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Heavy is The Crown (Harry Potter) Chapter 71: Face to Face with Death
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 16:35:56 +0000 UTC[Third person POV]
Arthur panted heavily, exhaustion evident on his face as he sat on the chest of the fallen Black Knight. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped his lips, noticing the blood smeared across his gloved hand. His body ached, his muscles sore from the battle, but the adrenaline was still pulsing through him.
The first to speak was Gwyneth. She stepped forward, her eyes filled with concern. "Arthur, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just tired..." Arthur sighed, his voice low, and he pushed a hand through his sweaty hair, brushing it back from his face. "I used a lot of magic during that fight. It took a lot out of me."
Merlin, who had been standing silently at the edge of the room, surveyed the scene before her. With a casual wave of her staff, she dispelled the illusionary world she had created. The surroundings morphed back into the mundane bathroom, and all traces of the illusion's damage vanished as if it had never existed.
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron were helping Hermione to her feet, their expressions filled with concern. Hermione’s body was still trembling, the shock of the encounter leaving her nerves on edge. Her breathing was shallow, her body stiff with fear, but she was slowly regaining her composure.
The room was filled with an eerie silence, everyone still in shock from the events that had just unfolded. Arthur, taking a deep breath, stood up from the Knight’s chest, his legs slightly shaky. He reached for his scabbard and slid the legendary sword, Caliburn, back into place. It slid into its resting position effortlessly, the satisfying click echoing through the room.
As the sword shrank, its previous size a faint after-image, it morphed back into a simple charm necklace. Arthur placed it over his head, tucking it beneath his shirt as the energy in the room seemed to settle. But before he could collect himself, Dumbledore suddenly appeared in the doorway, rushing in with urgency. Alongside him were the four house teachers, all of them with wands drawn, their faces stern and alert.
“What’s going on here?!” McGonagall's voice cut through the tension. "Why aren’t you all in your dorms, as ordered?"
Before anyone could respond, Flitwick, his usual cheerfulness replaced with alarm, pointed urgently. “Headmaster! Look at the Golem!”
Everyone turned to follow his gaze, and a collective gasp filled the room as they saw the Golem—now split cleanly in half. The edges of the tear were still glowing red-hot, a testament to the immense power behind Arthur’s spell. The room went still as the professors took in the sight, their faces a mixture of disbelief and confusion.
Snape, ever skeptic, narrowed his eyes, his voice cutting through the silence. “Alright, enough with the theatrics. Who did this? Who destroyed this... thing?”
The students stood frozen for a moment, but slowly, one by one, they all raised their hands. Even Merlin pointed her finger straight at Arthur. Their eyes all fixed on the young boy, who closed his eyes in resignation and let out a slow, steady sigh.
“You’re bleeding!” Professor Sprout exclaimed, her voice rising in alarm as she finally noticed the blood on Arthur’s lip and the smear on his glove.
McGonagall’s face turned red with anger, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fury. “What were you thinking?!” she demanded. “What could have possessed you to fight this creature alone?! Do you honestly believe that just because you can perform a bit of magic, you’re invincible? Look at yourself!”
Arthur’s gaze was unwavering as he locked eyes with McGonagall. His voice was calm, but firm, his tone resolute. “Hermione was in danger,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension. “While you were all busy organizing the other students, I couldn’t just stand by and watch. If I hadn’t done what I did, she’d be dead. I acted because I had to. And I would do it again if it came to it.”
McGonagall looked ready to retort, her face flushed with indignation, but before she could speak, Dumbledore raised a hand, intervening with a quiet, commanding presence. “That’s enough, Minerva,” he said gently. “We can address Arthur’s actions later, offer him guidance on how to handle similar situations in the future. But for now, it seems clear that he requires medical attention.”
Dumbledore turned his gaze toward Lance, his expression calm but resolute. “Mr. Demere,” he said in his usual measured tone, “I assume you're already familiar with the way to the infirmary. Why don’t you escort Mr. King to Madame Pomfrey’s? Once you’ve seen to it that he receives proper care, please return directly to your dormitory.”
