Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Far away from the eyes, far away from the mind.”

“Harry…”

The voice is as melancholic as he remembers. A cold hand caresses his cheek as he stares at them with blurry vision, unable to see the person made of blobs of colour and strange lights. His breath hitches, feeling a surge of energy burst inside him as a mirage of events explode in front of him. Events that he's never experienced. He couldn't understand, he couldn't fathom this. It was like his brain was being split in half as these scenes played before his eyes until he was left gasping for air, desperate to breathe. 

He's choking on his spit, bile rising up his throat as he hurries to scramble back on to the bed. The sensation is horrific, as if he had just gotten out from freezing cold waters, barely escaping as he drowns. It is difficult to calm himself, quickly abandoning the bed as he stares at his reflection in that ugly and dirty mirror Petunia had given. He still looked the same but still…

“Harry…” 

That voice again, he shudders, stumbling until his arse lands on the floor. Warm tears were already accumulating in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks as he furiously wiped them away. But alas, they did not stop and continued to run down his face as he slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to sob after that assault in his mind. 

The room becomes colder, evidently, frost creeping up on the walls. He was sure that it was only his room being affected. Yet he did not shudder nor did he feel it was uncomfortable. 

It was cold—similar to how cold it became when Dementors appeared. He merely closes his eyes, taking in deep breaths as he lies on the floor. The cold becomes worse, gently cradling his head and he knows—he knows it's there. The owner of that voice that whispers his name through his mind as if it was something to be revered. 

“Harry,” again, it whispers and reluctantly he opens his eyes. 

Faceless, formless, something. He finds it difficult to describe the figure before him. Its features were blurred, making them unrecognisable, even to Harry. Yet—yet he knew who this was. Who had given him torturous memories of a future he could barely understand. 

And he cries again, silent as he reached forehead and pulls their foreheads together. Harry cries harder than he ever has, whimpering as that cold becomes a strange, eldritch-like comfort. Those cold hands cup his cheeks, wiping away every tear that comes from him. 

“Harry,” the entity whispers yet again. It was soft, kind, sweet, affectionate, and gentle. Things he was inevitably unfamiliar with. 

He almost wails like a child if not for the entity shushing him ever so softly. He feels like a babe being cradled by his mother. But his mother was long gone and he didn't even know what colour were the eyes he was looking at. 

“Sweet child,” the voice whispers so softly. “Don't fret now, little one. I will ensure that your future does not stray down that path.” It hushes him ever so softly, cradling him and letting him rest his head on the crook of their shoulder. 

His heart pounds. 

“Cry. Loudly, if you must. No mortal shall hear you.” 

He breaks. 

His voice cracks as he sobs uncontrollable, wailing and wheezing as he clutches on to the fabric of the entity's clothes. There was no sense of understanding for him, unable to control himself as visions of that horrible future he was made to see. 

The betrayal, the deaths, the sorrow, the pain. 

Gods, he couldn't handle it all in one go. 

Dumbledore—sweet Morgana, Dumbledore. What had the man done? Anything except for keeping Harry safe and happy. 

That man had essentially destroyed his entire life. What was it for? What had everything been for? The greater good? What the fuck was that?! 

The mere memory of his death was horrific. A moment in which he lost himself, drowning yet again if not for those cold hands that dragged him back to reality every single time. His chest hurt as he cried, his body left a trembling mess as everything seemed to fade away at that moment. As he sucks in a deep breath, choking on his spit as he desperately tries to compose himself—inevitably failing in doing so. There is a burning sensation in his throat that makes him wrap a hand around his neck, his body writhing. 

Bile rises up his throat and he can't stop it from going off. A puddle of vomit lies beside him as the entity continues to hold him close, whispering soft and affectionate words that soothes his very soul. It burns, that sting in his throat, and yet everything around him feels muffled like he is underwater. He closes his eyes once more, choking on spit and vomit as he leans closer to the entity, muttering incoherent nothings. 

“Oh my child,”  it whispers and kisses his forehead, his scar—the mark of a horcrux latching itself onto his very soul. “Let me take you away. Let me cut your strings and give you your destiny.” 

The mere thought is tempting, so terribly tempting. 

He feels like Eve being lured to eat forbidden fruit by the snake. He feels like Pandora who's curiosity led her to opening that box of evil. He feels like every single person in history and mythology being coerced to do something forbidden—left with nothing but curiosity and desire as his hands reach forward, feeling nothing and everything as he cups the entity's cheek. It's cold, as he expects, shuddering it softens his cries for it was more comforting then the warmth of visceral and cruel flames. He reaches forward, hand clenching around silken robes as he cries far worse than he did just moments ago. 

“I want to be free…” he wails, “I want to be free… I don't want to suffer anymore. Please… please…” he begs and begs, and hopes that whatever god out there would listen to his cries. Yet there is nothing and everything and there was the in-between of those two things. His heart pounds in his ear and sobs. “Please…”

He breaks and breaks, and he can feel his very soul ripping at the seams. He feels his own sorrow, his anger, his pain burn through his soul. The entity holds him tighter, knowing that whatever his soul was going through made him cry more, heart aching at the numbing pain that burst inside him. 

“Hush… wait a day longer, sweet child.” The entity promises and Harry, for everything that has happened, trusts it. The world was cruel yet this cold entity held him so gently, he almost forgot how horrible the world could be. “You will get your gift from me on your birthday. I swear it to you… I will grant you freedom, little master.” 

With another kiss to his forehead, Harry falls into deep sleep. 

Tomorrow would be his birthday.

He blinks quietly, staring at the clock as he realises that he's lived long enough to be fifteen. But it seems that was futile. 

The visions from last night had revealed that he wouldn't live past twenty, not even outliving his own parents. 

Harry is sure he had not dreamt everything last night. He was sure that the entity that had come to cradle him like he was a babe was not simply a figment of his imagination. There is a presence in his room that was like a muted version of the one he felt from the unknown entity. Mindlessly, he would reach into the air and think he'd be able to touch something—and perhaps, he could. There's something there. Something pure and corrupted, making his breath hitch. 

Something; he doesn't fathom what the substance that floated around his hand is. It's black, grey, and white. Muted colours, making his eyes go wide as his body trembles from the mere excitement of what he was seeing. Was this something left from the entity? Was it the essence of that entity? He falters, a crashing realisation ringing in his ears as his heart pounded against his ribcage, as if it was trying to escape. 

Magic. It was Magic. 

This strange substance that was a mix of liquid and gas was magic. He felt it yet it was just like air that passed through his fingers. 

His breath hitches, as if he's choking on the air itself. 

It's beautiful, he thinks as his eyes water at this comforting sensation that comes from the strange magic that lingers upon his fingers—his very flesh 

There's a loud bang from outside his door. 

For all his trouble, the danger he's faced, he still doesn't quite get used to the way his instincts immediately have him curling up into a ball. His hands pressed against his ears, closing his eyes as he heard his uncle curse his very name for whatever inconvenience he's gone through. It's a common thing in this house—to place the blame on Harry for simple and large things. Inconveniences were blamed on him—on Magic. 

He took in deep breaths, preparing himself for anything. But there is nothing. 

His uncle does not come barrelling in, belt in hand and ready to whip him. His aunt does not usher Dudley away to hide such abuse from her precious baby's eyes, trying not to taint him. His aunt does not cover her ears and ignores the blatant and barbaric way her husband “disciplines” their no good nephew. There is nothing but silence as Harry hugs himself in a corner, gulping as his throat feels awfully dry. 

He hasn't had food for quite some time now and yet he doesn't feel hungry. Not that much, to be honest. 

He simply closes his eyes, rocking his body as he tries to recall what that flurry of memories were. He had been dragged through time by that entity and yet some parts of his memories felt missing. It was a side effect, obviously. Time travel was tricky after all. 

Hermione had told him of how fragile time was. How there were those powerful enough to bend it, to slice through—but as fragile as it was, Time never broke. But it did split into pieces. Bending time, turning back time wasn't simply resetting the world around you. Place yourself in a different time, in the past, and that creates a new future. One simply detached themselves from their present, travelling to the past, cleaving the path before them into two. A new future was created but that did not erase the present a person left behind. 

The simple thought gutted him, his head in his hands as he sucked in deep breaths. He had not asked for this; moreover, he did not intend to abandon the present he had been in. 

Sucking in deep breaths, he tried to remember; summoning any memory he could find. He finds himself at a loss as the most vivid of those memories is an obscure death with red and green light, a discovery he did not want to know, and madness that dug itself deep into his bones. He clutches at his chest, heaving a sigh as he glances at the door, questioning. 

Has the entity charmed it? Placed a ward so his relatives would be coaxed away from harming him? 

That did not settle well in him. He had grown used to the reasonable apprehension of pain. That constant paranoia to brace himself as he prepared to be struck by his uncle, or to be yelled at by his aunt. Dudley was the least of his issues in this household but the boy was a terror that liked to play dog and rat in the worst ways possible. 

Harry places a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment. As he reaches into the air once again, he sighs in pure and utter relief as he feels the magic weave over his fingers. A hum escapes him, staring at this monochrome mass that suddenly shifts colours. Red, green, blue, yellow; the colours of Hogwarts that he loved so deeply. It's comforting, even in this lonely room. Even in his isolation. 

He misses Hedwig, but he's ever so thankful he had let her out before he arrived. Seeing her all cages up was a horrid sight to experience. 

“Just a couple more hours,” he assures himself. Just a few more hours before midnight struck. 

The entity—he knows its name but he does not dare speak it—had promised him a gift. A gift. 

He hopes it was freedom.

He could not sleep. 

Emerald eyes stared at the clock in apprehension, on the horrible verge of vomiting his guts out yet again. 

11:57

He shudders, slowly creeping out his bed as he tries to open his door. It's locked from the outside, as usual.

Harry is starving. His aunt had refused to feed him for a day and a half and felt faint already. He should return to bed, but he can't. Not now. Not when an ancient entity had promised, had vowed to give him a gift for his fifteenth birthday. 

11:58

Only a minute has passed and his heart is already pounding. A little whimper escapes him, unable to resist the way he presses himself against the window. Staring at the garden in apprehension—as if he'll see a shadowy figure wearing a cloak on the lawn. There is none.

But it is cold. 

Wretched and familiar cold as frost slowly creeps up his window. He does not withdraw his hand from the growing frost, his eyes practically bulging our of their sockets as the cold grows even worse. He hopes his relatives do not wake up. 

He hopes they remain asleep. 

He doesn't think that this coldness is something that he must fear. To Harry, this was a sign. 

Quickly, he glances at the clock and his heart pounds. 

11:59

Somehow, minutes felt like hours as the frost continued to grow. 

It reaches his hand and to his surprise, it does not hurt. The frost is similar to the unknown magic he had felt. It's comforting, it's unnerving, it welcomes him without scrutiny that he can't help but press his forehead against the glass. 

For a second, he breathes. 

And as he turned to the clock once more, his breath hitched as it struck midnight. 

12:00

July 31st, 1995.

“Harry.”

Once again, Harry finds himself being cradled like a child. He drowns himself in this sensation of cold, succumbing to the whisper in his mind that tells him: be a child. Be nothing but a babe in the arms of a mother. 

That is what he becomes as his eyes drop, lying peacefully in the arms of the entity. Again—he dares not utter a name. He will feel fear and yet he will accept it with open arms. To feel fear is to be alive, to be standing in the living world with a beating heart as he breathes in the oxygen. Fear is a constant in their lives. 

“Oh little one…” It cooes at him, cupping his cheek and kissing his forehead. 

“I have but one request.” 

Mindlessly, Harry nods as his eyes glaze over. The memories of that distant future are more vivid now—more alive. It's a loathsome fact that makes guilt and anger coil around his heart, clinging on to the entity and nuzzling into their neck. 

