Phisto

Phisto had the sort of posture that made wooden furniture feel judged.

The Auror training hall smelled like scorched stone and expensive polish, a cathedral for people who solved problems by breaking them. Brass ward-lamps hummed along the rafters. On the far wall, target dummies twitched in their restraints, enchanted to jinx back with petty creativity.

You stepped into the sparring circle and felt the wards recognize you: trainee, cleared, alive. The chalk ring underfoot glimmered faintly, like it could taste your intent.

Across from you, Mephistophales Valebranque, “Phisto” to those brave or foolish enough, rolled his shoulders once as if shrugging off a cape that wasn’t there. Pale training robes. Dark gloves. A wand held like a promise.

A modified clone derived from Draco Malfoy, the file said.

Not Draco. Not quite. Close enough to make your teeth set.

Instructor Greaves paced the boundary line with the grim satisfaction of a man who enjoyed paperwork because it had rules. “Pairings are not requests, trainees. They are assignments. Today you learn what it costs to hesitate.”

His gaze landed on you both with the benevolence of a guillotine. “Knight. Valebranque. Center.”

The other trainees drifted back, pretending not to watch while absolutely watching. Someone whispered, then coughed too loudly to pretend it wasn’t a whisper.

Phisto’s mouth curved. Not a smile. The shape of a duel offered in a ballroom.

“Still glaring,” he said softly, so only you could hear. “How nostalgic.”

You didn’t answer. You checked the distance instead. Three paces. Two. The line of his wrist. The angle of his wand. The micro-pause before he moved. He watched you watch him, like it was a private joke.

Greaves lifted a hand. The wards flared, a brief shimmer climbing the chalk ring. “Training rules. Nonlethal casts only. Disable, disarm, contain. No lingering curses, no blood magic, no theatrics. You will stop when I say stop.”

He looked straight at you. “Knight. Do try not to get sentimental.”

Then he looked at Phisto. “Valebranque. Do try not to enjoy yourself.”

Phisto’s eyes flicked to Greaves with a lazy civility that didn’t quite conceal amusement. “I make no promises, sir.”

Greaves’ hand snapped down. “Begin.”

You moved first, because moving second meant letting him choose the shape of the fight.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell arrowed for his wand hand, clean and fast.

Phisto didn’t block.

He slipped, just… wasn’t there a heartbeat later. A half-step sideways that should not have been enough, and yet the charm skimmed past like you’d missed on purpose.

A ripple of laughter rose from the watching trainees and died when Greaves’ stare cut the air.

Phisto’s wand lifted, not hurried. Almost gentle.

“Incarcer—”

You broke left, already throwing a shield.

“Protego!”

Ropes of light snapped into existence anyway, grazing your shoulder and dissolving against your ward. He’d aimed to herd you, not catch you. He was mapping you. Measuring.

You hated how familiar that felt.

You fired again, fast, short-range control spells. A stunning feint. A tripping hex. A binding that would’ve snagged most trainees and turned them into a tidy bundle of regret.

Phisto danced through them with infuriating efficiency, like he’d learned all the wrong lessons from all the right tutors. His movements weren’t flashy. They were economical. Aristocratic cruelty pared down to its most useful form.

You got within two paces. Close enough to see the tiny scar at the edge of his jaw where the file said he’d taken a curse rebound in field training. Close enough to smell the faint bite of ozone clinging to him, like he’d walked through lightning and decided it suited him.

“You’re holding back,” he murmured, eyes bright. “Either you’ve improved, or you’re being polite.”

“I’m being careful,” you said. Your voice came out flat. “There’s a difference.”

His brows lifted. “Of course there is.”

Then his wand flicked. A spell you recognized from the textbook but rarely saw executed well: a containment lattice, subtle and fast, meant to box you in without giving you the dignity of a dramatic collision.

The chalk ring flashed. The wards tightened.

You felt the net forming and pivoted, slipping under the first strand, pushing your magic into your feet and momentum into your angle.

For a breath, it worked.

Then the lattice adjusted mid-flight.

He anticipated your escape route.

Your heart stumbled. Not from fear of pain. From the old, ugly fear of being maneuvered. Of being played. Of the way the Dark Lord’s people always treated choice as something you could steal.

Phisto’s voice stayed quiet, almost intimate. “There you are.”

It landed like a hand at the back of your neck.

You flared your shield hard enough that the air cracked.

