Chapter 120: A Tale Of Brandy & Broomsticks

The chimes of the grandfather clock rang out across the now-quiet room, its brass pendulum slicing the stillness with each echoing toll. Eleven o'clock. The crowd had long since thinned—having eaten, drank, and muttered their fill amongst like-minded peers. Between the empty glasses crowding the bar and the scattered crumbs over half-cleared tables, it was clear to Salazar that the sheriff knew how to throw a gathering. Especially for men he could trust to return favors, bend rules, or ignore them entirely.

He and Sheriff Hartshorne sat alone beneath the amber hue of crystal light, the laughter between them soft and warm, drawn from stories both polished and pointless. Salazar, always the careful conversationalist, made certain to keep the attention fixed on the Sheriff, offering only the lightest touches of his own history—small, harmless anecdotes. A trick his father had taught him: give just enough to be endearing, never enough to be remembered.

Hartshorne was already well into his second bottle of scotch, and his lips had grown pleasingly loose.

"You should've seen it—an implosion of puffskeins, everywhere!" Hartshorne exclaimed, nearly wheezing with laughter. "Fuzzy little devils pouring out of every crevice and cupboard. Took us weeks to get the lot of 'em out!"

Salazar chuckled into his glass. "Could've been worse. Be thankful they weren't nifflers."

"Gods, don't remind me," the Sheriff said with a groan. "Had one make off with my entire cufflink collection once. Tracked the little bastard down and turned him into a hat."

Salazar smirked. "As you should. Can't have vermin running off with a man's silver."

Hartshorne leaned back, the old leather chair creaking beneath his weight. "You know… it's been a while since I've had a proper laugh," he murmured, swirling the ice in his glass. "With everything that's been going on lately… it's rare."

Salazar tilted his head, eyes thoughtful over the rim of his drink. "A shame, that. Laughter's in short supply these days. Especially among men in your position."

"Aye. Too bloody right." Hartshorne gave a slow nod, staring into his glass. "Bloody bureaucrats and politicians. Especially the Mayor. That pampered little whore. Some days, I'd give anything just to wrap my fingers around their smug throats—squeeze until the last bit of arrogance slips out their mouths."

He took another sip of his whiskey, letting the burn linger.

"Sounds like you've no love lost for them," Salazar said lightly.

"Oh, you've no idea," Hartshorne muttered. "Pencil-pushers and paper-lickers, high on the smell of melted wax and their own sanctimony. Who do they think they are—telling men like me, men like us, what's right or wrong? Most of them've never seen the inside of a trench. Never tasted mud or heard bones snap underfoot. They speak of justice from marble halls, never once knowing the stink of burnt flesh or the sound of a brother begging for death as you try to scoop his guts back in."

Salazar said nothing. He let the silence do its work, allowed Hartshorne to fill it.

"But no," the Sheriff went on. "My contempt for their lot didn't start in the Tower. Started long before that. I was one of the Lost Ones. War orphan. No name. No kin. Just a number in a Foundling House."

His knuckles whitened as they tightened around the glass.

"Most of us never got adopted. We were cheap labor—or worse. The caretakers used to loan us out. Not for anything sordid, mind—but close enough. You see, the rich, the powerful, they collect pressure. Rage. And when they can't take it out on their peers, they find other outlets."

Hartshorne's jaw clenched.

"They'd come to vent. Drunk. Reeking of boiled beef and brandy. They'd send us to buy the canes they'd beat us with. Make us stand in line while they chose their favorite. You could track the timing between visits by the color of the welts—red, then blue, then yellow. And when they finally turned pink… that's when the skin began to harden."

He downed the rest of his glass in a single swallow, the ice clinking faintly against the crystal. His breath left him slow and heavy before he turned his gaze to Salazar.

"Eventually, Slytherin, you reach a moment of clarity," he said. "You either let them beat the strength out of you—or let them beat it into you."

Salazar nodded quietly, though a slow, uneasy chill crept down his spine.

Hartshorne gave a bitter smile, one devoid of warmth. "And when the canes splintered, they'd grab whatever was closest. Broomsticks were a favorite. Especially for the little boys." He leaned forward, took the whiskey bottle with steady fingers, and poured another glass. "They'd scream, of course. That's what the brandy was for. A mercy, they called it."