“Who am I?” 

He freezes, like a deer in headlights. 

His first instinct is to push the entity away, to run, to scream. But the entity holds him tight, close to its chest. There is no beating heart when Harry presses an ear to its chest. His own chest heaves, trying so desperately not to speak. But his mouth rips open, not a sound coming out of it. 

The desperation in his eyes is pathetic when looks up at the entity, silently pleading with it. 

Harry sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes once again. There was still no heart to listen to. But there was his own beating heart. He remembers the way it thrummed so loudly when he fought Voldemort, when he had been forced into a duel. He recalls—from those faded memories of a future he hates—another duel between him and the dark lord. 

The adrenaline had coursed so horribly that day. But he remembers, he doubts and yet he does, to the moments before his sacrifice. The Gaunt ring had been cold and detached. It conjured the wraiths, the spirits of those in the afterlife. His mother, his father, Sirius, Remus. Those ghosts had showed themselves to him, whispering words of such love and affection that he craved. 

And yet—And yet it was those wraiths who spoke of how easy it was to die. Harry is under no illusion that everything must live on eternally. Yet those wraiths, spirits of those who had claimed to love him; the images of the dead who had sacrificed themselves for him—had led him to death. Were those images truly them? Or was the resurrection stone just as cursed as the elder wand?

Hermione had told him the story when they had run for their lives. Xenophilius Lovegood had been a jittery man—yet he could not hate the man. Not when he was willing to sacrifice the world for his daughter. 

Harry goes further back. 

His cloak is tucked in his trunk, cared for—always. 

Of all his belongings, of all the things that he owned, that cloak was something he'd die for. Take his clothes, his food, his broom, but not his wand and cloak. Not the cloak that was the only thing left of his true heritage. Anything but that. 

Harry sucks in a deep breath, pulling away as his eyes narrow on the entity. 

He was almost reminded of a dementor. Yet Dementors did not feel ethereal and divine. Their presence summoned sorrow and despair—the being before him dragged the truth in front of him and made him see. 

His mind lingers to his cloak, gulping as he recalls, once again, the story of the three brothers. The third brother had been wise, cynical but preserving. He had lived longest amongst the brothers. A wise man who did not trust Death but never rejected Death. 

And Harry? He trusted and did not trust Death. 

He could turn nowhere but forward. 

“Hello Death… I'm Harry Potter.”

And Death, though faceless, smiles. 

“Oh little master… would you like me to give you a new name?”

His heart felt like coal, wrapping his hand around the door knob. It opened without a sound. Harry trudges out the garden, wobbling from side to side as his vision practically faded every few seconds. The only reason why he could even walk at this point was the guiding hand of Death. 

Death whispers sweet words to him, coaxing him out of the house. To his utter terror, he is met with a swarm of Dementors that circle around Privet Drive. 

“Do you feel hope, little one?” Death asks, running their fingers through Harry's hair. 

Hope; such a word felt meaningless. Wordlessly, mindlessly, he raises his wand and waves his arm in a familiar motion. 

“Expecto Patronum!” He yelled sucking in deep breaths as a mere wisp of silvery light exudes from his wand. Panic settled in quickly, repeating the spell over and over again. Nothing worked; his stag was not summoned and he was left helpless before the Dementors. 

Every single happy memory he had felt tainted. The future he saw shattered his hope, broke him and darkened his soul. What was there to be happy about? He asks himself and finds no answer. If his future was destined for ruin then what was there to look forward too? Give him a reason to be happy. Give him an untainted memory of pure and utter happiness and he will summon his patronus. But there is not one. Even the sensation of flying feels bitter for him.

A boney hand wraps around his wrist, feeling the presence of Death press against his back. 

“Do not fear, little one. You are no master of mine, but you are mine.” Death explains, “They will never hurt you. Never.”

Hesitation racks through his mind as he narrows his gaze on the Dementors. They don't come near him, yet the continue to linger. He hopes—maliciously—that his relatives have nightmares because of them. He hopes that their happiness is drained from their very souls. 

He hopes and hopes—and it's a terrible kind of hope that runs through his soul. 

“A new spell… a new one. The Patronus may not work for now but…” Death hums, guiding Harry's hand. It started of looking like a diamond, being to the right, down, left, then up. Rather than connecting it, Death guided his hand straid down where the middle of the diamond should be. “Remember this… Remember everything you've gone through. Seek your very soul, claw at the depths of it if you must.”

There's a buzz in his hand, hesitating as he grips his wand tightly. He glances back at Death's faceless figure, taking in deep breaths as he nods. Death hums once more, sounding quite proud and he's practically elated. 

“You will know the word, little one… You've etched it into your soul without knowing.” Death chuckles, disappearing. 

Harry's panic returns and he desperately tries to seek out his own soul. His magic expanding around him, writhing. He felt it. The way it was filled with nothing but chaos as he reached forward into his soul. 

It's a darkening thing. The light it has dims and Harry reaches forward, plunging himself into his soul. He practically drowns in it, searching for that word, for that spell that Death says has been carved into him. It was like sipping his hands in freezing waters. He's reminded of the day Dumbledore had taken him to the cave, the same cave where he found the fake horcrux. 

In the depths of his soul, he trembles horribly as he feels a searing heat burn him. 

The horcrux. 

A part of Voldemort’s soul that latched on to him; a parasite. 

For a moment, he's tempted to just tear apart his soul just to rip it out. But patience was a virtue he must learn. He passed that horcrux and kept searching. In doing so, he repeated that strange wand movement over and over again. 

In those cold depths of his soul, he grasps something and pulls. 

“Advoco Sicarium.”

And there erupts his stag. 

Prongs, Sirius had fondly named it after Harry's father. The silvery blue stag dances around him and hope erupts in his chest. For once, Harry smiles as he opens his arms, inviting the stag towards him. 

But it changes the closer it gets. 

Harry's eyes are blown wide, almost horrified as his stag practically breaks its bones, it's antlers growing larger and sharper. The silvery and red hue that created the stag faded to red and black just as it stood on its hind legs. The stag that was once so gentle, becomes monstrous as it towers over him, eyes as red as the cruciatus. 

He stumbled back, landing on his arse as the monster he created hovers over him. 

It was the antithesis of the Patronus. This wasn't simply a protector. It didn't repel Dementors, rather, they were drawn to it. Circling closer, right above the house. 

The stag—could he even call it a stag anymore? He doesn't know. But his breath lodges itself in his throat, just as his hand moves up. The beast leans forward, nuzzling its monstrous snout against his palm. 

For a second, Harry's eyes meet with the beasts. 

Suddenly his eyes were red and the monster’s was green. 

DEMENTOR’S AGAINST THE BOY WHO LIVED?! 

By Rita Skeeter, August 3 1995

This just in, our very own Boy Who Lived, Harry James Potter has reportedly gone missing. It was reported that on the night before Mr. Potter’s birthday, a swarm of Dementors had left the grounds of Azkaban and haunted the street where our Hero’s muggle family lived. Reports say that the house the Dementors swarmed was none other than the house of Harry Potter, ending with Mr. Potter's Aunt, Uncle, and cousin being left lifeless in their own home from the Dementor's Kiss.

There has not been any hint of where the Boy Who Lived has gone, seemingly vanishing from the world. Both Ministry and Headmaster Dumbledore have been frantically looking for him but to no avail. 

After the events of the Triwizard Tournament where Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, met his untimely passing, Harry Potter claimed that the Dark Lord had returned. Many believed that he lied to curry more fame but is that truly the case? There is no evidence of the Dark Lord's return yet Harry Potter has suddenly gone missing after his home and muggle relatives were targeted by Dementors. 

Was Harry Potter truly lying when the Dark Lord returned or was he telling the truth and we as a community failed to believe him? Where has he gone? Did the Dark Lord abduct our Hero? 

The ministry was in shambles as they frantically ordered every auror on duty to search for the boy who lived. A manhunt had begun, led by none other than Rufus Scrimgeour. When news of the Dementors attack had arrived at the ministry, it was already too late. Harry Potter's relatives were found dead in their homes by the Dementor's Kiss, causing them to hurriedly alter the memories of those who found the Dursleys. Obliviators were running around left and right, altering the minds of muggles to believe that a burglary had taken place, leading to the death of the Dursleys. 

Fudge was receiving fire for this, from the public and the Wizengamot. Lords and Ladies of noble houses were demanding that the Potter heir was to be found immediately. Unfortunately, even after two days of searching—casting spells and performing rituals—Harry Potter was nowhere to be found. It seemed like everything was going down hill at that point, leading them all to believe that perhaps Harry Potter had not lied. 

Or perhaps he had been made to believe the return of the Dark Lord. There was still the possibility of Death Eater's kidnapping the boy to scare him into believing that You-Know-Who had come back to life. 

Grimmauld Place was an absolute mess, a dumpster fire as Sirius casted curse after curse in the drawing room. Remus, absolutely helpless, tried to calm him down but inevitably failed when the grimm growled at him with such a ferocity that it was like Sirius was about to transform into his animagus form. 

“Albus, if he is not found I will look for him myself!” Sirius snaps, pointing his wand at the Headmaster. 

Dumbledore grimaces, nodding in understanding as he urges Sirius to lower his wand. The rest of the Order did not dare to move, facing the feral Black. “My boy, calm yourself. I am sure that Harry was able to escape whoever had targeted him. He is a resilient child.”

“Exactly!” Sirius slams his hands on the table, “He's a child! A child!” 

Dumbledore flinches at his words, pursing his lips and avoiding the vengeance that tainted Sirius silver eyes. The Black Madness seeped deeper into the man, unable to stabilise himself. His only tether to his sanity, his precious baby, had gone missing. He only had a year with Harry after escaping from Azkaban. A year! Just that! 

“Who the hell even had the balls to go after him? Dementors? You-know-who? Which one Albus?! Who must I kill to get my godson back?!” Sirius lashes out, his magic shattering the fine china that his mother had purchased years ago. Remus tugd him backward, but Sirius does not relentless. He shrugs Remus away from him, glaring into Dumbledore's soul. 

“Who?!” 

“Sirius, that is enough!” Molly slams her hands on the table, glaring at Sirius. 

“Enough?! When has it been enough?!” Sirius laughs. His voice is hoarse, strained, filled with such sorrow. “It's never been enough when it comes to Harry! You ask and ask for more from him. Why the hell is this enough?! Why can't I give him something more than enough?!” 

Molly's breath hitches, quickly sitting down as she finds herself defeated. 

As they argued, practically hell bent, Ron leans against the wall listening. In his hands was a letter, clenched and wrinkled as he holds it tight. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushes himself off the wall and retreats into his room. The room he was supposed to share with Harry. 

Hedwig, the strange thing, stares at him from the window she is perched on. Beady eyes looking at him with such expectations. 

“Fuck… bloody hell Harry… what have you done this time?” He mutters, staring at the parchment. 

Dear Ron, 

I'm going to change my Fate. I'm going to give us a better future. Wish me luck. 

Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

He who feared he would not succeed sat still.

LOST GAUNT HEIR EMERGES FROM HIDING! 

By Rita Skeeter, November 1, 1995

Many people know that the Gaunt seats, the last of Salazar Slytherin’s direct descendents ( see page 2) , has been empty for many years. Since the previous Lord of the House was expelled from his Wizengamot seats after landing himself in Azkaban for a long period of time. . . 

. . . Marvolo Gaunt has emerged from hiding after. . . Exclusive interview with the new Lord of Slytherins ( see page 4) reveals that due to his own relative having besmirched the great name of Slytherin, his family went into hiding. . . 