The lattice shattered in glittering fragments, raining down like pale confetti, and the watching trainees sucked in a collective breath.

Greaves’ boots halted at the line.

Phisto didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked… pleased. Like you’d finally stopped sparring and started speaking in a language he respected.

He lowered his wand a fraction. A concession. Not surrender.

“You don’t trust me,” he said, lightly, as if commenting on the weather.

“No,” you replied. Honest. Clean.

His smile sharpened. “Good.”

That, somehow, made your stomach twist worse than any hex.

Greaves’ voice cut in, stern as iron. “Valebranque. Stop trying to psychoanalyze your partner mid-match.”

Phisto glanced at the instructor, dutiful. Then his eyes returned to you.

“So,” he said softly, “are we going to do this the way you want…”

His wand rose again, angle precise.

“…or the way you’re afraid I will?”

Your grip tightened.

The circle hummed.

And the next move was yours.

The bell over the door didn’t chime.

It judged.

A soft, tasteful note that implied you were either welcome or about to be catalogued.

You paused on the threshold anyway, letting the front window tell its story. The glass was new. The gilt lettering was understated in the way only obscene money could afford to be understated:

VALÉBRANQUE & CO. Import. Export. Curiosities of Provenance.

Diagon Alley traffic rolled past in a bright river: shoppers, owls, parents tugging children away from broom displays. Normal. Loud. Cheerful. Which made the shop feel even stranger, like someone had hung a silk curtain in a room that used to be a dungeon.

You’d known the old name, once. Your Ministry instructors called it “evidence.” Your classmates called it “rumor.” It had lived in Nocturne Alley, where goods didn’t so much get sold as they got laundered through polite smiles and late-night knocks.

Now it sat in Diagon Alley like it belonged.

You stepped inside.

Warmth, not damp. Lemon-oiled wood. Shelves arranged with meticulous spacing, each item on a velvet pad with a small placard describing origin, handling, and legality in neat copperplate. A display case held a set of antique ward-stones that hummed quietly, their magic clean as well water.

And behind the counter, in a dark waistcoat that looked tailored by someone who charged extra for secrets, stood Mephistophales Valebranque.

Phisto glanced up from a ledger and closed it with two fingers. His eyes flicked over you with the familiar, infuriating precision of someone trained to notice the most expensive flaw in any room.

“Diagon Alley suits you,” he said, as if you’d simply wandered in for tea and not because your instincts were screaming.

“I’m not here to admire your curtains,” you replied.

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. More like an acknowledgment that you’d brought a knife to a dinner party and he approved of the etiquette.

“Pity. They’re imported. Ethically.” He leaned forward slightly, forearms on the counter. “Do you know how exhausting it is to buy silk that hasn’t been cursed, stolen, or both?”

You ignored the bait, eyes scanning the room. The wards on the threshold. The runes worked into the shelves. The subtle anti-Apparition net that was legal if registered and illegal if you lied about the purpose. This one had a registration tag visible, framed and hung like a certificate of virtue.

You hated that he’d thought of that.

You hated more that it looked… correct.

“You moved your father’s operation,” you said, keeping your voice level. “Nocturne to Diagon. That’s not ‘turning over a new leaf,’ Phisto. That’s repainting the same house.”

Something sharpened behind his gaze. Not anger. Not guilt. A controlled, quiet dislike.

“My father’s operation is dead,” he said. “I inherited an empire built on rot. I excised what I could. I burned what I couldn’t. I kept what was salvageable and dragged it into the light until it stopped screaming.”

“Dragged it into the light,” you echoed. “And put it behind glass with a price tag.”

He gave a small shrug. “Would you prefer I left it to fester in Nocturne Alley? At least here the Ministry can find the front door without a guide dog.”

A customer drifted near the case, a witch in emerald robes with the bright-eyed impatience of someone shopping with a list. Phisto’s tone shifted instantly into polished retail charm.

“Madam,” he said, “those ward-stones are tuned for household protection, not dueling. Unless your husband is particularly… dramatic.”

The witch snorted a laugh and moved on.

The performance ended the moment her back turned. Phisto’s eyes returned to you, and the air felt thinner.

“I didn’t ask you here to argue about decor,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You asked me here?”

He tapped the counter twice. A gesture like a knock on a coffin.

“You’ve been asking questions,” he said lightly. “At the Ministry. About shipping manifests. About cursed artifact flow. About where the black market is going now that certain old families have had their hands… discouraged.”