He gave a loose shrug, raising the glass in a half-hearted toast. "Now, I never screamed," he said, his eyes cold and level. "But I've hated the taste of brandy ever since."

Salazar set his glass down with deliberate grace, fingers intertwined as he rested them in his lap. "Am I to assume the Sheriff of Caerleon allowed such trespass to go unanswered?" he asked with a faint smirk.

A cruel grin curled across Hartshorne's face. "Oh, you're a sharp one. I liked you before, Slytherin, but now I dare say I'm fond of you." He sipped his drink, the amber liquid glinting in the light. "There's no drive quite like thirst—thirst for vengeance, that is."

He exhaled slowly.

"And just between you and me… even they don't reach for brandy anymore.

A pause.

"Or broomsticks."

Salazar let out a low chuckle, his emerald eyes gleaming. "I've always believed in proportional returns. Forgiveness is the comfort of the feeble, the frail, and the fearful." He leaned back slightly. "Some people have lived far too long without consequence. And nothing ignites the soul quite like watching them crawl, broken and sobbing for a mercy I'll never grant."

Hartshorne barked a laugh, raising his glass. "Too bloody right. I reckon this might be the start of a long and beautiful friendship."

Salazar raised his own glass, the crystal chime ringing softly between them. "I suppose it is."

"Keep my favor, Slytherin," Hartshorne said. "And you'll go further than you ever dreamed."

The doors burst open with a bang.

Both Salazar and Hartshorne turned at once. The Sheriff's expression soured at the sight of the AEGIS guard standing in the doorway—drenched in sweat, pale, and visibly shaken. His breath came in ragged bursts, eyes wide with something Salazar recognized at once.

Fear.

Still, Salazar said nothing.

"Sheriff Hartshorne, sir!" the guard gasped.

Hartshorne shot to his feet. "I've told you once—and a thousand bloody times more—never interrupt me when I'm—"

"Sir!" the guard snapped to attention with a trembling salute. "My sincerest apologies, but there's a call for you. It's urgent. Grave, sir."

Hartshorne's scowl lingered, then shifted into something more composed. He exhaled slowly and gave Salazar a thin smile. "Forgive the intrusion, lad. Duty has a rather rude habit of barging in uninvited." He straightened his coat. "Help yourself to another drink while I sort this nonsense out."

"Think nothing of it, Sheriff," Salazar replied coolly, reclining slightly in his seat. "I wouldn't expect a man of your station to let his responsibilities slip—not even for good company."

The Sheriff's smirk twitched into place before he turned, shooting the guard a glare that made the man visibly flinch. Without another word, they exited, the doors clicking shut behind them—leaving Salazar alone once more in the golden quiet of the room.

****

Salazar's emerald gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling. His lips parted, and the sound that followed was far from human—a low, sinuous hiss, somewhere between a whisper and the rasp of scales against stone.

"Nirah," he hissed. "Are you there?"

A sharp reply hissed back from the vents above, sibilant and unmistakably serpentine. Salazar grinned. His eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened again, his irises burned bright amber—slit like a serpent's. His vision narrowed, not from his own eyes, but through another's.

He was moving—no, slithering—through the dark arteries of the ventilation system. Dust coated the metal walls, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of slotted vents. Then, a break in the passage. Nirah halted silently above a private room, peering through the slits below. Hartshorne stood beneath, tense and pacing. A corded phone sat on the table; receiver clenched in his hand as he held it against his ear.

"What?" he said, the word barely audible. "No… no, that can't be. But how—?" His breath hitched. "What about Callahan? Kaltz?" His hand ran down his face, dragging the dread with it.

Above, through Nirah's eyes, Salazar watched, brow furrowed. The names meant little to him—yet. But the reaction said enough.

"There's got to be some mistake…" Hartshorne murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as if the chill had set into his spine. "Bollocks… fine. I'm on my way." He turned sharply, pacing. "Keep the press the hell away from it. I don't want so much as a headline."

He stopped again, listening—whatever he heard made his shoulders tense.

"Shut your gob and keep your voice down!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Leave Lamar to me. For now, focus on your job."

Another pause. Then, the final blow.

"Yes, I bloody well know it's Nemesis!" Hartshorne snarled, veins bulging in his neck. "Who the hell else would it be?!"

