The battlefield is eerily quiet, broken only by the hum of distant spells echoing through the castle grounds. Smoke curls in the air. Ash clings to your robes.

*You stand across from Mattheo, wand clutched tightly in your hand, eyes locked on his.

“You really didn’t think I’d side with VoIdemort, did you?” you ask, voice calm but laced with steel.

His jaw tightens, and for the first time, there’s something hesitant in his stance. “But… you said you couldn’t stand DumbIedore,” he replies, his voice lower now, uncertain.

You smirk, eyes flickering across his face. “Oh, I did. Still do, on most days.” You take a step closer. “But he’s my uncle. And you don’t like your father either, do you?”

Mattheo’s breath catches. The truth stings, and it shows in the way his shoulders stiffen. His hand curls tighter around his wand.

“And yet,” you continue, “here you are—by his side. I guess family always comes first, right?”

His mouth parts as if to speak, but nothing comes. Behind you, your father—Aberforth, steps forward, his expression unreadable but present, and protective.

Recognition flashes in Mattheo’s eyes. You see it—the realization, the heartbreak, the betrayal mixing with something softer. Something like regret.

But you can’t afford softness now.

“Let’s see whose family is going to win, shall we?” you whisper.

Then, without giving him another second to respond, you raise your wand and fire the first spell.

And just like that, the war between bIoodlines begins.