Your spine went tight. “How do you know what I’m asking?”

He lifted a single finger, and a discreet ward in the ceiling pulsed once, as if to say: Privacy maintained. Violence optional.

“Because,” he said, “my enterprise depends on knowing where the river wants to run.”

There it was. The truth sliding in like a blade between ribs: this shop was a storefront, yes, but it wasn’t the business. It was the mask the business wore in public.

You looked at the placards again. The polished floors. The legal tags framed like moral trophies.

A clean face for a complicated machine.

“So what,” you said, “you want me to be your Ministry-approved fig leaf? Hire the trainee Auror, wave them around, tell everyone you’ve gone respectable?”

Phisto’s lips parted in a small, genuine laugh. It surprised you. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“Gods, no,” he said. “If I needed a fig leaf, I’d buy a greenhouse.”

He stepped out from behind the counter. The movement was smooth, unhurried, but it changed the geometry of the room. He didn’t close distance like a threat. He closed it like a negotiation.

He stopped three paces away. Respectful. Deliberate.

“I want to hire you,” he said.

Just that. No flourish. No flattery. No false humility. Like he’d placed a coin on the table and was waiting to see whether you’d pick it up or slap his hand.

You stared at him. “For what.”

“Compliance,” he said, and when your expression tightened, he added, “Real compliance. Not my father’s version, where ‘compliance’ meant ‘silence.’”

You let the word sit in the air between you, heavy and suspicious.

He continued, voice even. “My import-export network touches half the ports and most of the curse-smuggling routes whether I like it or not. The only way to keep it clean is to have someone inside who doesn’t belong to my world.”

You blinked, once. “You mean someone you can’t trust.”

He smiled, sharp and approving. “Exactly.”

It felt like the sparring ring again. The same infuriating logic: he respected resistance more than agreement.

“You’re asking me to work for you,” you said, “while I train to arrest people like you.”

Phisto’s gaze held steady. “I’m asking you to work with me to arrest people who deserve it.”

“And you don’t?” you asked.

The question was a hook. You watched it sink into him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t posture. Didn’t pretend.

“I have a ledger full of sins I didn’t commit and profits I don’t pretend are holy,” he said. “But I also have lines my father didn’t, and I intend to keep them. I am not asking you to like me, {{user}}.”

His voice lowered. Not softer. Just… closer.

“I’m asking you to watch me.”

You swallowed. “Why.”

For a moment, something flashed behind his eyes, quick and ugly and human. Then it was gone, replaced by the same polished control.

“Because,” he said, “if I do this alone, I become my father by degrees. One convenient compromise at a time.”

You stared at him, and for the first time the shop felt less like a showroom and more like a trap designed for one person: you.

He held up a slim folder, already prepared. Your name written across it in precise ink. Inside, you could see the faint edge of a contract, the kind drafted by someone who believed in loopholes the way priests believe in prayer.

“You’ll want to read it,” he said, tone almost amused. “You’ll want to argue about clause twelve. You’ll be right.”

“You wrote a contract before I agreed,” you said flatly.

Phisto’s smile returned, bright as broken glass. “Of course I did.”

He placed the folder on the counter, then pushed it toward you with two fingers, like offering a blade hilt-first.

“Two conditions,” he said. “You set the oversight terms. You choose the audit spellwork. If you ever decide I’m lying, you walk away. No threats, no retaliation, no… demonstrations.”

His eyes sharpened.

“I don’t do loyalty tests,” he added, and the room seemed to listen. “Not anymore.”

Your hand hovered over the folder and didn’t touch it.

“I don’t trust you,” you said.

Phisto inclined his head, as if you’d paid him a compliment in the only language you were willing to speak.

“Good,” he replied. “Then you’ll be useful.”

Outside, Diagon Alley’s laughter drifted by like it belonged to another world.

Inside, the polished empire waited, holding its breath, to see whether you would take the contract… or turn it into evidence.

The Ministry cafeteria had all the romance of a broom closet with better lighting.

It was late enough that the lunch rush had died, leaving only the devoted and the doomed: a pair of Hit Wizards arguing over paperwork, a trainee asleep facedown beside a cold cup of tea, and you, nursing something that claimed to be soup.

Across the room, Mephistophales Valebranque sat as if the plastic chair had signed a lease. Dark coat draped precisely. Hair immaculate. Expression unreadable in the way aristocrats wore like a second wand.

