The Deep Forest of Portugal was silent when Harry and Ethan materialized at its edge, the faint ripple of the portkey fading into the crisp morning air. The moment his boots touched the moss-covered ground, Harry felt it—a deep, thrumming pulse of ancient magic running through the earth, older and heavier than anything in the cities. It tugged at his senses, leading them inward.
Ethan adjusted the straps of his satchel. "The grove's at the heart," he murmured. "You'll feel it pulling the closer we get."
"I already do," Harry replied, narrowing his eyes as the energy thickened in the air. It wasn't pure magic—it was heavy, sluggish, as if tainted by something unnatural.
The deeper they went, the more the sunlight thinned, replaced by a muted green glow filtering through the dense canopy. Roots coiled like serpents over the ground, and moss dripped from the branches like tattered curtains. Harry walked with his wand in one hand and his senses spread wide.
After nearly twenty minutes of weaving through the labyrinthine woods, the trees suddenly opened into a clearing—and Harry stopped dead.
In the center stood a colossal tree, its once-vibrant bark now a sickly, darkened grey. Leaves hung limp and brown, clinging stubbornly to the branches. The air here smelled of rot, overlaid with something metallic—almost like blood.
At the base of the tree was a figure—humanoid, yet clearly not human. Her body was formed of living bark, textured like the trunk she guarded. Slender branches jutted from her arms and shoulders, sprouting wilted leaves. Her hair, once thick with lush greenery, now hung in ragged, brittle strands of brown foliage. Dark scars marred her bark-skin, running deep like poisoned veins.
The dryad's eyes fluttered open weakly, their once-vivid emerald glow dulled to a pale, almost lifeless hue.
Ethan dropped to his knees beside her. "Aeval…" he said softly, his voice breaking. "I brought help."
Harry approached cautiously, his gaze sweeping over her and then up the massive tree behind her. "This is… the first time I've ever seen a dryad," he admitted quietly, awed despite the grim situation. "She's… connected to the tree?"
"More than connected," Ethan replied. "She is the tree. If the tree dies, she dies. If she dies…" He swallowed. "…the grove's magic collapses."
Harry crouched down in front of the dryad. "Can you understand me?" he asked gently.
Her eyes shifted to him with slow effort. Her voice was a whisper, like wind through brittle leaves. "The… shadow… burns…"
Harry felt a pulse of corrupted magic under his palm when he touched the tree's bark. It was deep-rooted, something gnawing from within. He pulled back and drew a slow breath.
"This isn't just rot," Harry said grimly. "Something's been woven into her essence. It's attacking her from the inside—tree and body."
As he spoke, tiny shapes stirred in the grass. Harry looked down to see a cluster of miniature creatures—no taller than his forearm—hovering and skittering around the dryad. Some had wings like dragonflies, others bodies like squirrels with petals sprouting from their heads. They were carrying drops of glowing nectar and gently brushing them against the dryad's wounds.
"They're her caretakers," Ethan explained. "Forest spirits. They've been trying to help, but whatever poison this is, it's resisting all natural remedies."
Harry knelt by the dryad again, placing one hand on her chest and the other on the tree's roots. His magic spread outward in a slow, controlled wave. He could feel the deep web of her life force—branches and veins intertwined, roots and limbs sharing one pulse.
But there was something else too—a jagged intrusion, like shards of glass embedded in living flesh. It twisted through her magic, black and oily, spreading slowly but relentlessly.
"Dark druid magic," Harry muttered under his breath. "And not just any—this is bound into her life cycle. Whoever did this didn't just want to kill her quickly. They wanted her to suffer."
Ethan clenched his fists. "Can you remove it?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He studied the way the poison wound through her essence, searching for weak points. Finally, he stood. "I might be able to, but it won't be easy. I'll need to bind the corruption in place before I try to burn it out, otherwise it'll lash out and kill her instantly."