 

CLASSES OF OLDE HOGWARTS REMOVED? TRADITION AND CULTURE RETURNED AT LAST!

By Rita Skeeter, December 20, 1995

Since the removal of Etiquette and Traditions lessons, a core class taken by all and every kind of student, was removed in the early 1930s, there has been a drastic decline in proper mannerism amongst witches and wizards. 

Now, it is not to say that many of us are uneducated in terms of etiquette and that we display barbaric behaviour, however, it must be said that these lessons are essential to our world as we preserve our traditions. . . 

THERE IS NO EVIL IN DARK MAGIC!! 

By E. Fenetre, March 18, 1996

After a rather public meeting of the Wizengamot, it has been announced that dark magic has finally been legalised once more. 

The law that made dark magic illegal was made in March 1937 (turn to page 3 for more). Initially, the main cause of this law's creation was to prevent the use of dangerous dark magic by the followers of the previous Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald. 

However, on March 1 1996, young Lord Gaunt appealed to the court that there is no evil in Dark Magic, rather, there is evil in the people who wield it. It has been proven that even the lightest of spells like a simple Wingardium Leviosa can cause fatal wounds…

DARK STUDIES: FREEDOM OF EDUCATION IN HOGWARTS!

By E. Fenetre, July 8 1996

It is well known that the Hogwarts curriculum has been revised upon the discovery that our beloved school is lacking compared to other magical schools. Thankfully, individuals like Lord Gaunt, Lady Malfoy, Amelia Bones, Lord and Lady Greengrass, and Julius Abbott—Head of the department of Education. 

Since the reform of the curriculum, beginning with the addition of Etiquette and Culture classes as core lessons, Hogwarts has been able to catch up with the standards of other wizarding schools. However, the curriculum lacked diversity as the main focus of these classes were light and grey magic. 

However, as of June 31, 1996, a new class named Dark Studies has been integrated in order to educate students on the Dark Arts that have been stigmatised for decades. . . 

The most recent paper had been quite a delight to half of Britain's wizarding society. The revision of Hogwarts curriculum had been an action heavily advocated by members of the Wizengamot—be it members of the dark, grey, and light. However, it must be said that families who have declared for the Dark have never been happier in decades. 

Old Adrik Nott had been rather smug that Dark Arts— Dark Studies —was finally returned to the Hogwarts curriculum. Though he hadn't managed to enter Hogwarts before the removal of such classes, he had still suffered from the agitation of his seniors of how such an important class was removed because of the actions of others. 

He hadn't been too surprised when his own grandson went and demanded to be transferred the Durmstrang. But it was peculiar of Theo…

“Dedushka,” a voice says and Adrik merely hums from his seat by the fire. Turning his gaze towards his grandson, the man could not help but smile as he stood up, patting away nonexistent dust from his robes. 

“Theodore, мой внук. Добро пожаловать домой.” Adrik chuckles, opening his arms as he grins softly at his only heir. —my grandson. Welcome home. 

Theo shakes his head, swiftly crossing the room to give his grandfather a hug. There is a smile on his face, something that the public does not often see. He had grown to be a fine young man, especially after transferring schools. Though Adrik was quite displeased to know that his grandchild would be so far from him, he had never failed to be proud of the man his grandson became. He was old and lonely—not that he would admit it—man. His wife died from illness and taken too soon, his son was stuck in Azkaban. And good riddance for that. 

“You've grown since Ostara.” Adrik observes, nodding in satisfaction as he pats Theo's shoulder. “Durmstrang has done well for you. If you were to graduate there, I just know that you will have many opportunities.”

Theo's expression turns sullen, sighing as he bitterly smiles at Adrik. “Dedushka, I've already decided to return to Britain.”

“Bah! Hogwarts may be improving but it is nowhere near the greatness of Durmstrang. What would be the benefit of returning to this wretched place?” Adrik scoffs, returning to his seat as he glares at Theo. “The new generation might be working to repeal the laws but that will take time. Go back to Russia if you must.” Adrik does not hide his scowl, his displeasure of knowing that Theo's potential must be squashed because of the lack of education in their country. If he must, he would move to Russia—their family's origin country—himself just for Theo to be saved from the depravity of Britain's system. 

Theo sighs, unceremoniously grabbing the bottle of whiskey Adrik had drank from. The young man pours himself a glass, taking a sip as he stares at the fire. “I need to return to fix the connections we've made. If we move now, all our efforts will be for naught. Perhaps, when I am to marry, I will move us to Russia, but not now.” 

“What are connections when we already have them in Russia?” 

“They are fickle relationships, dedushka. The ones we've made here are born from years of exchange and communication. Would you really be willing to toss out the good relationship we've made with the Malfoys, Greengrasses, and Rosiers for something so simple?” Theo sighs, sitting opposite to his grandfather. 

Adrik, begrudgingly, admits that he would be bitter if he had to do such a thing. Generations of good will—thrown down the drain just because he wanted to move—absurd. 

“If we move to Russia, it's not like we'll be the same there. Generations of connections? Please. We're not as well acquainted with the Zolotovs and Medvedevs as we are to the Malfoys.” Theo explains, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “Besides, I heard from our Dark Studies professor that it is her teaching apprentice who will be going to Hogwarts.”

“Oh?” 

“Hmm… Roksana Solovyova.” He drawls, tilting his head. “She was a good teacher. That, I can attest.”

Adrik shook his head again, sighing in exasperation as he rubbed his throbbing temple. He glares at Theo, returning with a charming smile—and oh did that boy look so much like his grandmother when he smiled like that. Admittedly, Adrik was quite weak to it. 

“Very well,” Adrik sighs, “But don't regret your decisions.”

“I won't.”

“We'll see…” Adrik grunts, glancing at Theo again. He sees the dazed look on his grandson's eyes, making him frown. “What of that Peverell boy you are friends with? Was he not angry that you would leave?” 

Theo perks up when the name Peverell is brought up. To be fair, even Adrik was surprised when Theo had written of a strange boy named Peverell in his fifth year. The name Peverell was supposedly extinct, but apparently, this one was a legitimate heir with the ring and everything. 

“Well… he told me to write to him.” Theo cleared his throat, avoiding Adrik’s eyes. “And well… yes, he was quite annoyed when I had to leave but he was understanding. Last I knew, he was deep into his research paper for final requirements. Obsessive he is. I could never get him away from his Principles of Magic and Dark Studies research.”

“Good on him. Why couldn't you be like that?” 

Theo scowls, “Peverell is an unhinged academic. Dedushka, I would hope you are to never meet him at all with his mania. I did not lie when I said he almost blew up half the castle when working on a spell.”

“If you say so…” Adrik grumbles, taking a sip of his whiskey. He flicks his wand, making the Daily Prophet zoom into Theo's hands. “Read it. Best you catch up on society's latest agendas. Be wary of Gaunt,” Adrik falters, gritting his teeth as the picture of a familiar man flashes before him. “He's trouble, regardless of how good his work is.”

Theo's brow raised, a question bubbling in his throat before he shoved it back down. Shrugging, he begins to read the prophet, amused with the latest gossip. Perhaps he'll convene with his old circle of friends. Hopefully they would be welcoming, but knowing the group of pureblood Slytherins, they would be anything but. 

On the fifteenth of July, Theo and Adrik found themselves in Malfoy Manor. 

“Tsk… such formalities. I often regret befriending Abraxas.” Adrik sighs, shaking his head as his grandson soon follows out of the fireplace. “Twenty years of marriage. Narcissa and Lucius must be happy.” 

Theo hums, crossing his arms over his chest. The 20th anniversary Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Having lasted that long should be applauded in his opinion. Then again, it was a small secret that Draco was the reward of three years of hard work on their part. Theo often snorted when Draco regales the fact that he was an only child, parading that he was the only child his parents had wanted. It had been an accident when Theo heard his grandfather drunkenly speak of how Draco was the only child they could have. He's known this for long but never was cruel enough to spit it on Draco's face. 

“Look alive, son.” Adrik laughs, loud and arrogant that it makes some heads turn in their direction. “Go mingle, boy. You say connections are valuable? Rekindle the ones you left behind. If you wish to look for me, I will be in the bar, mourning with the other folk of my generation.”

Adrik grins, before pressing on Theo's shoulder. “Do not shame our house, Theodore.”

Theo, finally used to the pressure his grandfather occasionally pressed on him, nodded in understanding. “I won't. I swear on it.” 

Theo sighs as his grandfather departs, slinking off to the open bar where other elderly wixens have gathered. Some were already sombre, trying to be polite about the celebration. He supposed that his grandfather was displeased that he only had his wife four little over 20 years before she succumbed to illness. 

As he turns away, he's met with a dark gaze that he knows far too well. A grin stretches across his face, sauntering towards the clearly fuming girl with confidence that should not be weighted upon his shoulders. 

“Theodore Nott.”

“Pansy Parkinson.”

He expected to be slapped but Pansy was cordial, a pinched smile on her face as she hooked their arms together. The air around them turned prickly, reacting to Pansy's magic as she guided him towards a particularly sceptical group. 

“How have you been?” He nonchalantly asks, tilting his head towards her. 

Pansy wryly smiles, “Very well, if you must know. I must say, you come as a surprise. Why didn't you write to us about your return, hm? Ashamed?” 

“Me? Ashamed?” He scoffs, “Please, Pansy. If anything, I'm quite delighted with myself. Durmstrang was wonderful, if you must know.” He sarcastically repeats her words. 

Pansy tightened her grip on him, nails digging into his sleeve as they were welcomed by the usual circle of Slytherin heirs. 

“Nott,” Draco coldly greets, narrowing his eyes at the other boy as if to see if there was a hint of treachery in him. Of course, Theo has expected this. They were sensitive heirs who deemed his sudden transfer a betrayal to their friendship, something akin to abandonment. 

“Don't be too prickly.” Theo sighs, taking Daphne's hand and gently pressing a kiss to it. “I'm back for seventh year, alright? Even though I wanted to graduate in Durmstrang, circumstances decided the opposite. So, why don't we make up and be nice?” 

Draco scowls, while Blaise shakes his head in amusement. 

Daphne hums softly, “Why have you returned to Britain? I distinctly remember you leaving in a blade of glory, claiming that you'll finally be educated in our heritage that we were deprived of. Your letters weren't as descriptive as I expected.” 

Theo shrugs, “Running from my heir duties no longer matters as I've already come of age. It's only natural that I return now. At the very least, Hogwarts is decent now.” he chuckles, still amused by the displeasure in Draco's eyes. Two years of being away and he's already casted as an outsider. “Your Dark Studies professor is an alumnus of Durmstrang. I'm sure it'll be fine.”

The mention of Dark Studies has them relaxing a bit. 

“Really? Do you know her?”

“She was the assistant teacher when I had transferred. She's wonderful, mind you, but I suppose you must restrain your judgement until you've been in a class with her.” Theo chuckles, “Though I am concerned with the students who've been thoroughly brainwashed into believing that Dark Magic is evil.”

“A shame indeed.” Draco sighs, taking a sip of his champagne and watches as his parents parade around the room, happily celebrating their 20th anniversary. “At least the Weasleys have been cleansed of generational brainwashing.”

“Ah, so it's true then?” Theo blinks in surprise, “Ron Weasley has been active in restoring Dark Magic. Same with his older brothers.”

“And the sister.” Pansy grudgingly adds. 

Draco simply shrugs again, “Since Potter and Granger up and vanished, he's been more tame but he gets aggressive when you press on too much. He knows where they went, I'm sure of it.” 

“Draco.” Daphne implores with a warning tone. “What have we said about this… fascination with the missing members of the golden trio, hm?”