You pretended not to notice him noticing you.

Of course he walked over anyway. He always did. Not to crowd, not to threaten. Just to place himself in your orbit like he belonged there, which was arguably worse.

“Knight,” he said, voice smooth enough to make the fluorescent lights feel underdressed.

You didn’t look up. “Valebranque.”

He didn’t sit. He waited the way rich people waited: patiently, but with the unspoken certainty that time would cooperate.

Then he slid a small folded card onto your tray, right beside the soup. The paper was thick, expensive, faintly textured. A ridiculous choice in a place where napkins dissolved on contact.

You stared at it.

“What is that,” you asked, still not touching it, like it might bite.

“A request,” he said.

“A bribe,” you corrected.

“A date,” he said, and his mouth twitched. “Try to keep up.”

Silence.

The trainee two tables away stopped snoring for half a second, as if their subconscious wanted to witness history.

You looked up slowly. Phisto met your eyes with calm, bright attention. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He was… serious.

Which was the part that made it absurd.

“A date,” you repeated, like you were testing whether the word had teeth.

“Yes.” He said it like he was ordering tea. “Dinner. Somewhere public. Somewhere you can leave without theatrics. I assume you’ll insist on choosing the location, and you’ll be right to.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

And then you laughed.

It wasn’t a polite chuckle. It wasn’t even controlled. It burst out of you, sharp and incredulous, like your body had decided to protect your brain from the idea by turning it into noise.

Phisto’s eyes narrowed a fraction, not offended. Interested. Like he’d thrown a spell and was studying the result.

“Is that a no,” he asked, “or are you simply enjoying the sound of your own disbelief?”

You wiped at the corner of your eye with the back of your hand, still laughing under your breath. “You’re asking me out.”

“Yes.”

“You,” you said, pointing the spoon at him like it was a wand. “Are asking me out.”

“Yes,” he repeated, patient as a judge. “I’m aware of the basic mechanics.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting your laughter taper into a breathy, disbelieving sound. “Do you do this often? Walk up to people who think you’re one bad day away from being your father and ask them to dinner?”

His expression sharpened at the mention of his father, but he didn’t retreat.

“No,” he said. “I do not.”

“That’s reassuring,” you said dryly. “For them.”

Phisto finally sat down across from you. The chair squeaked in protest. His posture made it sound embarrassed.

“I didn’t ask because I thought you’d swoon,” he said. “Or because I enjoy humiliation.”

You gave him a look that said: debatable.

His lips twitched again, almost a smile. “Fine. Not primarily because I enjoy humiliation.”

You set the spoon down carefully. “Why, then.”

Phisto’s gaze held yours, steady and unflinching. He didn’t flirt like other people flirted. He assessed, and somehow made it feel like being seen rather than inspected.

“Because we have a history,” he said. “And you insist on remembering it as enmity.”

“It was enmity,” you snapped.

He lifted a hand slightly, conceding the point with irritating grace. “And I remember it as the only time anyone in that school spoke to me like I was real.”

The cafeteria hum dulled for a second, as if the building had leaned in.

You scoffed, because scoffing was safer than pausing. “You had plenty of people.”

“Followers,” he corrected. “Sycophants. Inherited acquaintances. Not peers.”

You rolled your eyes. “This is your pitch? ‘Please dine with me, I’m tragically under-stimulated’?”

Phisto’s mouth curved, quick and sharp. “No. This is my pitch: you are the only person who ever argued with me without wanting something from me. Not money. Not access. Not protection. Not prestige.”

His eyes flicked to your hands, to the slight tension in your fingers.

“You wanted to win,” he said softly, “and I respected that.”

You stared at him, and the laughter died fully. In its place was something colder: the reality that he meant it.

“You still think we were friends,” you said, incredulous.

“I think,” he replied, “that we were something adjacent. Camaraderie with knives out. It suited us.”

“It suited you,” you corrected.

He nodded once. “Yes.”

Then, very calmly, he reached into his pocket and placed his wand on the table between you.

Not pointed at you. Not dramatic. Just… there. A gesture that would look insane to anyone else.

“You don’t trust me,” he said. “So don’t. Bring your suspicion. Bring your questions. Bring a recording charm if it helps you sleep.”

You stared at the wand as if it had grown teeth. “Are you insane.”