The dryad stirred faintly, her voice barely audible. "Do… what… you must…"
Harry glanced at Ethan. "Get your satyr chants ready. I'll need your music to steady the life flow while I work. These things respond to rhythm."
Ethan nodded and began rummaging in his satchel for a small reed flute, while the miniature creatures parted to give Harry space.
Harry's eyes narrowed on the deep scars across the dryad's body. "Alright," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what you're hiding, and let's cut it out."
Harry knelt again, setting his palm against the darkened bark of the tree while his other hand gripped his wand tightly. The hum of the grove's magic was faint, unstable—like a candle in a windstorm.
Ethan's soft, breathy notes began to float through the air as he played his reed flute, the ancient satyr melody steady and repetitive. The sound was calming, but more importantly, it was rhythmic—something the grove's natural magic could align itself to. The miniature forest spirits gathered in a circle, bowing their tiny heads in silent support.
Harry closed his eyes and began tracing sigils in the air with his wand. Thin lines of silver light followed the tip like paint strokes, forming a glowing lattice over the dryad's chest and the trunk behind her.
"First, we bind it," Harry murmured. "Contain it before it spreads."
The silver net shimmered, sinking into her bark-like skin. The dryad flinched, a faint gasp escaping her lips, but Harry's voice was steady. "Hold on, Aeval. Just a little longer."
The poison reacted almost instantly. Harry felt it—like a snake coiling deeper, writhing as it sensed its prison forming. Dark veins spread across the bark, trying to push past the glowing net. Harry gritted his teeth and poured more magic into the binding, locking each strand into place.
Aeval's voice trembled. "It… bites…"
"I know," Harry said, his tone firm but gentle. "I'm going to make it stop."
Once the binding held firm, Harry switched spells, drawing a new pattern in the air—this one in molten gold light. As the final rune completed, it flared and sank into the silver netting, turning it into a burning lattice.
The corruption screamed.
It wasn't a sound heard with the ears—it was felt in the bones, a psychic shriek of rage and pain. Ethan faltered on his flute for half a second, but Harry barked, "Keep playing!" and the satyr steadied himself.
Black, oily magic began to writhe against the golden-burning net, each lash of it like a whip cracking through the grove's magic. Harry could feel it trying to reach him, tendrils of shadow curling up the net toward his hands.
He shifted his grip on the wand and snapped a command: "Aduro Flamma Atra Excessum!"
Flames erupted—not the orange-red of normal fire, but deep blue, cold to the touch, pure magical flame meant for cleansing enchantments. The net blazed with it, and the poison thrashed violently. The dryad cried out, her bark-like body shuddering, but Harry didn't relent.
"I'm almost there!" he shouted over the psychic noise. "Stay with me!"
The miniature spirits began to hum softly, harmonizing with Ethan's flute. The grove's magic thickened, swirling around them like a warm wind, lending its strength to the ritual.
The poison's movements became frantic—less controlled, more desperate. Harry pressed his palm harder against the tree's trunk, channeling every bit of focus into the net.
And then… with a final hiss like steam, the black magic tore free in a jagged mass, wriggling like a living thing. It slammed against the net, trying to escape, but Harry was ready.
He raised his wand and slashed downward in a precise arc. "Ado pas sawle!"
The mass exploded into a shower of black ash that evaporated before it could touch the ground.
The clearing fell silent.
Harry exhaled sharply, sweat trickling down his temple. He let the net dissolve, and slowly, color began to return to the dryad's leaves—green seeping through the brown, the bark losing its sickly darkness. Her scars softened, the deep black fading to pale grooves.
Aeval's eyes opened, their emerald glow restored. She looked at Harry for a long moment before speaking, her voice stronger now, like wind through healthy branches. "You… pulled the shadow from my roots. You have my gratitude."
Harry smiled faintly. "I didn't do it alone. Ethan and your grove helped."
Ethan grinned, tucking his flute away. "But you were the one crazy enough to stick your hands into cursed druid magic."