“Yes, Headmaster,” Lance replied with a firm nod.
Dumbledore gave Arthur a small, encouraging nod, wordlessly signaling that he should follow. Arthur fell into step beside Lance, still feeling the dull thrum of exhaustion in his limbs and the ache of overused magic in his core.
As they exited the bathroom and the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, Arthur caught Dumbledore’s voice echoing back through the corridor: “Now then... can anyone explain to me how exactly Mr. King managed to defeat the Golem?”
Arthur heard Merlin step forward, her voice confident and unwavering as she replied, “I would.”
Arthur didn’t listen any further. He trusted Merlin to explain everything—and perhaps omit some things that shouldn't be shared. With the battle over, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a creeping soreness in his joints and a growing silence between him and Lance as they walked side by side down the dimly lit corridor.
The quiet between them wasn't peaceful. It was charged—tense, awkward, and uncomfortable.
Arthur glanced sideways and immediately noticed the stiffness in Lance’s posture. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his fists were balled at his sides, trembling slightly. There was a storm brewing in his mind.
Arthur raised an eyebrow and broke the silence. “Before you break a few teeth grinding them to dust, want to tell me what’s eating you?”
Lance was quiet for a moment. His gaze remained ahead, his steps steady but heavy. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and tinged with frustration. “I was of no help to you.”
Arthur tilted his head slightly, surprised by the blunt honesty.
“I’ve trained my whole life,” Lance continued, eyes still fixed on the floor ahead of him. “Since I was a kid. My mum hired the best tutors she could find—dueling masters, spell specialists, combat instructors. That’s all my life was—train, train, train.”
He paused, his voice growing heavier.
“But when it finally mattered… when I had to put all that training to the test… I froze.” Lance’s hands clenched harder, knuckles turning white. “Even Gwyneth didn’t hesitate. She pulled her wand and was ready to stepped in. But me? I just stood there. Useless. And when that creature raised its sword and I just… locked up. Like I was staring death in the face.”
He scowled, his voice dripping with self-loathing. “It was pathetic.”
Arthur didn’t respond immediately. He let Lance’s words sit in the air for a moment before answering, his voice calm but firm. “It wasn’t pathetic.”
Lance shot him a look, confused.
Arthur shrugged. “It’s only natural. Training can’t prepare you for everything, especially not the first time you come face to face with real danger. With death. Freezing up doesn’t mean you are weak.”
“But you weren’t scared,” Lance said, his tone bitter. “You didn’t even flinch.”
Arthur looked ahead, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he spoke softly. “I’ve come face to face with death before, Lance. More than once.”
There was a pause.
“At this point… it’s like an old friend I’ve grown tired of meeting.”
Lance blinked, thrown off by the unexpected solemnity in Arthur’s voice. When he looked toward him again, Arthur wore a sad smile.
“I froze too, the first time it happened,” Arthur admitted. “And when I did… It cost me. A lot.”
Lance stopped in his tracks. “What… what do you mean by that?” he asked, startled. The haunted look that briefly passed through Arthur’s eyes made his breath catch in his throat.
But Arthur just shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to get into it. Not right now.”
The weight of unspoken pain hung between them like a fog.
“But know this,” Arthur continued, his voice regaining a bit of warmth. “You weren’t as useless as you think. When you saw I was injured, you didn’t hesitate. You pushed past Merlin and jumped in.”
He gave Lance a firm pat on the shoulder as he passed by. “Because you drew the Knight’s attention, it gave me the opening I needed to land the finishing blow. You were braver than you think. So… I owe you.”
With that, Arthur continued walking ahead, his figure illuminated by the soft glow of the castle torches lining the corridor.
Lance remained still for a moment, watching Arthur’s retreating back. His mind was spinning—not just with Arthur’s words, but with the grief buried behind his calm demeanor. What had he lost? What had it cost him to speak so knowingly about death?
Lance's brow furrowed with worry and curiosity.
He took a deep breath, then jogged forward to catch up. “Hey—wait up, will you?” he called out.
Arthur didn’t look back, but he slowed his pace just enough for Lance to fall into step beside him once more.
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