Chapter 23

Chapter 23: Waking Nightmares and Crossing Lines

Demaris opened his eyes and he was back in another world, another lifetime, standing in a sunlit meadow with Taylor by his side. She looked radiant, her smile brighter than the sun above, her laughter more melodious than the sweetest song, and her crimson hair neatly straightened. They were young, impossibly in love, untouched by the weight of tragedy and heartache that would eventually find them. He could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his, the sensation so vivid that it straddled the line between memory and dream.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Taylor asked, her eyes shining as she looked at him. But before he could respond, the meadow darkened, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Only, the sun was gone, replaced by fluorescent lights, their sterile glow casting stark shadows on hospital walls.

Taylor's face changed too. Her once-vibrant eyes were now dull, clouded with pain. Her smile had vanished, replaced by a grimace of agony. She lay on a hospital bed, her body battered, unresponsive—a mere husk of the woman she used to be. He could see the various medical equipment around her, their screens filled with lines and numbers that he didn't want to understand. He reached out to touch her but just before his hand made contact, she disappeared, leaving him alone in the cold, lifeless room.

The dream shattered, and Demaris woke up, his breaths shallow and rapid. His eyes felt wet, and when he brought his hand to his face, he realized he was crying.

"Demaris is awake!" Harriette's voice broke through his emotional fog. He blinked, attempting to focus, and found himself surrounded by the distinctly magical environment of the Hogwarts medical wing. The walls were adorned with moving portraits of famous healers, and the beds around him were filled with various magical artifacts designed to aid in recovery.

Madam Pomfrey, the matronly school nurse, bustled over, her face a mix of relief and concern. "Mr. Etherton, you gave us quite the scare. How are you feeling?"

For a second, Demaris was disoriented, his mind still half-anchored in the painful past and the dream—or nightmare—he'd just left. Then he remembered: the battle with the werewolf, the swarm of Dementors, Harriette's Patronus. He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the reality of the present.

"I've had better days," he finally said, his voice laced with a fatigue that went beyond physical weariness. But as he spoke, he couldn't help but reflect on the dream he'd had, the past life that seemed to resurface at the least opportune times. It was a painful reminder that while he might be able to escape Dementors and werewolves, there were some demons that not even magic could banish.

Harriette, Hermione, and Ron stood at the foot of his bed, their faces etched with concern and relief.

"You really scared us, you know," Harriette said softly.

"Yeah, mate, don't ever do that again," Ron chimed in.

"Agreed," Hermione nodded, "you're not allowed to make us worry like that."

Demaris smiled weakly, appreciating their concern. "I'll do my best," he said, but as he spoke, the memory of Taylor's battered form lingered in the back of his mind—a haunting juxtaposition to the warmth and concern that now surrounded him.

Demaris subtly felt the fabric of his attire, locating the two shrunken objects in his pocket. The weight and feel of them was a comforting reassurance in the midst of his disorienting awakening.

But any semblance of calm was soon disrupted by the arrival of a portly man with a balding head and a face like a well-fed bulldog. Cornelius Fudge, the British Minister of Magic, swanned in with an entourage that included two stern-looking Aurors and a scribe trailing behind, quill and parchment at the ready.

As he neared Demaris's bed, the hustle and bustle of the medical wing seemed to pause. Nurses and patients alike stopped their activities, casting surreptitious glances at the Minister, an indication of his importance.

"Mr. Etherton," Minister Fudge began, his voice soft, almost conciliatory. "I must say, it's unfortunate that you found yourself in the midst of this... debacle. The Dementors are known to act without discretion, and I deeply regret the harm that might have come to a promising young wizard such as yourself."

Demaris watched him carefully, noting the practiced politeness, the rehearsed lines, and the underlying tension in the Minister's stance.

"Thank you, Minister," Demaris replied, voice cool. "But I'm more concerned about the events that led to the Dementors' actions."

Fudge cleared his throat, looking momentarily uncomfortable. "Yes, well, you see, young man, the escape of Sirius Black was a grave security breach. We had to employ every measure to ensure he was recaptured."

Demaris's heart rate quickened at the mention of Sirius. "And now that you have him?"

The minister hesitated, glancing briefly at the Golden Trio and then back at Demaris. "He is to be executed at dawn."