The dryad reached out with a hand of smooth bark, placing it lightly against Harry's chest. "I will remember your magic, son of Death."
Ethan blinked. "Son of… Death?"
Harry didn't answer, just cleared his throat. "We should make sure the poison can't come back. Do you know who did this?"
The dryad's expression darkened. "A druid who walks in shadow. He seeks to break the old pacts and turn the groves into his hunting grounds. He will not stop."
Harry straightened. "Then maybe we should pay him a visit."
Ethan groaned. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Harry stood before the massive tree, his eyes tracing the length of its trunk up toward the canopy. Though the poison had been burned away, he could feel the lingering weakness in its magic—the slow, uneven heartbeat of the grove.
"This curse is gone," he said quietly, turning his gaze to the dryad standing at its roots, "but without proper help, it'll take far too long for you to heal."
Aeval tilted her head, her green eyes watching him closely. "And you would bring this help?"
"I know just the person," Harry replied. "But I'll need your permission."
The dryad's lips curved faintly, like the rustle of new leaves in a breeze. "If they can heal my tree… they are welcome."
Harry gave a short nod and raised his wand. The clearing's air seemed to tighten around him as he murmured, "Expecto Patronum."
From the tip of his wand burst a flood of silver light, coalescing into a majestic stag. The Patronus stood proudly beside him, its antlers catching the sunlight that broke through the canopy. Ethan and Aeval stared, transfixed; even the tiny forest spirits stopped their rustling to watch.
"That…" Ethan whispered, "…is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."
The stag bent its head toward Harry, waiting for his command.
"Find Neville," Harry instructed, speaking clearly. "Tell him I need help restoring a magical tree. Urgent."
The stag dipped its head once before leaping away, vanishing into mist.
Harry turned to Ethan and Aeval, lowering his voice. "You, the dryad, and the forest spirits need to stay hidden when he arrives. Neville doesn't need to stumble into the divine side of things—he's not supposed to see gods and Titans walking around."
Ethan raised a brow but nodded. "You're the boss."
Minutes passed before the air shimmered and a sudden burst of golden flame erupted in the clearing. When the fire died down, Neville stood there—slightly flushed from the phoenix travel—his wand in one hand, and on his shoulder… Fawkes.
Harry blinked in surprise. "Fawkes? With you?"
Neville smiled, scratching under the phoenix's chin. "She chose me after Dumbledore passed. Guess she thought I needed the company."
Fawkes trilled a note, a melody so pure and resonant that the entire grove seemed to lean toward the sound. Then, without hesitation, she launched from Neville's arm, her crimson and gold wings glinting in the dappled sunlight. She landed on one of the great tree's branches, tilting her head as though listening to its slow heartbeat.
With a delicate but deliberate movement, Fawkes began pecking at the bark until she opened a small, deep gash. Then she leaned forward, and from her eyes fell a single, shimmering tear.
The moment the tear touched the wound, the reaction was immediate.
The bark smoothed and brightened, rich green leaves unfurled where there had been brown, and a warm golden light pulsed outward from the point of contact. Roots deep beneath the ground stirred and drank in the energy, and a soft breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers through the clearing. The forest spirits gasped, some falling to their knees in reverence.
Fawkes let out another sweet, ringing note before fluttering back to Neville's shoulder.
Harry stepped forward and rested a hand briefly on the
Harry and Neville turned away, walking toward a patch of clear ground where Harry drew a portkey rune in the air. With one last look at the now-thriving tree, they touched the rune together.
A flash of blue light—then they were standing in the familiar grandeur of Black Mansion.
Neville gave a slow grin. "It's been a while, mate."
Harry chuckled, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Too long. And it looks like we've got a lot of catching up to do."
Somewhere deeper in the mansion, the sound of Teddy's laughter carried faintly, and for the first time that day, Harry allowed himself to relax.
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