Again, Draco scowls and turns away, giving his attention to an eager young witch who practically stumbled her way towards him. As per usual, he awards the girl with a charming smile, tilting his head as he supposedly listens to her ramble about how wonderful he was. 

“What's happened to Weasley? I heard that Granger disappeared after Potter went missing, but nothing much on the last Gryffindor.” Theo nurses the glass of champagne close to his chest, taking a quiet sip before looking between Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne. 

Blaise scoots closer, “All sorts of shit went down when people realised that only Weasley was coming back for fifth year.”

“Blaise!” 

“What? It's true. The Gryffindors rioted when they found out that Granger apparently transferred. Some called her a traitor and Weasley cursed them to the next week for it.” Blaise rolled his eyes, but there's a soft and fond look in his eyes in the way he speaks of Weasley. “He's been pretty decent ever since. ‘pparently, with his house cussing out his friends, he's gone and went mad.”

Pansy shakes her head, “Suppose’ it's true. If you encounter him when term starts, try not to start a fight, okay? I'm quite sure the devil twins have taught him a lot of dark curses since the repeal of the Dark Magic ban.”

Theo nods, understanding and intrigued. The events that occured since his transfer seemed quite interesting. He's almost mournful that he hadn't been in Hogwarts during that time—till he remembers how great Durmstrang had been. The classes, the teachers, the students. 

Topics shift and change and it once again lands on Durmstrang. The Hogwarts students listened with wrapped attention when Theo vividly described how wonderful it was to perform rituals in the castle when the holidays arrived. The Samhain ritual where students are given ritual rooms to commune with the dead, the early Yule feast that bids students farewell for those who returned home for the holidays, the early Ostara, Mabon. They were awed, impressed that Durmstrang openly celebrated such holidays, while their school could barely hold a proper Yule feast at this point. 

Theo can describe his first Samhain ritual in the castle. He had been invited by his fellow fifth years and some older students to perform the ritual outside rather than in a room, where some beginners were told to perform. It had been amazing, basking in the presence of those they lost. He described—feigning teary eyes—that he had heard his mother's voice when performing the ritual. That easily garnered him some sympathy and grand curiosity from his peers who have never experienced a proper Samhain night. 

Conversations trailed off after that. It was fairly pleasant, even as he was pulled aside by Ministry officials, trying to curry favour from House Nott. Course, the entire thing was an annoying affair but he plastered a smile across his face and endured. Even when he's on the verge of fleeing from the frivolities and taking back his decision to return, he stays and smiles. 

“Oh… Gaunt has arrived.” Daphne mutters, setting her champagne down and diligently straightening the wrinkles on her dress. 

Theo falters, glancing at the people who have immediately flocked around the man. Aristocratic and sharp features with an inevitable presence of magic —Marvolo Gaunt was difficult and easy to describe as he observed the man. He wore his House’s colours, the deep green robes he wore were fitted to his figure perfectly and he caught the attention of everyone ever so easily. 

“And why are you prettying up?” 

Pansy glares at him, “Watch your tongue, Theodore. Who wouldn't want to look presentable for Britain's most famous wizard?” 

Theo rolls his eyes, “Of course, of course. Anything on Gaunt?” He leans closer to Blaise, raising a brow at the other boy. 

Like the lover of gossip he was, Blaise grins. “Marvolo Gaunt… Some say he's a bastard of the house and had enough magic to stake a claim on the Gaunts' empty vaults. Others say he's the Dark Lord's son. No one truly knows, but it's clear that the man means what he says. He's been changing the ministry to his design since he arrived two years ago.”

“Are we meant to be approving of him or…” 

“Oh, we definitely like him. He's decent enough.” Blaise hides a laugh behind his wine glass, eyes narrowed as Draco is ushered by his mother to greet the young Lord. “Make your own judgement, Theo. I'm sure it'll be good.”

There's a dark tone in the way he speaks. Theo can't help but grin. 

His eyes narrowed as Gaunt flattered the elder ladies of different houses, appealing to him. The man was good but did he mean trouble?

He turns towards his grandfather. Adrik glances at him, lazily grins as he tips his glass towards Theo. He had to make his own judgments then. 

BOY-WHO-VANISHED: HARRY POTTER STILL M.I.A.

By Rita Skeeter, July 31 1997

It has been two years since the disappearance of our dear boy-who-lived. Harry Potter's locations had yet to be perceived and the reasons for his disappearance have not been discovered as of late. To this day, Lord Sirius Black and Lady Narcissa Malfoy continue to search for the missing boy. 

Ron Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter, has refused any comment on the disappearance of his closest friend. Meanwhile, Miss Hermione Granger remains unknown after leaving the country right before the start of term…

…Wherever you are, Harry Potter, we wish you a Happy Birthday and safe return. 

Theo stares at the article. It managed to place itself on the front page of the prophet, for Morgana's sake. He couldn't help but laugh. 

“Theodore!” 

He sighs, setting the prophet down and getting up from the comfortable seat he had been in. Adrik's voice had come from the study, leading him to the second floor and knocking until his grandfather muttered a ‘come in’. 

“Dedushka, do you need anything?” Theo asks, trying to be polite as he closes the door behind him. 

The expression on his grandfather’s face implied that nothing good was going to come out of his mouth. He slammed a letter down on his desk, making Theo flinch at the sudden aggression. Quietly, he shifted closer to take a good look at the letter. It was a ministry letter, from what he's seen on the sigil at the top. 

“They're requesting to give Thaddeus a re-trial.” 

Theo flinched, gritting his teeth as he glanced at his grandfather. 

“And why, pray tell, do they wish to do that? He was found guilty of abusing and murdering my mother. I don't understand how they doubt his sentence now, after all these years.” 

“The re-trial of Sirius Black has them questioning everything. Bones has been taking out every single Death Eater file to check if they ended up in Azkaban like Black, without a trial.” Adrik grumbles, rubbing the side of his head. “Thaddeus had his trial, but not on his transgressions as a Death Eater. If he is found guilty, his sentence is shortened for the appropriate charges.”

Adrik takes a cigarette from his drawer, lighting it soon after and sighing in annoyance. His gaze softened as he glances at Theo. “He'll have his trial in the next month… You are not required to join, of course. It's my burden to shoulder.”

“No… I'll be alright. If the trial pulls through then I want to see him be dragged back to Azkaban.” Theo sighs, clasping his hands behind his back. He smiles thoughtlessly at his grandfather, “May I be excused? I have a letter to write.”

Adrik grumbles, “Of course… You are excused.”

Theo smiles again, briskly leaving the room and shutting the door quietly. A deep breath later and he's dashing to his room to send his owl to Germany.

There was the scent of ink, parchment, and a bit of smoke. The clattering noise of things falling and the sounds of small explosions echoed through the hall. 

Theo's owl warily enters through the window, perched on a table. It is found by a young lady, curious and intrigued as she approaches him. “Well hello, darling. It seems Theo isn't too up to the task.” She chuckles, caressing the owl's feathers. It croons into her touch as she gently removes the letter tied to its leg. “Poor thing. You must be tired. Here, have some food before you go.”

The owl hoots softly as the girl retreats out of the hall. 

There was no proper sigil on the wax seal. A simple flick of her wand reveals the letters ‘T.V.N.’ Theo's initials. It almost tempts her to take a ceremonial knife and cut open the letter. But she resists, clicking her tongue as she marches down the basement, not even sparing the door a knock as she barges in. 

“Theo's sent a letter.” 

Another book carckles through the basement room, forcing her to erect a shield in front of her. A scowl sets in her face as the boy dispells the smoke. His boyish smile etched across his face as sparks of orange and purple burn from the tip of his wand. The remnants of what seemed to be a cauldron are shattered to tiny pieces on the floor. 

“What have you done this time?”

“New spell, of course.” he grins, outstretching his hand to receive the letter. “Now, Mione, let's see what little Theo has for us.”

Chapter Text

The workmanship was better than the subject matter.

The frigid grounds of the empty castle was a welcoming sight. Familiar and yet so eerily foreign that every step he took felt like he was walking deeper into a completely different world. Though the country felt warmer in August, Durmstrang remained as cold as it always was when it was first made. It was strange to enter the castle before term began. 

However, some exceptions were made as a letter from one of his professors arrived just days ago. A scheduled meeting, pertaining to his heavy workload. 

Katerina Moroza hums as the enchantment of the castle seemed to seep into her throat and ears. A smile graced her lips, legs crossed as she tilted her head and sips on streaming hot coffee. 

“Mister Peverell.” She chuckles, offering him the seat opposite to her. 

“Professor,” Hyperion smiles quietly, obeying her orders. He takes a seat, relaxing for a mere second before his body goes stiff. A grin spreads across his face, strained and clearly apprehensive. “Forgive me for being blunt, but why have I been summoned?”

Katerina tuts softly, observing her student carefully. He's grown from the lanky boy that had entered the castle two years ago. Taller, more lean, more confident. She blames all those combat and duelling lessons that he had rushed into like a fish to water. It had been amusing when Friedrich Durchdenwald and Atla Enevoldsen happily gushed about how brilliant the boy was when it came to duelling. Though Durchdenwald was determined to shape the boy into a proper fighter and adjust that skinny physique of his. 

“Regarding your studies.” She hums again, offering him some coffee that he has happily accepted with a smile on his face. Ah yes, coffee. “You are taking fourteen subjects, darling Peverell mine. It still astonishes me that you've managed to take that many classes without dropping dead. Even I was weak to my twelve subjects back then.” 

Yes… darling Hyperion Peverell—the menace to the academic world. Far too many subjects are being taken. 

“Four research papers.” She sternly reminds him but he doesn't hesitate to nod. “Are you capable of that? I understand that we allowed you to start early but it is still a handful. Will you manage to finish four research papers in ten months?” 

“It's quantitative research,” he shrugs as if that statement alone could justify the insanity. “I can manage. I've already picked what topics I will be using for my research, including yours actually! But at the moment, I'm currently in the process of writing a draft for my POM paper.” 

“I see… has your Professor approved of the title and topic?”

“Yes. I spoke to professor Tasev before the last term ended.” Hyperion admits, setting the coffee down. “Speaking of which, I had wished to show you my topic and title for my arcane research. I need a second opinion on it.”

Katerina considers it for a moment. Some students were given special privileges due to more responsibilities. Hyperion was amongst the students insane enough to take more than three electives, which resulted in their schedules being extremely tight. Such privileges included starting their research earlier than most if they were required to make more than two research papers. 

“Let's see it.” She sighs, offering up her hand. 

Hyperion’s eyes practically start sparkling as he takes out some parchment from his pocket, waving his wand to magnify it back to its original size. She peers down at it, her lips drawn into a thin line as she reads through the title and what seems to be a summary of his topic. 

Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the paper. A frown mars her face as she turns to the fidgeting Hyperion, who sheepishly smiles at her. 

“You're delving into Necromancy?” 

“Yes.”

Katerina can't believe it. This boy, this child intended to delve into one of the oldest of magicks. She would have scolded him if he was someone else but this was different—this was Hyperion Peverell. A boy descended from the family rumoured to be one of the first necromancers. 

“You will need to be carefully monitored if you wish to pursue this.” She bluntly explains, tossing his paper back on to her desk. “The headmistress must be informed of your experimentations and a teacher will be required to supervise you for every single one. Hyperion, you must understand that if you take one wrong step… your research will be terminated immediately.”

“Hence why I am having you review the draft before I proceed. I have a backup, much safer but at the same time—less interesting than this one.” He takes back the parchment and sucks in a deep breath. Green eyes peer curiously at her, as if he was trying to dissect her soul. “Necromancy is an untouched part of magic. Inferi are butchered versions of what Necromancy truly is. And every single department of mystery in the world contains at least a chamber of death of sorts. Yet discoveries have not been made. At the very least, I am able to shed light on the side effects of necromancy through my research.”