A heavy silence settled in the room. Ron's freckled face had gone white, Hermione clutched her robes tightly, and Harriette looked as if she was struggling to keep her anger in check.

"Sirius Black is innocent," Harriette finally blurted out.

Minister Fudge looked at her with a mix of pity and condescension. "Miss Potter, emotions run high in times like these, but we must trust in the process. Black has confounded you; he's not to be trusted. All evidence points to his guilt."

Demaris weighed his options carefully as he looked into the eyes of Minister Cornelius Fudge. The man's presence exuded an air of political authority, though his previous dismissals and incompetencies painted a less flattering image. Demaris's fingers subtly twitched near his pocket, where the shrunken cage holding Peter Pettigrew resided. A single word could change the entire narrative, could bring Sirius the justice he deserved, could halt an execution.

Yet, a reticence gripped him. Harriette's desperate pleas had been met with nothing but a wall of disbelief from Fudge. Would presenting Peter really change anything? The minister's attitude suggested a man so ensconced in his own version of reality that irrefutable evidence might simply disintegrate upon contact with his preconceptions.

Furthermore, there was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that revealing Pettigrew could unravel in unforeseeable ways, putting everyone he cared for in jeopardy. The Ministry was already proven to be untrustworthy; who knew what they might do if they found out that Demaris is the son of Sirius.

Moreover, the precariousness of their position dawned on him. They were in the Hogwarts Medical Wing, a place of healing and respite, yet now filled with palpable tension. Madam Pomfrey was clearly on edge, shuffling medical supplies in an attempt to look busy. The Golden Trio—Harriette, Ron, and Hermione—stood by, their faces etched with confusion, concern, and a hint of rebellious resolve. And then there was Remus, still trapped in his shrunken, bestial form, adding another layer of complexity to the situation. They were all teetering on the edge of a knife, and Demaris was acutely aware that one wrong move could send them spiraling into chaos.

A brief flicker of anger surged through him. It irked him to think that Fudge had reduced them to this—second-guessing their own moral compass, strategizing around the failings of a system that was supposed to serve and protect. But even within this maelstrom of emotions, Demaris knew he had to act wisely. Now was not the time for righteous outbursts; now was the time for calculated restraint.

So, he withheld. He withheld the truth about Peter Pettigrew because, in that moment, the risks seemed to outweigh the benefits. But as he made this choice, Demaris silently vowed that this was merely a temporary concession. He would not—could not—let it end here. With each ticking second, the resolve solidified within him, like cooling molten metal taking form.

"The truth is... complicated," Demaris finally replied, choosing his words with care. "But the fact remains, executing an innocent man based on the assumption that he's 'confounded us' and presumably betrayed the potters is not justice."

Fudge sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Etherton, we will conduct all necessary reviews before the execution. Rest assured, the Ministry does not take these decisions lightly."

But Demaris wasn't convinced. As Fudge and his entourage departed, the direness of the situation weighed heavily on everyone present. If they didn't act swiftly, an innocent man—Demaris's father—would be lost forever.

The room was thick with tension. The urgency of the situation hung over them, prompting the group to act. They needed a plan, and they needed one fast.

Before Fudge could exit the medical wing, Demaris threw off his covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing with a swift, fluid motion. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously low.

"I find it hard to believe anything you say, Minister, especially when the Ministry incarcerated Sirius Black without a trial in the first place. I demand you send him to St. Mungo's for treatment, pending a *proper* trial. If you refuse, then I will have no choice but to take matters into my own hands and free an illegally incarcerated man, consequences be damned."

Fudge looked like a man who had been slapped in the face, his jowls wobbling in indignation. "This is preposterous! You must be confounded, young man, to be making such audacious threats!"

Demaris's face tightened into an expression so ferocious, so feral, that the air seemed to thicken. Everyone in the room involuntarily recoiled. "You have forced this response with your complete and utter incompetence. If you doubt my sanity, you could easily check whether I am confounded."

The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically as Demaris unleashed his true magical prowess. It wasn't merely an increase in visible energy; it was as though the very air grew dense, suddenly filled with the palpable weight of a force hitherto unknown in the Hogwarts Medical Wing. The temperature seemed to drop momentarily, and the room darkened as if acknowledging the gravity of the power now on display. The sense of change was so pronounced that even the flickering candlelight seemed to pause, as if holding its breath in a room suddenly stripped of oxygen.