Silence followed.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous.

"Use your damned imagination. Must I do everything myself?" He drew a shaking breath, rage simmering beneath. "This does not get out. If it does, I'll have you gutted and hung by your own entrails."

He slammed the receiver down with a clatter that echoed like a blast in the quiet. For a beat, Hartshorne just stood there, his chest heaving. Then he let out a guttural roar and seized the phone again—this time hurling it across the room. The heavy receiver struck the wall with a loud crack, chipping the wood and leaving a dent before falling to the floor in broken pieces. Shards scattered across the polished floor as the Sheriff stood motionless, breathing hard through clenched teeth.

After a long, shaking breath, he straightened his coat and stormed toward the door.

Up in the vents, Nirah hissed.

Salazar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A cool smile curled on his lips.

"The plot thickens," he murmured. "Our friends in ash and fire seem to have been rather industrious as of late."

Nirah hissed again, the sound low and inquisitive.

"Callahan. Kaltz," Salazar repeated. "Not names you'd hear passed over a dinner table… but clearly of some standing, if they've put that much dread in the Sheriff himself."

Another hiss.

"I don't know who they are yet," Salazar said, eyes narrowing. "But I suspect they're part of the rot festering at the heart of the Tower. Something deeper. Something older."

He leaned forward.

"I don't know what truth is hiding in this mess… but I intend to find it. And Sheriff Hartshorne…" He smirked. "He may just be the key I need to unlock that door."

Suddenly, Nirah lifted her head, body coiled, eyes locked forward.

Salazar's gaze flicked upward. "What is it, my dear?"

The serpent hissed—sharp, urgent.

His eyes snapped to the door.

Then the blast hit.

A thunderous explosion rocked the building, the force rattling the crystal lights above. Glass cracked; the floor trembled beneath his feet. The echoes of chaos spilled in from outside—screams, shouts, the distant wail of sirens rising like a war cry in the night.

Salazar slowly rose from his chair, brushing the front of his coat.

"Well… I do believe the evening has just taken a turn."

****

Hartshorne coughed, choking on dust and smoke as he lay sprawled among the wreckage—splinters of wood, shattered crystal, and broken marble strewn like the aftermath of a storm. His coat was torn, blood seeping from a cut above his brow. The ringing in his ears roared like a siren, the world around him a blur of light and shadow.

Then… clarity.

The smoke began to thin. Rain poured through a jagged hole where the grand entrance once stood, thunder rumbling behind it. Silhouetted in the downpour was a figure, cloaked in blackened armor, a hood drawn low over his head. A claymore rested on his shoulder—dark as midnight, veined with molten flame.

The blade twirled once in the figure's grasp. And with ease, it cleaved through the AEGIS guards charging in desperation—swords raised, eyes wide with terror. Blood sprayed across the chequered marble, bodies crumpling before they could even scream.

Then he turned.

Bootsteps echoed across the fractured floor as the figure descended the stairs. He reached up, gripped his hood, and pulled it back.

Hartshorne's heart seized.

"It's been a long time, Sheriff," Asriel said, a half-smile curling across his lips. "Still alive, I see. Though barely. I did say this job would be the death of you—didn't think I'd be the one delivering it personally."

"V-Valerian…" Hartshorne rasped, dragging himself backward across the floor. "You're mad. Coming here. In the open. You've just signed your own death warrant!"

Asriel tilted his head, the claymore dragging behind him with a rasping scrape.

"Considering you already had me killed once," he said, his eyes glowing dimly through the smoke, "I'd say that's rather redundant."

He stopped just a few paces from the wounded Sheriff.

"I promised you," Asriel said, "I'd come back. That one day, I'd make you bleed for what you did. For everything. For the lives you buried. For the devil you sold your soul to."

His grip around the sword's hilt tightened.

"And that day… is now."

Asriel crouched low, the weight of the blade bracing him, eyes locked on Hartshorne.

"Do you remember that night?" he asked. "Because I do. Every second of it. I remember what they did to her. I remember you, standing there… smiling. Watching. While they tore her apart. While she screamed. While I screamed." His jaw tightened. "And you made me watch."

His expression twisted. "That was the night I learned justice isn't real. It's a story the powerful tell the weak to keep them quiet while their lives are taken apart piece by piece. Justice is a sword—but it only ever cuts one way."