Katerina tuts again. Ambitious child. 

“You are but a boy. What makes you think that an adult cannot do what you do?” 

“Because they are not Peverells.” He firmly tells her, sitting straighter and staring into her eyes. “They've had years to progress in necromantic research and yet nothing has been discovered. They've never had their hands on books that contain the very heart of necromancy itself.” 

“And how will this contribute to our world?” 

“Warnings, pursue with caution, perform at your own risk.” He drawls, leaning back against his chair with his signature smile. “A study like this gives insight to the dangers of necromancy. Not many are suited for it yet they continue to pursue magic for the sake of… well… Magic. They will procure such maladies that cannot be easily identified as necromancy hasn't been properly practised in centuries. So, for future individuals who wish to perform necromancy, I give them warnings of what may come for dabbling with arcane magic.”

A research paper was written to inform; it was a piece of information solely created to offer wisdom to others. To prevent, to pursue, to caution, to encourage. Katerina understands this intimately as she herself was vehemently passionate in her own research. She can see those viridian eyes reflect the fire that she once had and reluctantly—loathingly she must admit—she smiles at him. 

“Very well then. I will oversee your experimentations myself if Headmistress Romanov approves of this study. Once you present this to Sir Zolotov.” Katerina assures, already taking out some parchment and ink to write to the headmistress. “But do take care of your health, Hyperion. Your sister still continues to write to me about your health while you are here.” 

Hyperion groans, whining like a child as he frowns at her. 

“Fret not, Professor. I have a very loyal house elf who makes amazing coffee and an amazing sister who is also working on her own research. Which has caused her to charm our clock to make noise at time intervals to remind us to rest.” Hyperion sighs, shaking his head fondly and frustratedly. “My sister also sends kind regards. Even though I am not quite pleased that she's decided to write to my professor about some personal matters, I do appreciate the care.” 

“How can I not care for my favourite student?”

Katerina examines him quietly, watching as he finishes his coffee and chuckles softly. Yes, this ambitious and daring child was her favourite among all her students.

Another day, another Wizengamot meeting. The reform was a tiresome ordeal but a necessary one. 

Marvolo Gaunt dusts off none existent dirt on his sleeves, trying not to sneer at the sight of the crowded atrium. Two years and it still baffles him how much has changed in so much time compared to the decades he's spent trying to improve everything to his designs. He's tried the political route before but it wasn't as effective as his current plans—only altered to match the present. 

The two years had felt longer than the decades. So much work, so much change. It was almost dizzying if the results hadn't brought utter delight into his dreary life. Destroying Dumbledore had felt delicious. 

“Ah, Lord Black.” Marvolo can't help but grin, tilting his head when he catches sight of the shifty lord. “Merry met.”

“Merry met…” Black mutters quietly, glaring at him before turning away. 

Sirius Black was a peculiar case for him. Troublesome as always but he was useful in his own ways. Giving the man freedom hadn't been his intention at the very beginning but he proved him otherwise. He was useful indeed, but the joy of tormenting Dumbledore by having Sirius Black was the best feeling he could ever have. Seeing that loathing expression was but a mere bonus to everything. 

“I am quite surprised that you are early for the meeting. Is there a problem?” He cordially asks, making sure he was at least two steps in front of Black. He looks at the man, who begrudgingly does not adjust his pace to walk in front of him. 

“Madame Bones insisted upon my presence. Another discussion regarding the educational reforms and the repeal of laws. Ones that were apparently done with the vote of my house during its time of proxy.” Black snarls but controls his expression as quickly as possible. He looks around the curious eyes that follow them, sending some individuals charming smiles that left them swooning. 

Disgusting. 

“Another educational reform. Interesting.” Marvolo hums, descending upon the steps to enter the lower floor. “Mister Abbott has spoken to her again then.” 

“Yes…” Black glances warily at him. “I don't know much about it…”

Of course he doesn't. 

He turns to the footsteps slowly getting louder, humming a soft tune as Black sputters behind him. 

“Hello Lucius, nice of you to join us on this fine day.”

“My... Lord Gaunt.” Lucius quickly corrects himself, the pest struggling to keep appearances regardless of stupendous reputation as a well-mannered and subtle Slytherin. “Forgive me for eavesdropping but I heard bits of your conversation. Apologies.”

“Forgiven. But are you aware as to why Julius Abbott has called in the Wizengamot for yet another issue in our country's education?” 

“I've only heard bits from my wife, who spoke with Mister Abbott's wife. From what I've heard, the teacher is not enough to help the Department of Education and the School board understand the situation with the teachings of Dark Magic.” Lucius explains, curt and concise as usual. “Abbott intends to inquire about an exchange program to see the differences between the schools.”

Black mumbles something incoherent under his breath. Soon enough, he speaks up, “Durmstrang won't agree to that. Grandfather has repetitively explained of how possessive they are of their students. Their new headmistress guards her students jealously. Managing to hire Solovyava was a miracle.”

“And I am to assume that Lady Cassiopeia is the one to state the latter part.”

“Yes… Great Aunt thinks highly of the new headmistress. A former…” he paused, faltering before seeming to remember. “The former Arcane studies professor…”

Marvolo perks up at the name of the subject. Arcane studies—Durmstrang offered such a variety of subjects that he was astounded by it. The mere fact that their students could delve into old magicks at the age of thirteen was surreal in his opinion—not an issue considering the clear gap between Hogwarts and other schools. Truly, he found it rather fascinating that young minds could be exposed to it. Whilst Hogwarts, presumed to be the best of the best, was horrifically behind. 

The legalities regarding Dark magic were strained at best but with time—soon, hopefully—the restrictions would finally let up. If possible, they could restrict some light magic as well if they deemed it too dangerous. A possibility, of course, considering how he used bits of light spells himself to cover up his tracks in the past. 

Surely, the fanatics that followed Dumbledore would cause an uproar if they heard that light spells were being banned. Hypocritical bastards, that they were. 

“Well then, gentlemen, I suppose we must prepare ourselves for yet another international meeting for the educational reforms.” Marvolo bitterly chuckled, smiling at other heads of houses as he took his seat on the left side of the courtroom. The dark faction slowly filtered in, with him being sat beside Black. He would have expected for Lord Arcturus Black to be in attendance, but his heir was finally released and took that seat for him. 

As usual, Black was apprehensive of him. 

Ah well, he couldn't comfort the man; he never intended to. He was a useful pawn in this game of theirs. 

Court began once all the members of the court were finally present. With Amelia Bones taking her rightful seat at the very front—the same chair Dumbledore had once sat on. 

The next few bills being passed were drawl and quite boring. Lucius and Dowager Lestrange were ruthlessly striking down bills that continued to advocate for the elimination of old magicks that were making the muggleborns “uncomfortable”. The utter fools. They enter their world and expect for them to change? The muggleborns were essentially rejecting magic itself through such deeds. But then again, how could they understand the beauty of their culture if agendas such as these were being put to court? 

Lord Fawley was particular about the elimination of the bill to bring back Samhain, to which Adrik Nott defied his ailing bones to shoot up from his seat. “Fool! How are we to honour our dead? In my time, we were free to mourn and honour our kin in the afterlife and you say that we mustn't practise it any longer. The muggleborns are ignorant of this sacred holiday because it was removed in the very beginning, they cannot honour their own dead because Samhain was promptly removed.” 

In the light faction, Dowager Longbottom takes a stand and levels Lord Nott with a respectful look. 

Marvolo almost grins. Ah yes, the individuals from his generation. Samhain was still widely practised when he first entered Hogwarts. It was only in his sixth year that a bill to outlaw it was passed. 

“Lord Nott makes a fair point. The removal of Wix holidays has inevitably influenced our entire community. How are we to call ourselves wixen when we celebrate muggle holidays? These holidays are not to simply celebrate the year, but to honour lady magic, our deities. Yule is all we have left and even then, Hogwarts celebrates Christmas rather than Yuletide.” Dowager Longbottom sternly glared at Maximus Fawley. The young lord avoided her gaze. “Samhain honours not only Lady Magic, but our kin, our fallen. Many of us have struggled over the years to pay respects to our magical kin in the proper way because of Samhain being outlawed. So…” 

Dowager Longbottom addresses the court, “How are we to honour and pay respects to our fallen family and friends without Samhain? How are we to offer bits of our magic to show the love we still have for those who've passed?” 

Lord Nott nods, “I couldn't have said it better.”

Lord Fawley wilts as even the Light faction comes to agree with the Dowager Longbottom—with her infamous temper. The decision was thus postponed and would be announced at the end of court, as per the words of Acting-Chief Warlock Bones. 

Marvolo quickly struck down bills that would hinder his plans; most of which included the outlawing of certain magic (again) and the stricter restrictions on magical creatures. Black had been useful in that aspect, viciously tearing through the unfortunate Lady in the Grey faction that thought Werewolves were more monster than human. 

“Ah… there he is.” Marvolo hums as he gestures to Julius Abbott, who was a Grey wizard of a light family. The man was the younger brother of the current Lady of the House, preferring to viciously advocate for the advance of education compared to his predecessor who had complied to the whims of the Headmaster. 

“Ladies, Gentlemen, my fellow wixen of the court.” He cleared his throat, standing in the middle of the courtroom with his hands firmly placed behind him. “I would not be required to bring this to court if not for the fact that the plans of my department are hindered by bills that are still being submitted to the court.” He subtly glances at the light faction, before turning back to Bones. 

“At the moment, Hogwarts is still progressing with its reform. The new classes: Dark Studies, Culture and Traditions, and Wizarding Etiquette. Two out of those three subjects are being handled appropriately by the staff, the board, and my own department. However…” he trails off, sucking in a deep breath before summoning a folder. Copies of said folder were then passed to every member of the court, all who simultaneously opened it. 

Marvolo observed the parchment with intrigue. They were statistics of the most of the grades among the students from the first of September to the third of October—the present. Etiquette and Culture were being handled indeed, as the grades of every student taking the subject were quite decent. However…

“Dear Merlin…” he hears Black mutter, glancing at the wide eyed man who practically sticks his nose into the file to see if he had seen correctly. 

The statistics of Dark Studies were horrendously low. Even when the Professor hired—an alumnus of Durmstrang—was famed to be brilliant in her time of apprenticing with Durmstrang’s own famous Dark Studies professor. 

Either the student refused to learn or they genuinely could not grasp the mere concept of Dark Studies.

“As you can see, the majority of the students have notably low grades. From reports given by the teachers, and Roksana Solovyova herself, they suspect that students still have some bias towards Dark Magic. This must be rectified, yes, thus I had suggested an exchange program with Durmstrang specifically…” Abbott grimaces, “Headmistress Romanova, however, is protective of her students and refuses to allow one of them to enter Hogwarts, firmly stating that the stigma towards Dark Magic could potentially harm the student.”

“That is absurd!” Lady Parkinson gasps, and yet even she falters upon the possibility that a student of Durmstrang, a child who was exposed to Dark Magic for half of their life, could be harmed due to the bias. 

Marvolo then spoke, “I can understand Headmistress Romanova’s protective nature. The past reports of infighting amongst the students are concerning. Houses alone are not the cause of fights, but also magical cores. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall has admitted that some of her students, Gryffindors, were forced to repress the nature of their own magic to avoid any sort of hostility in their own house.”

Beside him, Black flinches. 

Amelia Bones gravely nods, also understanding the vicious protectiveness of the Headmistress. 

“However,” Julis quickly adds and the murmurs die down. “Headmistress Romanova has revealed that Durmstrang has a small few who are from the British Isles. Some being transferees, from what I understand. Do take this information lightly as Headmistress Romanava was quite reluctant to reveal such information.” 