Cornelius Fudge staggered backward, his eyes widening in disbelief. This was not the magical aura of a mere student. This was something ancient, profound, terrifying—a glimpse into arcane depths that made Fudge's previous assumptions seem like child's play. The Minister looked as if the ground had been swept from beneath him, his once self-assured demeanor crumbling under the weight of an awe-inspiring magic.

The Aurors, elite officers trained to face a multitude of magical threats, felt it too. Their faces drained of color, their hands twitching toward their wands in a subconscious recognition of danger. Even in their seasoned careers, few had ever felt such a suffocating concentration of magical energy. It was as if a tidal wave was cresting, about to crash down upon them, and they were woefully unprepared.

Madam Pomfrey, who had seen a myriad of magical maladies and mishaps in her tenure, gripped the edge of a medical cart for support. She had never, in all her years, felt such overwhelming power within these walls. Students like Harriette, Ron, and Hermione looked on, their young faces registering a mixture of awe, fascination, and a trace of fear. Even the hardened visages of the unconscious individuals in the room seemed to tense in response, as if the weight of Demaris's power had infiltrated the depths of their dreams.

And then, almost as quickly as the atmosphere had intensified, it shifted again. Two discs materialized beside Demaris, as if the night sky had been plucked from its celestial abode and brought into the room. The discs shimmered with an eerie beauty, their surfaces reflecting constellations that had no place in the earthly realm. They looked like rips in the very fabric of space-time, holes torn in the universe by sheer force of will.

Demaris reached for his Assisted Casting Device (ACD), a piece of extraordinary craftsmanship that was not of this world. It was a tool from another life, a relic of a past filled with untold secrets and unparalleled power. He activated it with a quiet certainty, as if he had done this a million times in a million different lifetimes.

With a final, lingering glance at those in the room, Demaris stepped between the cosmic discs. For a fraction of a second, he appeared suspended between two worlds, a silhouette framed against the boundless mysteries of the universe. And then, as quickly as he had revealed his monumental power, he vanished. The discs collapsed in on themselves, leaving behind an emptiness that was somehow more profound than mere space. The air lightened as if released from an invisible pressure, but the impact of what had just occurred was indelible.

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices and shuffling movements, but one thing was certain: no one present would ever forget the day Demaris Etherton tore a hole in their understanding of magic—and disappeared through it.

Moments later, Demaris reappeared hovering above the silhouette of Hogwarts, Demaris took a moment to absorb the view beneath him. The castle's towers and turrets stood like ancient guardians, bathed in the otherworldly light of the moon. Each stone and each spire was a testament to centuries of magical history. Tonight, it felt different; tonight, it would be a stage for an entirely new form of magic, something Hogwarts had never seen before.

The winds of the upper atmosphere tore at his clothing as if attempting to rip him away from his focused intent. He didn't flinch. His Assisted Casting Device (ACD) had accounted for these atmospheric conditions, stabilizing his form as he levitated in the sky. The ACD wasn't just a tool; it was a bridge to another life, another world of possibilities.

"Sorceress, are we in position?" Demaris' voice was a blend of inquiry and assertion, spoken into the near-silence of the high-altitude winds.

"Affirmative, Demaris. All parameters are within optimal range for the planned operation," Sorceress replied, her voice coming through as a symphony of data points translated into human speech. She was no mere program but a sentient AI companion with the capability to assist Demaris in tasks ranging from magical calculations to strategic planning.

"Good. Scan the roof for Auror signatures. I don't want any surprises," Demaris instructed, his eyes still locked onto the castle beneath him.

"Scanning. Seven Auror signatures detected. No other magical entities in immediate vicinity. High probability that they're focused on guarding the makeshift cell holding Sirius," she replied, succinct as always.

"Then we don't have much time. Sorceress, prepare the Intermediate Casting Device. I might need to use hardlight bullets."

"ICD prepped and ready. Hardlight ammunition at maximum capacity," she confirmed.

Demaris felt the familiar surge of adrenaline. "Let's make this count. Initiate the descent."