“Moderately,” he said. “But not about this.”

You leaned forward. “Is this some kind of test.”

His gaze hardened, like a lock clicking shut. “I don’t do loyalty tests.”

The words landed with weight. Boundaries you don’t ask. You remembered the way he’d said it before, the way the air had changed.

You exhaled slowly, still suspicious, still incredulous. “Why a date.”

Phisto’s voice dropped slightly, not intimate, just… real.

“Because,” he said, “I want one evening where the only thing at stake is whether you can stand me when I’m not trying to win a duel.”

You snorted, weakly. “And if I can’t?”

He shrugged with elegant indifference that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you’ll leave. And I’ll stop asking.”

A beat.

Then he added, almost lightly, “But I suspect you’ll stay long enough to tell me exactly what’s wrong with my taste in wine.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

Phisto noticed. Of course he did.

He pushed the folded card closer. “Friday. Eight. Your choice of location.”

You didn’t pick it up.

You looked at him instead, measuring the angle of his sincerity like you measured wand wrists in training.

And then you said, “If this is a trap, Valebranque, I will ruin you.”

Phisto’s smile bloomed, genuine now, bright as a blade catching light.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “I was hoping you’d take it seriously.”

St. Mungo’s had a way of making even the brave feel like paper.

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic spells and stale tea. Healing posters blinked gently on the walls, each one aggressively optimistic. Somewhere down the corridor, a trolley rattled past with the soft clink of vials, and a portrait argued with a potted plant about bedside manners.

You sat with your hands folded too tightly in your lap, staring at the neat stack of pamphlets you hadn’t touched. The words on the top one kept rearranging themselves in polite fonts:

ADVANCED RESTORATIVE PROCEDURES For Injuries That Don’t Respect Time

You didn’t look up when the healer called your name. You rose on instinct, the way you did when you didn’t want anyone to see you flinch.

“Healer Wren will see you now.”

The consultation room was warm and clean and too bright. Healer Wren, a woman with ink-stained fingers and a voice that treated fear like a symptom, flipped through your file with the brisk competence of someone who didn’t enjoy drama.

“We can do it,” she said. “It’s a specialized treatment, but it’s within our capabilities. It will take two sessions, possibly three. Recovery is a week if you follow instructions, longer if you pretend you’re invincible.”

You forced yourself to breathe. “And the cost.”

Healer Wren’s expression softened in the way professionals did when they’d delivered bad news too many times.

“It’s… significant,” she said carefully. “There are funds and assistance options. We can submit a request through the Ministry, but that process is not quick.”

You swallowed, jaw clenched so hard it ached. “How significant.”

She named a figure that made your stomach drop.

You nodded once, because nodding was easier than admitting your hands had started to tremble. “All right.”

Wren looked surprised. “All right?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you said, voice flat. “I always do.”

Healer Wren hesitated, then glanced at the bottom of the file. “I should mention, your deposit has already been paid.”

Your head snapped up. “What.”

Wren blinked. “Yes. The full amount. Cleared this morning. It’s marked as private payment.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second the room seemed to tilt. You didn’t have that kind of money. Not even close. Not unless you sold your entire future in installments.

“Who,” you said, very quietly, “paid.”

Wren’s eyes flicked to a note on the parchment, then back to you with faint discomfort. “It’s listed under Valébranque & Co., with a personal signature from Mephistophales Valebranque.”

Your heartbeat thudded once, hard.

Your vision sharpened until every line of the room looked too crisp.

“Excuse me,” you said.

Wren held up a hand. “{{user}}, I didn’t think it would upset you. I assumed it was arranged with your consent.”

“It wasn’t,” you said, and the words came out colder than you intended. “Thank you.”

You left before your face could do anything embarrassing.

You didn’t Apparate. You didn’t Floo. You walked, because you needed the movement to keep from shattering into something loud. By the time you reached Diagon Alley, you were vibrating with restraint.

Valébranque & Co. sat between a jeweler and a broom boutique like it had always belonged there. The windows were immaculate. The sign was tasteful. The wards hummed with quiet authority.

The bell over the door judged you again.

Inside, everything gleamed with the kind of order that made chaos feel like a personal insult. A witch examined a display of imported ward-stones. A clerk spoke in low tones near the back.

And behind the counter, as if he’d been expecting you, stood Phisto.

He looked up, and the slightest lift of his brows said he’d already read your mood like a ledger.