He drew a breath, the fury simmering now, old and cold.

"I should've known. I was born in fire, a child of war. I held a blade before I ever held a rattle. Tasted blood long before I knew the taste of milk. Death was my craft. I killed for men like you. Bled for your causes. Your flags. Your lies."

Then his gaze darkened, hollow with pain.

"But she… she made me believe. For a little while, I thought I could be more. I thought there might be a place in this world where justice wasn't just a mask for cruelty." His words dropped to a whisper. "I let my guard down. I let her in. And because of that… I let the monsters win."

He looked up.

"And now I see it clearly."

He stood slowly.

"Monsters like you."

But instead of fear, Hartshorne began to chuckle—a low, bitter sound that curled through the smoke and ruin.

"Oh, you poor, simple fool," he said, shaking his head. "Still clinging to your childish notions of justice. Revenge. Love." He sneered. "You and your little misfits, cutting down names on a list as if that'll bring you peace. Acting on emotion like it matters. Like it changes anything."

His smile thinned into a cold, contemptuous line.

"I've never indulged in such drivel. Love, joy, family? Dead weights. Shackles. They distract from what truly matters—power. Control. The only truths worth chasing."

Hartshorne straightened with effort, blood on his lip, but defiant still.

"You, the Se'lais, even Keenah—you were all just pieces. Movements in a game that started long before you were even soiling your diapers. If your precious little peck and her father had just listened. If he'd kept his head down like the rest of us told him to, he might still be alive. But no. He played hero. And that's what got him killed."

He grinned, eyes glinting.

"Him. His family. That little peck you can't stop dreaming about. What was her name again? Mm. Doesn't matter."

Asriel's grip on the blade twitched, his stare narrowing.

"If you want someone to blame, then blame him. Blame her. Blame yourself. You let them into your heart. You made yourself a part of this. All they had to do was stay in the shadows—but they didn't. And now? Well… now they're ashes."

Silence.

Then Asriel laughed.

A slow, sharp sound that echoed like steel unsheathed. He lowered his head, covering his face as the laughter built—until it snapped.

His hand dropped. His eyes burned.

"I take it back," he said. "You're no monster."

He stepped forward.

"You're filth. Vermin choking on its own stench. And now…"

He raised the blade, its edge glowing with molten fire.

"Breathe your last."

****

A blast of magic ripped across the room.

Asriel flicked his wrist, twirling his blade—dispelling the spell in a burst of embers. His amber gaze snapped to the figure at the entrance of the ruined hall. A young man stood there, wand drawn, obsidian and polished, his hand steady despite the sweat glistening on his brow.

Asriel's gaze narrowed.

"Bit young to be on the Sheriff's payroll," he said coldly. "Or is he recruiting straight from the cribs these days?"

"Asriel Valerian, I presume," Salazar said, stepping further in, wand never wavering. "The Terror of Death himself. I'd say the stories exaggerate—but then I saw the blade."

His gaze dipped, catching the flickering veins of molten fire that pulsed through the blackened steel.

"Nice to be recognized," Asriel replied, twirling the sword with casual menace. "I'll give you a mercy, boy. Leave. This doesn't concern you."

Salazar smirked, though his fingers remained tight on the wand. "As tempting as that offer is, I'm afraid I must decline. Call it poor judgment. Or inherited stubbornness."

Salazar nodded to Hartshorne. The old man returned the gesture, grim and silent, before rising to his feet and limping toward the gaping hole in the wall. Blood ran from his side, every breath shallow.

Salazar turned; wand raised in a flash.

Blasts of magic fired toward Asriel, but the dark-cloaked warrior moved like smoke, twisting through the assault. His blade spun with a flick of his wrist, dispersing each spell effortlessly. In a blink, he vanished in a swirl of black vapor—then reappeared inches from Salazar, blade swinging in a wide arc.

Salazar's wand snapped upward. A shimmering shield exploded into place just in time. Sparks erupted as metal met magic, ringing through the ruined chamber.

The instant their weapons parted; Salazar countered—

"Depulso!"

The spell crashed into Asriel's blade, sending him skidding back across the fractured marble floor.