Pity, Marvolo scoffs. The woman had pitied them—Hogwarts specifically. But it was not just pity. If anything, it was an unsaid insult to them that a child of Hogwarts had fled to their castle for whatever reason. Most likely safety and acceptance from people who villainized the dark magic that had manifested within them. 

If Marvolo had been given the option of transferring to Durmstrang, perhaps he would have done so. His younger self was obsessed with Hogwarts, but him in the present? Marvolo could understand that dark magic was accepted and welcomed in Durmstrang. 

“Quite right… and what is to be done with this information?” Bones asks, apprehensive as she herself was highly concerned with the state of Hogwarts. Her own niece was a student after all. 

“She has discussed this with the staff and plans to ask the permission of the students to be interviewed. I am to understand that the students are from different age groups and some may decline for reasons.” Julis explains, hurriedly taking out a letter from his robes. “But the deputy headmaster has written that two students have already agreed to an interview, with the condition that a professor Durmstrang  will supervise. Would this be adequate?”

Another wave of murmurs move through the court. 

Marvolo considered the notion quietly. Whoever the students were, they were smart to insist on supervision. He would have to make sure that at least one unbiased member of all three factions were present for the interview—him preferably, if it came to the Dark Faction. 

“Yes,” Amelia sighs, nodding quietly as she turns back to the court who were nodding in agreement. If no exchange programme could happen, then this was all they could do. “Have we scheduled a date?”

“Er… yes!” Julis quickly checks the letter again, “By the 20th of this month, they say.” 

“Yes, inform the Hogwarts staff of this. They will be involved in the interview, along with Professor Solovyova. She's most likely taught these students herself.” Amelia reviewed her notes again, “Is there anything to add?”

Marvolo blinks as he sees Lord Nott raise his hand, garnering questioning looks from their peers. “My grandson, Theodore, has recently transferred back to Hogwarts to fulfil his heir duties. If possible, could he be involved in the interview? He is a British student who attended Durmstrang. He was one of those transferees.” 

It was not widely known that Theodore Nott had transferred to Durmstrang and returned till the Malfoy anniversary party where the boy re-emerged to the social scene. He had made waves by telling tales of Durmstrang, which Marvolo took great interest in. Alas, old Adrik protected his heir like a dragon to its eggs. 

Marvolo observed Amelia Bones quietly. The Nott heir was already a Hogwarts student so there wouldn't be international repercussions. Plus, the boy would have a proper comparison to the Hogwarts pre-reform, Durmstrang, and the current Hogwarts. 

If he were to have a say in that decision, then he'd support it wholeheartedly. 

Since the start of September, seventh years were already running around or walking like the undead. No in-between. Research papers in exchange for exams, teachers had declared. Though not all subjects were like this. Some bad double-exams, written and practical, caused seniors to already weep at the end of the first week. 

Harry trudges through the halls, robes bellowing through the frigid wind. Autumn has already approached and soon would come winter. He himself felt like he had been killed and dragged back from the dead, but that was his own karma for choosing five electives to pair with Durmstrang’s busy schedule of ten core subjects. 

Hermione would have loved the damn school if they didn't forbid the entry of muggleborns. Horribly, he could understand why they were banned, considering the massive decline of Hogwarts and the paranoia of the witch hunts centuries ago. Though, he still did not advocate for the discrimination and awful treatment of muggleborns. Who their parents were was not their fault. They were blessed to have magic in bloodlines scarce of it. 

“Hyperion.” 

Grudgingly, he turns and glares at his fellow Englishman. Well, Harry was more inclined to Durmstrang anyways. 

“Nice of you to grace me with your presence, Aurelia.” Harry mocks, clutching his books closely. He knows that she knows who he used to be. But she was nice—reluctantly—enough to dangle it above his head. “What do you need from me this time?” 

“You act as if I only approach you if I want something.” Aurelia rolls her eyes, adjusting her pace to walk beside him. “Besides, Nott has left and you are one of the few who can understand the utter pain of being a former Hogwarts student. I'm quite happy that my family pulled me out after my first year.”

“Cut to chase already. I need to work on my Transfiguration research.” 

“I still don't quite understand why you chose the research paper over the exam. You would have aced it.”

Harry waves her off, “Too easy. And studying would make my brain hurt. I'd rather work on something long term that would actually benefit me in the future.”

“Ambitious, as per usual. Weren't you a Gryffindor? How did the hat not shove you into Slytherin?”

“My charisma and family luck.” He sends her a charming smile. He was definitely charismatic since who else was grand enough to convince the hat to put them into the house of their choice? 

Aurelia rolled her eyes—again. Gods, he really would slap her at some point. 

“Alright then. I've heard from the vineyard that Hogwarts is struggling with Dark Magic.” She chuckles, almost condescending when she speaks of it. 

They enter the library and it's a horrible time for him to loudly laugh. The librarian sends him a scathing look that promises hell, making them scurry off to the corner they usually tucked themselves into. Others would join on occasion, but they were in their final year and were frantically trying to perfect required assignments just to graduate. 

“Really now? Theo hasn't written about that.” He sighs, a tad irked. “But I suppose he hasn't heard of it yet. Then, child of a seer bloodline, enlighten me with the most recent geschwätz (chatter/gossip) from our former school.”

Magic wraps around their throats, translating their words to those around them. Nothing can dampen the translation runes that were etched into every brick that made Durmstrang. No secrets could be hidden from the languages unless it was a magical one. Harry is quite happy that hissed could not be turned into human words. 

Aurelia is adept at three languages. Harry knows four—five if he were to count the magic that stings his soul and runs through his throat. 

“They're giving Roksana trouble.” She scoffs, arms crossed with her books sprawled across the table. Possessively placed on her side so as to not mix with Harry's. “Her reputation will plummet just as the statistics of grades fall. She is brilliant and blazing and yet that wretched school drags down her brilliance with bigotry and blindness.”

“So many B-words.” Harry snickers.

“Shut up.”

“No conversation can work if one ‘shuts up’.” He mockingly replies, shaking his head. “But what does this have to do with me?” 

“Us, you cocky cunt.” Aurelia spits out, glancing at students who level her with disapproving eyes for her vulgar words. She waves them away before addressing him again, cautious and almost paranoid. “Someone suggested an exchange program. The headmistress rejected it, but the staff has agreed that students that have come from the British Isles or have family attending Hogwarts are to be interviewed in order to help with the situation.”

Durmstrang was a prison and yet it was a sanctuary. Built by Nerida Vulchanova who was a mother to no child from her own womb but a mother to children who ran from flames and were hidden in the depths of cold castle walls. Not all of her successors have that frigid warmth to them that made them parents to their students. Karkaroff was no Vulchanova but perhaps the new Headmistress was guided by her warm touch and desire to protect children she calls her own. 

(“Why Durmstrang?” Hermione had questioned when he first fled, running to a different country and almost destroying himself as he forced magic to displace him. He returned, illegal portkey in hand, and coaxed her away from the destruction. Back then, he had no answer to tell her.

Why Durmstrang? Why not the other schools?

Find what you seek in the cold darkness of the castle built by a mother who bore no child. Death had whispered and Harry found himself at the doorstep of a very confused witch in Russia.)

“And what do you want to do?” 

There is not much to do. Fate is cruel but Death was kind in the cruellest of ways. 

Harry has rewritten a future that will never happen. Even as time splits into two, a path in which he had abandoned upon his own demise, dragged back to a point in his life by an entity that many feared and ran from. He's curious as to what will happen the more he takes this into his life, the more he forgets paths of his own. 

“I'll follow you.” Aurelia does not know the true weight of those words. So heavy and deep that it sinks into them both. “If you choose to go through with that interview and return, then I'll follow you. Think of it as a big ‘fuck you’ to my father who didn't have the balls to accept a dark witch for a daughter.” 

“Hm… well, I suppose helping Roksana would be required. As you've said, Hogwarts is dragging her down.” Harry chuckles, mockery and guilt tinged in his voice. Hogwarts was once home but it felt like a den of vipers and wolves after that long dream. Horrible, horrible dream. “I'm sure they'll be motivated when they see me.”

Vicious little thing, he shudders as a cold hand caresses his cheek, shifting to trace his spine but he keeps smiling. Aurelia does not notice, checking on her notes for her own Dark Studies paper. 

“You just want to spite them don't you?” 

“Prepare your Dark Studies notes, Lia. We have teachers to lecture.”

Chapter Text

It is tossed by the waves but it does not sink.

Theodore thinks it is strange how Hogwarts has changed. The first of September felt uneventful, aside from the fact that he was taken aside to be sorted (again) and was thankfully returned to Slytherin. The announcement of his transfer made waves, rumours, gossip—all hungry to know about Durmstrang, the school that Hogwarts was currently getting help from. Well, one of the schools. Castelobruxo, Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang were currently assisting the board and Department of Education. 

His grandfather had ranted about the Wizengamot’s prejudices in allowing foreigners to interfere with their affairs. Protests had come from all three sides of the court, but that was quickly drag down when they were reminded that half of the sacred 28 were not originally from Britain in the first place. The Blacks and Malfoys had been smart to keep their mouths shut, considering their evident French origins. The Notts were already aware of their Russian ties, no shame at all, as they still had their vassals in Russia. 

The first week was uneventful, if he hadn't caught a glimpse of a regal Roksana Solovyova. Regal as she was, she seemed stiffer and more troubled than her usually relaxed self. Understandable, really. Hogwarts was no Durmstrang. The school situated somewhere close to frigid mountains had disciplined students from the moment they set foot on the boat. Compared to the almost military-like behaviour of the majority of Durmstrang students, Hogwarts was rowdy and loud and ever so bright. House rivalry was nonexistent to Durmstrang who did not sort their students into houses. 

Quidditch teams, yes, but the rivalry was simply limited to the sport itself. Not to say that those who studied in Durmstrang were mechanical soldiers. They had their fun, some pranks here and there, but they were always quick to clean up their own messes and ready to accept the consequences. They had been disciplined after all. 

The prejudices were less than what they used to be. More tame, along with muggleborns who were highly interested in traditions now. Plus, Binns had been exorcised (good riddance) allowing them to actually learn about wizarding history from the times before the founder to Grindelwald’s fall. Professor Baumer was a man of good decorum, a muggleborn from what he's heard, and yet he was so well taught about their history it felt like he lived through those moments. 

But his gaze scan through the Gryffindor table and there—eyes bluer than the fucking sea boring into him. Practically glowing from desperation and curiosity and all Theo can do is subtly raise his goblet to Ronald Weasley with a promise to talk. 

(His actions go unnoticed, if not for Blaise who's eyes tracked Theo and Ron like a hawk.)

“Allow me to… repeat that.” Roksana hesitates, her English tinged with her Russian accent. She stares quietly at Julius Abbot,  a charming man as he managed to convince her to come here after some grovelling and perhaps a bit of bribes here and there. “Headmistress Romanova has… agreed… to temporarily loan you one of our студенты (students)... With the condition that I, along with another Durmstrang Учитель(teacher)?” 

Julius falters for a moment and Roksana only realises that some words were not said in English. Knowing multiple languages had its flaws, and it was not the difficulty to switch. It was the horrendous ordeal of having to remember a certain word in one language but cannot remember it in the other. 

“Ah… students and then… teacher?” 

“Yes… mister Abbott.” She almost regretted agreeing to this job, with the language barriers and the culture clash. But this was for the good of unfortunate students who were cursed to have an incompetent government and an equally incompetent headmaster. “Am I to understand that at least two students of Durmstrang… originating from Britain… will be coming here for an interview to further understand what the school currently lacks?” 