"Acknowledged. Activating anti-gravitational spells in 3... 2... 1... now."

As Sorceress counted down, Demaris felt the force field around him tighten, mitigating the velocity of his descent. In seconds, he was plummeting toward the castle, a magical meteorite with a singular mission.

As he neared the roof, he activated the cloaking spells integrated into his ACD, rendering him nearly invisible to the naked eye. But he knew that wouldn't be enough to evade the trained senses of Aurors.

The moment his feet touched the rooftop, he felt the magic in the air shift, alerting the Aurors to his presence. They were trained professionals, and their reaction time was commendable. Wands were drawn, spells were cast, but Demaris was ready.

"Sorceress, engage combat protocols."

"Engaged. Your move, Demaris."

His eyes narrowed, a glint of steely resolve cutting through the darkness. With the might of both ancient magic and futuristic technology at his disposal, Demaris Etherton stepped forward. There was no turning back, not when so much was at stake. And so, armed with his ACD, guided by Sorceress, and fueled by a lifetime of experiences that defied comprehension, he prepared to shift the course of magical history.

"Who in Merlin's name—?" one of the Aurors began, but Demaris was already moving.

His wand slashed through the air. "Stupefy!" A jet of red light erupted, hitting the first Auror square in the chest, sending him tumbling backward into a heap. Almost simultaneously, the ICD in his other hand fired a hardlight bullet, piercing through another Auror's protective shield like a hot knife through butter. That Auror collapsed, groaning and clutching his arm.

"A rogue wizard! Take him down!" yelled a seasoned Auror, desperately trying to organize his disoriented squad. But Demaris was a whirlwind, his body and mind perfectly in sync, each movement calculated yet fluid.

"Duro!" He transfigured a loose piece of roof tile into solid stone, which he then sent hurtling towards another Auror using a casual flick of his wand. As the Auror dodged, Demaris used the momentary lapse in concentration to bind his legs with magical ropes. "Incarcerous!"

The Aurors were skilled, but Demaris was in another league entirely. Every spell they fired, he dodged or deflected, anticipating their moves with an almost uncanny precision. In return, he unleashed a diverse array of spells and tactics they had never seen before, his wand and ICD working in deadly harmony.

A pair of Aurors tried to flank him, wands ablaze with stunning spells. Demaris spun, his cloak billowing around him as he cast a shield charm with one hand while firing another hardlight bullet with the other. The shield absorbed their spells as the bullet found its mark, knocking another Auror off his feet.

Then, realizing the limited effectiveness of their spells, one of the Aurors resorted to non-verbal magic, sending a wave of raw magical energy in his direction. Demaris felt the arcane force approaching and ducked, somersaulting in the air as if he were weightless. When he landed, it was with his wand pointing straight at the attacker. "Petrificus Totalus!" The Auror stiffened like a board and fell over, utterly incapacitated.

And so it went, the rooftop a blur of light, color, and motion. Even as he fought, Demaris was aware of the passing time, each second ticking away inexorably towards the dawn—and Sirius's impending execution. But right now, he was focused on the fight, his every move a demonstration of his otherworldly skill and decades of combat experience. The Aurors were beginning to realize they were not dealing with an ordinary wizard. They were facing a force of nature, and they were utterly unprepared.

As the number of incapacitated Aurors grew, Demaris knew he was running out of time. His eyes flickered to the makeshift cell, then back to the remaining Aurors. His expression hardened. It was time to go all in.

He raised his wand and ICD, eyes burning with a fierce, undying resolve. The night was far from over, but the last Auror was incapacitated.

Just as Demaris was preparing to approach the makeshift cell, a swirl of colors filled the air, and the venerable figures of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Severus Snape materialized on the rooftop. Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene—the incapacitated Aurors, the teenager standing defiantly in the middle of it all—and then settled on Demaris.

"What is the meaning of this, young man?" Dumbledore asked, his voice tinged with disappointment but also curiosity.

"I'm here for my father, Sirius Black," Demaris stated, cutting straight to the point. "He's innocent, and I won't allow you to kill him."

"Innocent is a strong word," Snape sneered. "And your actions tonight hardly support—"

"I'm not here to debate semantics," Demaris interrupted. "Sirius is illegally incarcerated, and I'm taking him with me."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, his eyes twinkling less than usual. "I cannot allow you to simply take matters into your own hands, even if your intentions are just."