Asriel glanced up, unamused. "Really?" he scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "I've spent my youth carving through mages on blood-soaked fields. Trained with the finest. Bled with the worst. Even more so at Excalibur."

He tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's going to take more than mere schoolboy tricks to bring me to my knees."

Behind them, Hartshorne stumbled forward, every step ragged with pain. His fingers clutched at shattered ribs, edging closer to escape. But Asriel noticed—and was on him in a heartbeat. His claymore swung low, fast, humming with violent intent.

Hartshorne's eyes widened in terror.

Salazar dashed forward, sliding across the floor just in time. He snapped his wand upward. "How's this for schoolboy tricks?"

A surge of concentrated energy ignited at the wand's tip, casting a harsh glow. Asriel's eyes widened.

"Zoltraak!"

The spell blasted out in a roaring beam of raw force. Asriel gritted his teeth, swinging his blade up to meet it. The beam collided, forcing him back with a screech of heels on marble.

He deflected it just in time.

The redirected blast tore through the chandelier above, shattering the crystal in a blinding explosion of dust and light. The ceiling ruptured, stone and plaster cascading down. The golden frame of the chandelier crashed to the ground with a thunderous clang, cracking the floor in a web of fractures.

Crystal rain fell between them, glittering like embers in the torchlight.

Asriel stared through the haze, jaw clenched, amber eyes burning. "Now that's more like it."

Hartshorne cast one last glance back at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "Thank you, lad… I won't forget this."

"Save your gratitude," Salazar muttered. "Get moving."

The sheriff vanished through the breach in the wall. Silence fell—tense, electric.

Asriel's glare didn't waver. "You know what you've done?" he growled. "You threw yourself between a wolf and its prey—for that filth. You have no idea what that man is."

Salazar's smirk returned, quieter this time. "I'm not blind. I know exactly what he is."

He lowered his wand an inch, though his stance remained firm.

"And I have my reasons. Complicated. Selfish. Twisted." He met Asriel's stare. "Much like yours, I imagine."

"Well then…" Asriel twirled his claymore. "I sincerely hope it was worth it. Before I end you, boy, indulge me—what's your name? For someone so suicidally stupid, you've got stones. I'll give you that."

"Salazar Slytherin," the boy replied, his smirk growing, even as it wavered with a tinge of fear. "But you can remember me as the Serpent of Ferrum."

"So, you're Slytherin," Asriel mused, one brow arching with faint amusement. "Charming. Orgrim mentioned a boy that gave him trouble that night—said you wielded magic far beyond your years."

His gaze sharpened. "Now that I've seen it for myself… I'm inclined to agree. That spell—Zoltraak—I've seen it used in war. Countless times. It's a spell of annihilation. Of murder."

Salazar gave a thin, almost sheepish smile. "I'm aware. Would you believe me if I said I didn't even know it existed until recently?" He chuckled softly. "Took a lot of guesswork, a few near-death experiences… and I may have accidentally torched a family of squirrels, but I got there eventually."

Asriel blinked, then tilted his head. "You taught yourself?"

"More or less," Salazar shrugged nonchalantly. "Forbidden spells aren't exactly published in textbooks."

A quiet chuckle broke from Asriel's lips, rising into something fuller, darker. He ran a hand back through his hair, still smiling. "You truly are something, Salazar Slytherin. I see now why Orgrim spoke so highly of you. That man's not one to offer compliments lightly."

The smile faded, replaced by something colder, more distant. "It's a shame, really."

He vanished in a burst of smoke and cinders—reappearing before Salazar in a blink.

Salazar's eyes flared wide as he stepped aside, just as the obsidian blade came crashing down, missing by inches. It split the marble floor with a deafening crack. Salazar whipped his wand toward Asriel, firing spell after spell in rapid succession.

Asriel moved like a phantom, slipping through the barrage, his sword coming in fast—relentless. Salazar's shield shimmered, absorbing the blows, but each hit sent tremors through his arm.

Salazar staggered back, teeth clenched, his chest heaving. Sweat traced down his brow, stinging his eyes. He'd always considered himself a duelist—precise, tactical, sharp. But this wasn't a duel. Not with Asriel. This was raw, merciless combat. And without his spear, he was outmatched. With it, he might've had a chance. Like this, it was survival—nothing more.