“Well, not here here.” Julius explains, almost stuttering his words but he quickly composes himself. Ah, what an adorable man he was. “The DIMC are debating on whether Hogwarts shall host the students or we will perform the interview in a reserved restaurant in order to make them feel welcome.”

“Absolutely not!” Roksana quickly says. If British students of Durmstrang were to be brought back for questioning, then putting them in the custody of the Ministry for an allotted period of time was the worst possible action to take. She can already hear cruel Aurelia and brutally honest Hyperion tear them to shreds with underhanded comments disguised as polite answers to their questions. 

Julius practically jumps from his seat, startled but also curious. Ah… this annoyingly handsome wizard was going to make her punch him at some point. But his face was too pretty to damage. 

“May I ask… Why?” 

“Why? Might I remind you of the implications of British children choosing to study in Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts?” Roksana huffs, satisfied when he lowers his head in shame. “I shall warn you, Mister Abbott. Two of my former students never spoke positively about your ministry. They have been wronged numerous times and will not take kindly to being apprehended by the very ministry that drove them away.”

“We won't apprehend them!” 

“But do they know that?” Roksana quickly rebukes, snarling at him. “Durmstrang students are disciplined. But they have been raised to fight. Tis a martial school I come from and they will perceive you as an enemy if you put them on grounds that you chose. Hogwarts is safer, neutral and away from Ministry control.” 

Ostracised and practically banished. Gods be good, Roksana would delay the entire ordeal just so they wouldn't hear about Hyperion Peverell. The little devil that had suffered from grand slander of the ministry and public to the point he had left Hogwarts to find solace in Durmstrang. 

“They are студенты—students. It is more comfortable for them to be surrounded by a school rather than a reserved restaurant.” She quickly dismisses his woes, grimacing at the utter lack of consideration for the children. “Have the staff been informed of this?” 

“Yes.” Julius deflates, also frowning but is quick to return to professionalism, even as he quietly squirms. “Along with that, Lord Nott has requested that we include his grandson who had transferred back to Hogwarts just recently.”

“Theodore?” 

“You know him?” 

“Of course! He was a good student, very eager to learn when it came to Dark Studies. But he was better tuned to runes and warding. Brilliant boy, him and…” she trails off, smiling wistfully. Now mentioning Peverell might just excite Julius. The name was still notorious after all. “Well, when will they arrive?”

“By the twentieth if the deputy headmaster stays true to his letter.” 

“Rikard Szekeres is a man of his word. If the twentieth is what is written, then they shall arrive on that day.” Roksana mutters, glancing at the clock to see that it was almost time for lunch. “Word of advice. Don't let them linger too long in the ministry and immediately bring them to Hogwarts. Best of all, do not be surprised by anything.”

Julius nodded, understanding of the circumstances. 

“Now begone, foul child of light. Your positive nature taints my walls.”

In turn to her fond complaint, Julius laughs and brings forth that positivity. 

“Is this truly wise?” Dumbledore inquires, hands clasped behind his back as his gaze sweeps across the group that would be welcoming the students and teachers of Durmstrang. 

All four heads of houses, Roksana Solovyova, Julius Abbott, head of the DOE; Corinne Selwyn for the grey faction, Maximus Fawley for the light, and… Marvolo Gaunt for the dark. 

“Believe me, Headmaster, this is the best course of action.” Julius assures, glancing at the others to check if Dumbledore would be a problem. The headmaster was known for being fairly troublesome when it came to educational reforms. “They will be arriving at…”

“Nine.” Solovyova interjects, checking the time and comparing it to their current time and where Durmstrang should be. She hums softly, dispelling the Tempus before hurriedly taking a step out of the apparition wards of the Hogwarts grounds. The others followed suit, whispering amongst each other while she kept silent and stared at where they should be arriving. 

Marvolo saw this as an opportunity to speak with the woman, taking advantage of her decision to stand away from them. He stood beside her, hands carefully tucked behind his back. “You've made quite the reputation for yourself here.”

Immediately, her eyes narrowed at him, clicking her tongue quietly. “You Englishmen are quite sensitive to the dark arts. It's understandable that your children have difficulty accepting the new laws.” 

“Indeed… Marvolo Gaunt. It is a pleasure to meet you, Professor Solovyova.”

The russian witch smiles wryly, taking his hand and firmly shaking it. “I know who you are, Lord Slytherin. It is because of you that I am able to teach her.” 

“Indeed.” Marvolo chuckles, tilting his head to the side as he glances at the apparition point that had been carefully warded and spelled to perfection. No one quite wanted to wage war with Durmstrang by letting their students get splinched. “Pray tell, why apparate? They could have very well used a portkey.”

“Students of Durmstrang, especially those of fifth year and up, are strictly taught how to apparate. We take every chance we get to help improve those skills. Logically, this is used as practice.” Solovyova explains, a fond lilt to her voice as she smiled. “When I was still a student, our Principles of Magic professor would have us apparating to a certain space and as time went on, the distance would get bigger.”

“That… is quite a good tactic. I am to assume that most students have already mastered apparition by seventh year.” 

“Yes. Karkaroff wasn't quite good as a headmaster but our professors were loyal to our school and students. They compensated for Karkaroff’s failures.” Solovyova scoffs, clearly detesting the mere thought of Igor Karkaroff. 

If Marvolo was right,then she would have been still a student under his reign. He almost pitied her for having such a cruel and incompetent man as a headmaster. But then he remembers his own experience, immediately sympathising with the troubles she must have faced. 

“Would you be willing to tell me the names of the students who will be arriving?” Marvolo smiles, knowing his endeavours were futile. But it was not bad to entertain himself with such a question. 

Solovyava raises a browz before realising that he didn't expect to get anything out of his questioning. “No. I would never breach my students' privacy, but even then, I would not be sure on who will be arriving. But I expect that the seventh years will be joining.”

“And how many do you expect to arrive?” 

“Hm… well, if I had to say… around five students will arrive. Most likely students who are fifteen or older.” Solovyova considers, frowning before shaking her head. “Romanova wouldn't let any students beneath fifteen out of the school to be interviewed. They would be too young.”

“Quite understandable. What are we expecting from these students? Should we be preparing ourselves for verbal lashings?” 

“Yes. Absolutely.” 

Marvolo grimaced, not liking the sureness and confidence in her voice. Clearly, some of these students loathed them—specifically the Ministry. If these were students whose magic manifested as dark, then he couldn't really blame them for it. Their magic was previously banned from the very country they were born in—who wouldn't be angry? That feeling of being alienated, that horrible experience of being told that they were wrong. 

He pitied these children and yet he applauded them for finding a place that would accept them. Had that been an option for him, he wouldn't have gone down the path of horcruxes and practically punished himself with that knowing sensation that he had came out wrong. Harry Potter's blood did more harm then good, practically seering his very bones. Pettigrew’s botched ritual had destroyed him more than he did himself, causing him to grab Lucius and call for Severus to promptly fix his body. 

With the knowledge that he could not be fixed without more pieces of his soul, he had to bring himself back together. The ring, the cup, the diadem, and Nagini. Pieces of his soul brought back into him, with the locket left to keep him immortal. Even then, it felt like something had been missing from the ritual that brought him back to better sanity. 

A sudden noise, a clearing of the throat, directs their attention towards Hogwarts’ very own dungeon bat. Severus looked as deplorable as usual—the stress was taking a toll on him. Though Marvolo was to blame for that as he had Black and Severus working together on the Potter case. They detested one another but were cordial enough for the sake of finding their deceased friends’ son. Which was more trouble than worth at this point, as Potter practically vanished from the earth. 

“Severus.”

“Lord Gaunt.” He cordially replies, turning to Solovyova who nodded back at him. “The headmaster remains resolute in minimising our efforts to understand the art of Dark Magic.”

“Своевольный(‘stubborn’ - in an arrogant or childish way).” Solovyova huffs, “Apologies but is there really no way to… remove him?” 

How amusing, Marvolo thinks. Solovyova would have been sorted into Gryffindor if she went to Hogwarts. Fierce and brave—and utterly reckless in the way she scowls at Dumbledore's direction. The headmaster spoke cordially to Selwyn, who looked horribly bored as she nodded along to his words. While Fawley listened with such rapt attention that he couldn't help but scoff at the man. 

“I'm quite certain that various individuals in the board are working towards that goal. Lord Malfoy and Dowager Longbottom especially.” 

“Longbottom…” Solovyova frowns, “I heard that her grandson also transferred out of Hogwarts two years ago.”

Severus grimaces, “Yes. There was a sudden influx of students who left Hogwarts two years ago. Longbottom, Lovegood, Nott, Granger, and… Potter.” He shudders at the name, as if it were a taboo. “Five students suddenly transferred out of Hogwarts and the reasons ranged from ‘deplorable education compared to other schools’ to ‘lack of subjects for certain specialties’.”

Although the entire ordeal was suspicious. The sudden disappearances of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were suspected to be caused by the same thing—however, the third member of the trio had been left behind in Hogwarts. Nonetheless, if Severus' reports were right, the boy was somewhat informed of where or the state of his friends. Even Black insisted that the youngest Weasley son was purposefully keeping quiet about the other two. 

Glancing at his watch, Marvolo frowns when the clock had struck past nine. Odd.

“They're never late.” Solovyova comments, turning towards Julius Abbott who looked just as concerned. “Were there issues at the ministry?”

“No, there shouldn't be…” Julius said, but even he looked unsure. “I'm sure that Moon will handle it… she knows how important this is.”

As if speaking her name summoned her, a loud crack was heard and Viviana Moon—Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation—landed right on the apparition point. A look of exhaustion graced her face and she hurriedly walked towards them. 

“We have a problem.”

Those words were enough to make them stiffen—well, the four that were closest to her. The others were still talking behind them, either discussing about their worries or what questions they should ask to the list. But Marvolo, Julius, Severus, and Solovyova shuffled closer with grin looks. 

“There are five of them… One of the students is a Fawley.” Moon whispers, glancing at the Lord of House Fawley who was vying for Dumbledore's wisdom. 

Marvolo gritted his teeth at that. The Fawleys had produced a child who's magic didn't manifest as light and if his theories were right, then the child in question was practically exiled to Durmstrang. 

“And the other is…”

Another crack, then another, then another. They turned their eyes to three children clad in Durmstrang’s blood red uniform. Their fur coats were discarded for lighter wear, as they all steadied themselves and quickly found balance. Behind them were two stern looking individuals.

Solovyova’s breath hitched, “Morozova and Szekere.” 

Julius’ expression quickly morphed into alarm, “The Dark Studies professor and the Deputy Headmaster? That's who they sent?” 

“Who else?” Solovyova hisses back, her posture shifting in milliseconds. She stood straighter than a log, hands strictly behind her back as if she were a soldier before a general. 

Dumbledore and the others soon stepped forward, prepared to welcome them. “Welcome to Hogwarts, fair lady and lord. May I have your names.”

Morozova—from what Solovyova said—looked irked by the hand outstretched to them. “Is it not customary to introduce yourself before asking for the identity of another?” She asked, her voice tinged with a slight Russian accent. 

Marvolo almost choked on his spit at the slight—a clear show of the woman's evident dislike of the man. He watched Dumbledore fumble, obviously forgetting that Durmstrang was a school that strictly taught their students to adhere to proper etiquette. “My apologies. I am Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“Well met, sir Dumbledore.” The man—Szekeres—nods quietly and shakes his hand. “I am Rikard Szekeres, the deputy headmaster and the Spellcraft professor of Durmstrang.” 

“Здравствуйте(‘Hello’ - used in formal settings).” The woman responds sternly, “I am Katerina Morozova, the Dark Studies Professor of Durmstrang. Roksana apprenticed under me before she received a job her.” She gestures to Hogwarts very own Dark Studies professor, who automatically dipped her torso into a bow. 

