue, smooth and liquid. It had taken weeks of practice to get it just right, the words in no language she’d ever heard of, but a distant ancestor had taken pains to record it phonetically and leave detailed casting instructions for the spell.

Fire the color of molten gold spilled from her wand, strands of brilliant ruby red lurking just beneath the surface. It swallowed Grindelwald’s latest curse, burning away the intensely dark magic like a dragon would a gnat, then flew towards the boy with a crystalline whistle that reminded Dorea of phoenix song.  

For the first time since the duel had begun, Grindelwald looked surprised. He swept his wand up from his feet, a wave of dark water rising up from the earth and rushed forward like a tidal wave, only to meet the same fate as the curse. Great gouts of foul-smelling steam clouded the field and the air crackled with interference.

The flames were almost on top of him when he quick stepped away, his body blurring as he crossed a dozen feet in a heartbeat. He started to cast another blasting curse, but Dorea grimaced and slashed her wand to the side, the flames following her motion and turning mid flight to chase Grindelwald.

He aborted his casting and quick stepped again, this time crossing a third of the open arena and making plenty of space between him and the golden flames. Two more spells—a powerful dispelling wave and an elemental transfiguration—vanished against the flames to no visible effect and for a moment, Dorea allowed herself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could—

Grindelwald quick stepped a third time, and she went to redirect the fire’s path again, only for her legs to give way mid-motion. She tipped forward, instinctively trying to catch herself on her non-wand arm, and screamed as the already injured muscles gave way and she crashed against the ground. 

The fire flew through where Grindelwald had been standing a moment before and crashed against the barriers surrounding the field. They flashed blue, turning fully opaque for a moment as the flames pressed against the powerful wards, and then the fire died and Dorea’s muscles lost all their strength

She tried to get up, to roll over, to so much as twitch, but her body refused to obey her. Her heart was an inert lump in her chest and her dirt-filled vision swam, flashes of light and dark shadows drifting in and out of focus.

She’d…failed. Lost. The realization hurt more than all her wounds—physical and spiritual—combined. She felt numb, floaty, her mind drifting away from her body as unasked for tears began to form in her eyes.

It was over. It was all over. Her life, her dreams, all her hard work and sacrifice…none of it mattered. 

She wished she was still on her feet. The safety wards around the field and on her robes were excellent, but if she timed it just right and used her aura to isolate her soul from the detection spells, she could have leapt in front of one of those blasting curses and been dead before the stasis spells kicked in. Blood alchemy could heal severed limbs, destroyed organs, and shattered skulls, but there was nothing anyone could do if the brain was splattered across half the field. 

It was so unfair. 

The overpowered stripping curse hit her in the shoulder and sent her tumbling across the ground. Her wand was wrenched from where it lay between her fingers and flew towards where Grindelwald was standing. The holster with her athame tried to do the same, but the straps kept it fixed in place. Instead, more tears opened in her robe at the point of impact and skin beneath it was flayed back. 

It was completely unnecessary. She was already beaten. But she almost welcomed the pain, anything to distract her from the misery rising up to swallow her mind. 

She came to rest on her back, blood oozing from countless scrapes, the wounds on her arm and shoulder, and her likely broken nose. She heard the soft pad of approaching footsteps and felt it as Grindelwald’s aura washed over her. 

It was over. Why hadn’t they called it yet? She tried to marshal her aura to block out the oily fire of Grindelwald’s magic, but her magic felt as worn out and broken as she did. 

She could almost feel the eyes on her despite the isolation wards, their attention crushing her down against the ground. An agonizing laugh bubbled up inside her. She was ruined. Even if her Lord Husband ever allowed her to compete again—perhaps after she’d popped out however many Potter brats he wanted—how could she ever do so after embarrassing herself like this in front of the whole world? 

The binding spell that struck her was just piling insult on top of injury. Orange cords of magic wrapped around her limbs and pulled her arms and legs behind her back, forcing her body to roll onto her injured side. Dorea had never hated anyone—not Dumbledore, not her betrothed, not her sister, not even her uncle—as much as she did Grindelwald in that moment. What, was ruining her life not enough? He had to utterly humiliate her as well? 

She was going to kill him. Somehow, someday, Grindelwald would die by her hands and learn what it meant to oppose the House of Black. 

But that day was not today. The wards dropped and the deafening cheers of the crowd washed over her. She could hear them, her Uncle, her sister, her family, their voices rising up in cheers that drowned out even those of the Durmstrang contingent and rang in her ears. They really had wanted her to lose. All of them. She’d always known those platitudes and words of support had rung hollow.

Something cracked in Dorea’s chest, an eggshell giving way beneath the weight of her despair. And there, in front of an audience of tens-of-thousands, beneath ancient wards and cutting-edge modern enchantments, she vanished into nothingness. 

Cheers died, Grindelwald’s congratulation on a duel well fought died on his lips, and Lord Sirius Black—lips pursed, brows furrowed, and an arm wrapped awkwardly around his crying niece’s shoulders—half rose from his seat. But Dorea Andromeda Black saw none of that as she tumbled off through infinity.