Demaris clenched his fists. "We'll be seeking asylum in MACUSA until he can receive a proper trial. That's non-negotiable."

A light seemed to go on in Dumbledore's eyes, a realization dawning. "You were never here just as a student, were you? You came to Hogwarts for your father, who was en route here after his escape."

"Indeed," Demaris confirmed. "So, will you stand aside, or will you make me go through you?"

"You know I can't let you do that," Dumbledore said sadly. "The laws—"

"Are corrupt and flawed!" Demaris snapped. "I told you, if you stand in my way, I will not hesitate to go through you."

The air turned palpable, a weight of untold power and conflict filling the space between them. Dumbledore's eyes hardened; for the first time, the elder wizard looked as if he was gauging an equal.

"Defeating me will not be as easy as you might think," Dumbledore warned.

"I don't expect it to be," Demaris replied. "But don't underestimate me either."

McGonagall looked horrified. "Albus, surely we can find another way—"

"If there were another way, Professor, don't you think I'd take it?" Demaris said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Time is running out. Make your choice, Dumbledore."

For what felt like an eternity, nobody moved. The tension was a living entity, its pulse racing in tandem with the collective heartbeat of everyone on the roof.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "Young man, there are ways to—"

But Demaris was done talking. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his ACD, his eyes flashing with unyielding resolve.

"I warned you," he whispered, and the night erupted into chaos once more.

The rooftop was awash in a tapestry of flashing lights, whirling incantations, and clashing energies as Demaris and the trio of powerful wizards engaged in a magical showdown of epic proportions. The moment Demaris activated his technomancer armor, with lines glowing an ethereal blue, it was clear to everyone that he had been holding back. Significantly.

In a swift motion, Demaris drew the hilt of his Starlight blade. With a flick, a radiant hardlight blade materialized, its glow cutting through the dark like a shard of a fallen star.

McGonagall's eyes widened at the sight of the advanced magical technology, but she had no time to marvel. With a wave of her wand, a series of metallic constructs rose from the ground, attempting to restrain Demaris. He sliced through them effortlessly with his Starlight blade, sending sparks flying.

Snape, livid, unleashed curses, each dark incantation seeking to weaken, injure, or incapacitate. But Demaris was nimble, his technomancer armor enhancing his agility. He dodged, deflected, and with his ACD, even reversed some spells, sending them back towards their caster.

Dumbledore was the most enigmatic of them all. His spells were neither straightforward hexes nor easily recognizable charms. Some caused the air to thicken like treacle, others seemed to distort time and space itself. Yet, each was met with a counter from Demaris, his ACD glowing each time he uttered an incantation.

"Enough of this!" Demaris bellowed, pulling his Intermediate Casting Device—a revolver—and firing hardlight bullets. Snape and McGonagall conjured barriers just in time, but Dumbledore absorbed the bullets with a wave of his hand, disintegrating them into mere particles of light.

"You have skill and power, young man," Dumbledore acknowledged, "but brute force won't win this battle."

"Who said anything about brute force?" Demaris smirked. With another snap of his ACD, the rooftop beneath the wizards shifted, transmuting into a slick, icy surface. Snape lost his footing and stumbled; McGonagall barely caught herself by transfiguring her shoes into claws.

Dumbledore's footing remained steady, his boots somehow gripping the ice as though it were solid ground. "Impressive, but not enough."

Demaris grinned. "We're just getting started."

His Starlight blade thrummed with energy, echoing his anticipation. Yes, Dumbledore was right; brute force alone wouldn't win this. But what about cunning, strategy, and decades of combat experience?

As he steadied himself for the next barrage of spells, his eyes locked onto Dumbledore's. There was a moment of understanding, a silent acknowledgment that this was far from over. Both were ready for whatever came next, both understood the gravity of what they were fighting for, and neither was willing to back down.

With a burst of speed, Demaris lunged forward, his Starlight blade leading the way, casting a brilliant arc of light against the dark sky. The battle resumed, even more fiercely than before, the outcome as uncertain as ever.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape redoubled their efforts, spells zipping through the air with blinding speed. But Demaris was relentless. His blade clashed with the protean forms of McGonagall's transfigurations, dissipated the dark magic of Snape's curses, and parried the reality-warping spells of Dumbledore.