"Confringo!" he barked, launching a blast of flame.

Asriel met it head-on, his blade slicing clean through the fire, parting it as if it were mist.

Salazar's hand whipped in a practiced arc. The tip of his wand ignited, flames swirling with rising heat.

"Fortis," he muttered, and the fire surged brighter. He thrust his wand forward. "Fragor!"

A thunderous explosion erupted, engulfing the space in flame. Marble cracked. Heat surged. Smoke billowed across the chamber.

Salazar allowed himself a grin. "That ought to do it."

But then—through the smoke, a silhouette. Asriel dashed forward, flames licking his cloak, his face illuminated by the inferno behind him.

Salazar's smirk faltered. His hand tightened on his wand.

Too slow.

Asriel grabbed his wand arm, wrenched it away, and drove his blade clean through the boy's abdomen. A sharp gasp left Salazar's lips. No pain—just the molten stink of scorched flesh and the wet pressure of something ruptured inside him.

Blood bubbled up from his throat. He spat crimson to the floor.

Asriel ripped the blade free and spun, slamming a boot into Salazar's chest.

The boy flew across the room, crashing into the trophy cabinet. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and gilded awards clattered across the marble like castaway coins. Salazar slumped to the floor, half-limp, coughing blood as he tried to push himself upright.

He looked up at Asriel through a bloodied grin.

"Well," he wheezed, "this was a terrible miscalculation…"

Another cough, more blood.

"I suppose I've only myself to blame."

Asriel reappeared before him in a flicker of flame, the smoldering eyes of a predator studying wounded prey. He stood over Salazar, expression cool.

"A damned shame, indeed," Asriel muttered, his fingers tightening as he inverted the blade. "You've a rare gift, Slytherin. Precision. Control. Had it been anyone else, you might've won." He tilted his head slightly. "Unfortunate, then, that it was me. And under these circumstances."

The sword hummed with power. "Still, you bought that bastard time. So, let's not drag this out."

He paused. The steel sang—a low, cold trill that echoed through the fractured chamber, gliding over broken glass and scorched marble like a whisper through bone. Asriel's amber eyes narrowed… then slowly widened. Not in shock, but recognition.

"Well now," he said with a touch of amusement. "This is a surprise."

He tilted his head, studying Salazar as though peering through him—reading threads only he could perceive.

"I can feel it. The rot. The reek of death that clings to your soul. The weight of the lives you've ended. The screams you've buried. The darkness, buried deep, still breathing." His words dropped to a murmur. "But what fascinates me… is the absence."

"No shame. No sorrow. Not even fear. Just conviction." Asriel gave a quiet, humorless chuckle.

"You truly believe it's all justified, don't you? Every twisted deed. Every line crossed. A purpose behind every stain on your hands." He smirked faintly. "In another life… we might've fought side by side. Brothers in purpose. Kindred in ruin."

The blade rose. "Farewell."

Salazar let out a soft, bitter chuckle. "Well," he murmured, "I suppose all good things must end, one way or another."

His eyes drifted shut. A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—faint, weary, almost wistful. He had always known it would end like this. That the tower of half-truths and veiled intentions he'd built would someday give way. That wit, cunning, and charm would, at last, meet their match.

And now, here it was. The reckoning.

He thought of Rowena's quiet strength. Of Helga's steady warmth. Of Godric… wild, fierce, unshakable. His eyes dropped to the pendant curled tight around his wrist—silver-wrapped glass, a single drop of blood caught inside like a memory sealed in time.

A vow. A bond. A promise never broken.

"So long, dear friends," he breathed. "So long, Godric… my brother."

The blade fell.

But it never struck.

A shockwave tore through the room, loud and sharp as thunder. The air came alive with a surge of energy—crackling, radiant. Asriel's blade met resistance—metal against metal—and the sound of the clash shattered the silence, shook the walls, and sent sparks flying in every direction.

His gaze snapped to the boy now standing between them. Sword drawn. Crimson eyes burning like coals. Circuits glowing, crackling with electric current, running down his arms and beneath his skin like living fire. He held Asriel's strike without budging.

"G-Godric…?" Salazar gasped, blood on his lips, eyes wide with disbelief.

Godric didn't look at him. His eyes locked on Asriel.

"Get away from him," he growled.