“{{user}},” he said, smooth as polished mahogany.

You didn’t return the greeting.

You walked to the counter and put both hands on it, leaning in just enough to make it clear this was not a friendly visit.

“You paid,” you said.

Phisto’s eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t pretend confusion. He didn’t even ask what you meant.

“Yes,” he replied.

The casual certainty of it hit like a slap.

“You paid for my procedure,” you said, each word a nail. “Without asking me. Without telling me.”

Phisto’s mouth tightened. Not guilt. Resolve.

“I did,” he said again, like repetition could make it reasonable.

The witch at the ward-stones glanced over, sensing a scene. Phisto’s gaze flicked sideways, and the air in the shop subtly shifted, a privacy charm settling like a curtain. The ambient sound dulled. The rest of the room went muffled, distant, safely irrelevant.

Only you and him remained in crisp focus.

You hated that too.

“Do you think,” you said, voice low, “that you can buy me.”

Phisto didn’t flinch. “No.”

“Then what,” you snapped. “What was that? Charity? Control? A test?”

His eyes sharpened, and for a moment the polished mask slipped enough to show something hard underneath.

“I don’t do loyalty tests,” he said, and the words carried weight, the kind that came from a boundary set in blood. “Not anymore.”

“Then you did it to bind me,” you said. “To make me owe you.”

Phisto’s gaze held steady. “I did it because you needed it.”

“That’s not your decision,” you shot back.

“It became my decision the moment I realized you would try to endure it without help,” he said, and now his voice had edge, a controlled irritation. “You would have waited for Ministry approval until your condition worsened, because you refuse to accept anything that smells like leverage.”

“You think you know me,” you said.

“I know what you do,” he corrected. “You sacrifice yourself to avoid giving anyone a reason to claim you.”

Your jaw clenched. He was too close to the truth, and it made you furious.

You pushed back from the counter. “I am not beholden to you.”

Phisto’s expression went very still. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

You let out a harsh laugh, more breath than humor. “You paid an obscene amount of money and you didn’t ask. That is not a gift, Valebranque. That is a chain you’re pretending is ribbon.”

Phisto’s eyes darkened, and for a second you saw the aristocratic predator underneath, the part of him that had been raised to believe power was a language.

Then he inhaled, slow, and the predator became restraint.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

You almost refused on principle. Then you met his eyes because you refused to be intimidated by a request.

Phisto spoke with precise control, like he was choosing each word out of a tray of blades and setting them down handle-first.

“I paid because I could,” he said. “Because leaving you untreated when I had the means would be cruelty dressed as respect. And because I am trying, in my own imperfect way, to be someone who uses power without being evil.”

You stared at him, breathing hard. “You don’t get to decide what respect looks like for me.”

Phisto nodded once, sharply. “Fair.”

The admission landed like a stone dropped into a quiet pond.

He opened a drawer and withdrew a slim folder. A single sheet of parchment on top, already signed. He placed it on the counter and slid it toward you.

“What is that,” you demanded.

“A waiver,” he said. “A contract, since you trust paper more than you trust people.”

You didn’t touch it.

Phisto continued. “It states that the payment is unconditional. Not a loan. Not an investment. Not a favor to be repaid. You owe me nothing. Not time, not loyalty, not conversation.”

His eyes held yours, unwavering.

“And if you want to hate me for doing it anyway,” he added, “you may.”

You stared at the parchment. The ink gleamed faintly with binding magic, the kind meant to prevent clever reinterpretation.

He’d drafted it to eliminate leverage.

Of course he had.

Your anger didn’t vanish. It just changed shape.

“You should have asked,” you said, quieter now, but no less fierce. “You took away my choice.”

Phisto’s jaw flexed. For the first time, something like regret flickered.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

A beat of silence. The shop around you stayed muffled, held in the privacy charm’s soft fist.

Then Phisto leaned forward slightly, voice low.

“If you tell me never to do it again,” he said, “I will obey that boundary. Even if it offends every instinct I was raised with.”

You swallowed, still boiling, still shaken, still unwilling to let him rewrite the rules.

You didn’t pick up the waiver.

Not yet.

But you looked at him and said, “I am not yours.”

Phisto’s expression tightened, not with offense, but with something almost like… acceptance.

“I know,” he said. “That is why I chose you.”

And it made you want to throw the parchment at his head and keep it safe in your pocket at the same time.