Snape, already off balance from the earlier assault, was the first to succumb. Demaris used a burst of space magic to disorient him, teleporting in and out of sight so quickly that Snape couldn't keep track. With a final flick of his ACD, Demaris unleashed a stunning spell that struck Snape squarely in the chest, rendering him unconscious. The Potions Master slumped to the ground, incapacitated but unharmed.

Before Demaris could move onto his next target, a tumultuous cacophony echoed from the stairwell leading to the roof. The door burst open, and Harriette, Hermione, and Ron rushed out, their faces flushed from the sprint, but hardened with resolve. They skidded to a halt, taking in the sight before them—unconscious Aurors, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape looking wary and somewhat disheveled. The weight of the situation seemed to crystallize in that single, elongated moment.

"Demaris, stop! This isn't the way!" Harriette's voice cut through the tense air, tinged with desperate urgency.

Demaris turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Harriette's. For a moment, the magical charges, the pulse of spells, the hum of his ACD—everything seemed to fade away. It was as if time had decided to hold its breath, capturing the silent dialogue of their eyes.

"Sorceress, hold combat protocols. Analyze Harriette's emotional status," Demaris softly spoke, almost as if speaking to himself.

"Analysis complete. Elevated levels of adrenaline and emotional distress detected. It appears she's concerned for your well-being," Sorceress responded, her voice solely audible to him.

He sighed inwardly. "She doesn't understand, Sorceress. None of them do."

"They can't comprehend what you've been through, what lengths you'd go to for family. It's not their fault; their experiences are limited to this world."

The weight of Sorceress's words settled over him like a soft cloak. Yes, Harriette, Ron, and Hermione were of this world—a world that, despite its magic, was often constrained by its traditions, laws, and societal norms. They couldn't fathom the moral elasticity required to navigate the complexities of multiple lifetimes, of wars fought across different dimensions and timeframes.

"Is there another way, Demaris? Can't you resolve this peacefully?" Hermione implored, breaking the heavy silence. Her eyes were pleading, hopeful. Ron, standing beside her, nodded in agreement, although his hand never left the grip of his wand.

"Sorceress, what are the odds of peaceful resolution at this point?" Demaris asked quietly.

"Low. Your actions have likely cemented the Ministry's stance against you. They'll view any compromise as a sign of weakness. However, the tactical advantage remains yours," Sorceress responded, pragmatically assessing the situation.

Dumbledore broke his silence, his voice filled with somber wisdom, "My boy, choices make us who we are. You still have a choice."

Demaris looked at each of their faces—Harriette, Hermione, Ron, and finally, Dumbledore. He saw hope, fear, concern, and a myriad of emotions that he once might have called 'human.'

"Sorceress, reactivate combat protocols. Prepare for extraction."

"Understood, Demaris."

Before he could respond to them, to offer any justification that might serve as a balm for the inevitable wounds to come, he simply said, "Sometimes choices are luxuries that some of us can't afford." And with that, he turned away, ready to face whatever would come next. The resolve that had momentarily wavered was now back, reinforced by the realization that even in a world of magic, some things could never be mended.

He shifted his attention back to McGonagall. With the same rapid-fire execution he had displayed against Snape, Demaris dodged her transfigurative attacks and neutralized her magic. A quick but powerful Incarcerous spell, modified for potency through his ACD, wrapped magical ropes around the Transfiguration professor. She fought against her bonds but eventually realized she was trapped.

McGonagall sighed, defeated but resolute. "You are making a grave mistake, young man."

Demaris looked towards the Golden Trio, each of whom seemed torn between the urge to intervene and the unspoken recognition that they might not be able to. Dumbledore stood several paces away, contemplating the fallen forms of his colleagues, then shifted his eyes to Demaris.

"So," Demaris spoke, catching his breath but still flush with adrenaline, "are we going to continue this, or can I just go get my father?"

Dumbledore's gaze hardened. "Even if I agree, the Ministry will not. You have already broken countless laws, Demaris. There's no turning back."

Demaris gripped his Starlight blade tighter. "Then I suggest you step aside. I didn't want to fight you, but I will if it means protecting my family."

