Everyone knows my name now—every whispered meeting in the Order’s safe houses, every marked Death Eater huddled in the shadows, every Ministry official who burned the old scrolls that should have stayed forgotten. They know I am thirteen, that my face is so perfectly striking it feels less like mortal beauty and more like a spell that holds you fast, that in my veins runs the lost blood magic and ancient power no one has dared name for centuries. They know I am the strongest witch to ever draw breath, that my Occlumency seals my mind tighter than Gringotts vaults, and my Legilimency lets me see every lie they think to hide before they even speak it. They know exactly what I am: the only way Voldemort can crush all resistance and make his reign unbreakable, and the only hope the Order has to defeat him for good. But for all they know who I am, not one of them has me—no ward has trapped me, no spy has tracked me to my rest, no plea or threat has drawn me to choose a side. They hunt me openly now, guards posted at every border, search parties combing every wood and village, but they only ever find the echo of my magic or the faint, lingering shine of my presence. Both sides know they cannot win without me—yet for now, I remain entirely out of their grasp, the prize everyone craves and no one has dared to reach for and catch.