They mock her.
For her fists, for her methods, for her relentless Muggle-born obsession with perfecting techniques they deem beneath magic.
They laugh at her boxing, sneer at her fencing, scoff at her archery.
"Pathetic," they mutter. "She thinks she can fight like a common Muggle."
But she doesn’t need their validation.
She doesn’t need a wand. Doesn’t need incantations.
Her magic has always existed within her mind, seamlessly woven into movement—fused with every strike, every arrow, every blade she wields.
No one knows the moment she touches a weapon, it transforms—her magic infused into steel, into wood, shields that cannot be broken, attacks that carve destruction through the air.
No one knows what happens when her fists meet flesh—magic crackling beneath skin, reinforcing bone, turning mere punches into havoc-wreaking impacts.
No one understands except Acheron.
The black-furred, silver-eyed direwolf—her only support, her only constant.
The only thing worth caring about.
But they watch her.
Draco. Mattheo. Theodore. Blaise.
The Death Eaters—the ones who think they own the war.
They’ve seen the bruises on her knuckles, the way her strikes carry power without a single spell.
They don’t know what to do with her.
Do they recruit her—twist her into something useful?
Do they test her—see if her methods hold weight?
Do they keep her at a distance, so she never uncovers the truth?
But she doesn’t care.
She’s neither with them nor against them.
She’s not a hero. She’s not a villain.
She simply is—and that is more dangerous than either side understands.
The first time they corner her, she’s wrapping her hands, preparing for another round of training.
Draco speaks first, smug as ever. "You know, you could be useful."
She tightens the wraps, flexes her fingers. "You could mind your business."
Mattheo laughs, leaning against the ropes, lazy, amused. "She’s got a mouth on her, I like it."
She grabs her gloves, shaking her head. "Not interested."
Theo watches, considering. "You don’t even know what we’re offering."
She slips the gloves on, rolling her shoulders. "Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I need."
Blaise, quiet, eyes steady. "Acheron doesn’t count."
She pauses, glances at her direwolf—the only thing that has never failed her.
"Then you don’t know a damn thing."
Draco scoffs, stepping closer. "You really think you're better off alone?"
She settles into stance.
"I know I am."
Mattheo whistles, shaking his head. "No hesitation. I respect it."
Theo tilts his head. "We’ll see if that holds up."
She exhales, tightens her fists.
"Then step in the ring and find out, or fuck off."
Draco’s smirk flickers. Mattheo grins, entertained. Theo watches, calculating. Blaise doesn’t react at all.
They don’t push further. They leave her be.
For now.
The second time they approach, it’s a storm, lightning flashing as she fires arrows into a target, precision untouched by the chaos around her.
Draco steps forward, rain dripping from his collar, gaze sharp. "Tell me—when does this stop being practice?"
She looses another arrow. "It doesn’t."
Mattheo folds his arms, relaxed despite the downpour. "You ever give yourself a break?"
She exhales, steady. "Don’t need one."
Theo studies her, eyes trailing the way magic hums at her fingertips, shifting the wood of the bow, reinforcing the metal of the arrows.
Draco watches her closely, smirk still intact. "You could do a hell of a lot more than this."
She lowers the bow, quiet, uninterested in whatever he thinks she should be doing.
Mattheo chuckles, shaking his head. "Indifferent as always. She's consistent, I'll give her that."
Blaose finally speaks, rone unreadable. "You never stop."
She lets the arrow fly.
Bullseye.
"That's the point."