The tension on the roof reached a palpable peak. Each person knew that the next move could tip the balance in an irreversible way. And Demaris stood at the center of it all, ready for whatever came next.

Demaris and Dumbledore engaged in a battle that seemed to defy the very laws of physics and magic. The night sky was filled with streaks of light and bursts of color as their spells collided, sending shockwaves throughout the castle. Dumbledore was formidable, his mastery of magic evident in every wand movement, every incantation. But Demaris—bolstered by his ACD and technomancer armor—was a force of nature, his skill honed through lifetimes of combat.

Slowly but steadily, Demaris began to gain the upper hand. His Starlight blade clashed with Dumbledore's wand, sending magical sparks flying into the night. Dumbledore's eyes widened, not from fear but from a sad realization that this fight could end in only one way.

Just as Demaris prepared to deliver a blow with the flat of his blade, a bolt of red light shot towards him from behind. It was Harriette, her face twisted in emotional turmoil. Her stunner spell crashed against him—but instead of incapacitating him, it dispersed upon hitting an energy shield surrounding Demaris's form.

Up to this point no spell had actually hit Demaris, this shield was a new and completely mysterious thing to the isolationist wizards and witches.

Silence fell over the rooftop. Dumbledore lowered his wand, a complex blend of defeat and relief washing over him. McGonagall and Snape, still incapacitated, could only watch in disbelief. Ron and Hermione were speechless, their wands lowered, their faith in the righteousness of their world deeply shaken.

"You should have known better," Demaris said quietly, turning to look at Harriette. His voice wasn't angry; it was tinged with an unspeakable sadness. "But maybe it's my fault. Maybe I expected too much."

His Starlight blade deactivated, returning to its hilt. The battle was over, but the air was thick with a tension that no spell could dispel. Dumbledore broke the silence, his voice weary but composed.

"Where will you go now, Demaris?"

"Wherever I must to protect my father," Demaris responded, his eyes locked onto Harriette's. "But first, he needs medical attention, and a fair trial. And if the British Ministry won't provide that, MACUSA will."

With that, Demaris activated his ACD. Another set of disks reflecting the night sky appeared, sandwiching him. In an isntant, he was gone, leaving behind a rooftop full of shattered alliances, unspoken words, and a deafening silence that filled the air like an unbreakable curse.

With a burst of spatial magic, Demaris appeared inside Sirius's makeshift cell. Sirius looked up, eyes widening in disbelief as they locked onto his son.

"Sirius," Demaris calmly announced, "We're leaving."

Before Sirius could fully process what was happening, another surge of spatial magic enveloped them, and the dreary cell dissolved away. In its place materialized the cozy, modern interior of an upscale New York City apartment. The transition was so jarring that Sirius stumbled, momentarily disoriented.

"Dr. Kinney," Demaris called out, signaling for the medical professional he had on standby. Dr. Sarah Kinney, a middle-aged scientist with an air of kindness, entered the room, medical bag in hand. She had been rescued by Demaris from Hydra some time ago, along with her daughter, Laura, also known as X-23.

"Please begin treatment immediately," Demaris directed. Dr. Kinney nodded and moved towards Sirius, who was still struggling to comprehend the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded.

Demaris retreated to his bedroom, trading his technomancer armor for casual clothing—jeans and a simple t-shirt. He had already crossed several lines tonight, but they were crossed in the service of justice, and he had no regrets.

Exiting his apartment, Demaris took one last look at Sirius, who was now lying on a sofa, undergoing examination by Dr. Kinney. "Hang in there," he mentally urged, his face betraying no emotion.

Demaris then stepped out onto the bustling New York City streets. Though the city was alive with activity, his thoughts were already at MACUSA, prepping arguments and bracing for the legal battles ahead.

Reaching the Magical Congress Building, his eyes narrowed, filled with resolve. Justice had been delayed for Sirius for far too long, and it was time to right that wrong. Demaris pushed open the towering front doors and stepped inside, ready to champion a new fight, one that transcended wands and spells—a fight for justice, a fight for family, a fight for the future.

And as he entered, the memory of Taylor and their happier times felt less like a relic from a bygone era and more like a hopeful glimmer of what might still be possible.