Introductions were quickly done, ranging from veiled hostility to obvious enthusiasm—one that was welcomed by the two teachers who had smiled pleasantly at Flitwick when he eagerly wished them well and thanked them for their generosity. Marvolo quickly noticed that the students behind them were obviously nervous, borderline uncomfortable while being so close to Hogwarts. He couldn't help but frown, detesting the thought that a place he once called home was a place that children ran from. 

Morozova turned back to her students, beckoning them to come forward.

“Дети, давайте познакомимся. Не волнуйтесь.(Children, come introduce yourselves. Don't be nervous.)” She assured them quietly, whispering something in their ears that has them nodding diligently. 

A female student with brown hair and black ryes, fairly older took charge and pinched the hem of her skirt, curtsying with a finesse that reminds him of Narcissa. “Well met. I am Genevieve Morganach, heiress to House Morganach.”

Marvolo quickly recognises the name, “Ah… you must be Lady Seraphina Morganach’s daughrer.” He says, trying to be as soothing as possible. He needed to make sure these students were charmed, that they could extract as much information as possible, and being unwelcoming did the complete opposite. It was more beneficial if the child themselves was the heiress of a noble house that had quite the seat in the Dark Faction of the Wizengamot. 

Heiress Morganach quickly perks up, a smile momentarily gracing her lips before she politely nods and schools her expression to a more neutral look. “Yes, indeed. At the moment, I am a seventh year.”

Next was a boy with auburn hair, slightly jittery but was soon steady when Szekeres placed a hand on his shoulder. He cleared his throat, bowing almost clumsily from his anxiety. “My name is Theseus Rowle and I am currently a sixth year.” 

A child from the dark faction but not the heir, he took quick note of that. From what Marvolo remembers, the heir to House Rowle already graduated so this boy was either his younger brother or a cousin of his. 

Then the little girl next to them, more petite than her peers curtsied politely with a more warm smile compared to the other two. “Hello there. My name is Cecilia Vance. Some of you may know my mother, Emmeline Vance.”

A sharp gasp was heard and everyone turned to Flitwick, who was staring at the girl in astonishment. “Oh… oh dear. Yes, she was one of my best students. How is she? I heard she had divorced her husband.”

“Ah, yes. She's alright now. I can ask her to write to you if you would like.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.” 

Marvolo quickly cleared his throat, sending the two a polite smile before quietly reminding them of the situation. While the charms professor quickly backed down, the Vance girl just smiled and stepped back beside her schoolmates. 

“I was told there were five students.”

A grim look passed Szekeres, “Yes. The other two were the reason we were late. Your ministry had grabbed hold of them when we landed and was almost taken into Auror custody. I would have stayed to deal with the situation but Mister Peverell insisted that we join our students. They should be arriving about…”

Crack!

A girl and boy appear in the middle of the apparition point, looking frustrated and irritated. Unlike their teachers that coldly hid their emotions, these two didn't care to hide their ire from anyone. 

“Any longer and I might have actually cursed that bastard.” The girl snaps snaps, making them all stare at the two students clad in Durmstrang red. A silence went over them, watching them in astonishment.

Marvolo felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him. Heart pounding against his chest, as if it were trying to escape his ribcage. His gaze was stuck to the boy with dark hair and eyes greener than the killing curse. His arm wrapped around the girl's waist before pulling away and turning to them with curiosity. Their eyes met and it felt like electricity coursed through his veins as a smirk graced that once quiet look of his. 

“Well to be fair, I never thought I'd come back here.” The boy announces, far too loud to be an accident. Intentional—a statement meant to be heard.

“There you two are,” Morozova happily says, ushering the girl and boy to the group. She whispers into their ear and they quickly introduce themselves.

The girl, dark hair and dull blue eyes bowed rather than curtsied. Her form was rigid in the way a soldier was, eyes narrowed as she observed them. When her gaze landed on Lord Fawley, she paused and stared at the paling man, before a devilish grin spreads across her face. “Well met… I'm Aurelia Fawley, eldest child of Lord Fawley. A seventh year student of Durmstrang Institute.” 

Marvolo’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, halting when he realised the girl was purposefully making them feel her magic. The Fawleys were staunchly light—everyone knew that. Yet here was the eldest daughter of their lord, supposedly the heiress… a girl who's magic was too dark to be called grey. 

But his gaze only lingered for a second before he was staring at the relaxed boy standing beside the Fawley girl. Utter boredom in his expression, a shine of curiosity and malice in those green eyes that almost made him gulp. Beside him, he heard Severus' sharp intake of breath as they all waited for the boy to introduce himself. 

The boy—green eyes, cruel smile—bowed in a mocking manner compared to the disciplined actions of his peers. Even then, he was not severely scolded, merely receiving an annoyed glare before Morozova looked away. He brought his body back up, hands clasped behind his back like his schoolmates and tilted his head enough to make him seem innocent. 

“A pleasure to meet you all… some, I am glad to see again.” the boy says, his voice fairly deep… it was unlike the higher pitched voice he remembers, the one that yelled that blasted disarming spell over and over again like a prayer. No. There was no nervousness in his actions or tone. He was relaxed, confident, and toeing the line to condescending. 

“My name is Hyperion Peverell.”

Right in front of him was a boy who was once named Harry Potter.

(Two years ago, that boy died when his soul manifested a monster rather than a protector.)

Chapter Text

Gently in manner, firmly in action.

The first time Harry meets Aleksia Romanova, he had just landed himself in Russia after Death guided him to Gringotts to get himself an international portkey. Of course, the Goblins demanded a rather high price but apparently, the Peverell vaults were more than abundant for it. Apparently Death was more inclined to have him inherit his heirships rather than immediately taking him away from the country. 

Well, he recalls it almost perfectly considering how he had fumbled so badly with his landing, dropping on his arse right in front of the witch while she was shopping for books. She had been startled, whipping out her wand and immediately perceived him as a threat. The first thought in his head was to run but Death had stopped him, whispering to him that this was the woman he was looking for. 

“Wait—wait! I'm not—” 

“Harry Potter…” She had muttered, confused and concerned before she slowly lowered her wand. 

Fear had devoured him whole that day, thinking that she would ship him back to Britain and back into Ministry arms. With his relatives dead, he would either fall into ministry custody or be a burden to some poor family who'd have to foster him. The Weasleys were included in this and all he could think of was being a financial burden to them even when they welcomed him with open arms. 

His instincts were already telling him to run and hide, but Aleksia had disabled his fight or flight instinct by grabbing hold of his arm and apparating them somewhere. He remembers landing on an intricately decorated foyer, with brown walls and a door that Harry immediately tried to go to. But the woman of the house had grabbed him, triggering his instincts again. The first thought in his head was to curse but he was quickly disarmed, barred from his wand that fell into Aleksia’s hand. 

“Apologies, but I would not appreciate being cursed in my own home.” She had said, narrowed eyes looking down at him. 

“Oh little Death, be calm—” 

But there was nothing to be calm about. Not when his wand was in another person's hand. With his heart pounding in his chest, all he could do was stare at his holly wand, tuning out Aleksia's words. He hadn't noticed that she'd gone silent, observing him carefully as if he were a rabid animal about to pounce. And yet, in such a situation, she felt like a predator taking his child as hostage and him reacting accordingly. 

Mercifully, the witch outstretched her hand and offered him his wand. “Swear that you will not attack me.” She said and he swore up and down, from heaven to hell that he wouldn't. He needed his wand.

Moving to grab it, Aleksia yelped and promptly dropped the wand, making Harry fumble as he caught it with trembling hands. His eyes snapped up to her, watching as she nursed a burn mark on her palm, seeing her warily stare at his wand. 

“That's not normal, little lion. Wands don't tend to burn others.” Aleksia laughed, humourless. “I suppose there is a reason as to why you landed in front of me instead of anyone else, hm? Come now, Молодой человек(young man), I'll entertain your explanations in my study.” 

The entire ordeal was a gruelling one from what Harry remembers. Having dropped to his knees at one point and begging her to not send him back to Britain after some international issues. Of course, all his head was filled was Death's exasperated sighs and telling him to calm down but who was he to calm down after what happened just hours ago? No. Harry downright sobbed until Aleksia was clumsily comforting him with Russian that he couldn't understand, trying her damn hardest to keep him conscious. 

Now, what kind of responsible adult wouldn't feel protective of a scared, shaking, and weeping fifteen year old who had acted on instinct and somehow managed to get himself into a different country? Dumbledore wasn't, but Aleksia Romanova was. Maybe that's why Death brought him to her specifically. 

And that's how Harry remembers convincing the headmistress of Durmstrang to let him enrol at her school. 

(Aleksia remembers that day very differently.)

The first thing that happened when he entered Hogwarts was a flurry of gasps at the sight of him. Resolutely, Harry had refused to look at anyone until he caught sight of Ron. Mind you, he felt extremely guilty when he saw the tears running down Ron's face and all he could do was enthusiastically wave until Aurelia mercilessly jabbed her elbow into his side. Apparently Ron saw that because he ended up laughing at him for it. The little shit, but oh did he miss said little shit. 

“Ron Weasley?” Aurelia whispers, keeping herself close to him. 

His arm was protectively wrapped around her waist, making sure that no one would pull another stunt like the one in the ministry. One of the aurors who had come to welcome them was a cousin of Aurelia's, a staunchly light Fawley who practically pounced on her the moment she realised who Aurelia was. If not for Katerina hissing at him to heel, he'd have cursed the bitch’s arm off the moment she even looked at Aurelia with such loathing. 

“The one and only.” Harry chuckles, pulling her close. He spies a girl younger than them, eyes drilling into Aurelia as if she were a stain she desperately wanted to remove. “Your half-sister?” He whispers, glancing at the brown haired Hufflepuff glaring at her. 

“Hm… My father's little bastard.” She cruelly laughs, “Little Pippa Fawley. I never understood why my sperm donor thought it was a good idea to name his child Philippa, nicknaming her Pippa of all things. His mistress—oh! I mean my stepmother thought it was a pretty name.” 

“What does it mean?” 

Aurelia snorts, “Love for Horses… perhaps it's referring to her mother.” 

Harry chuckles, “Names have power, Aurea Mea(My golden). Hence why your mother was smart enough to give you such a name.” He snickers, glancing back at their teachers who were masterfully keeping the attention of the other adults from him. “I'll officially introduce you to Ron later. Theo has most likely set aside past issues and befriended him.” 

“And your sister?” 

Harry smirks, “I wrote to her last night. If possible, Aleksia might be able to hold her off before she comes barging into Britain to slap me.”

“Hermione always seemed to be a strict person. I heard she's been terrorising the blood supremacists of Beauxbatons with a set of insults that seems to come from you.” Aurelia sighs, dramatically leaning her body backwards, only for Harry to steady her and keep her walking. “I still can't believe that you managed to make the word mudblood a death omen. A girl said it just a week ago and your little halfblood friends rained down on her.”

Ah yes, he can't quite forget his own siege upon the Halfbloods of Durmstrang. They were consistent victims to the slur due to a quarter of the purebloods being supremacists. But Harry had come into play, rallying every single halfblood and the next he knew, he was friends with all of them. A good network to be honest. 

With a soft hum, Harry glances at the other three Durmstrang students, carefully watching their demeanors. Morganach seemed perfectly fine, occasionally scowling back at some people. Rowle was as jittery as usual, clinging to Morganach’s side. While Vance was amicably chatting with Flitwick about enchantments and her mother. 

“Yes… we'll… fight fire with fire, I say.” 

(It's hard to forget how much he's changed.)

“Psst…” 

They whipped their heads around to the voice's direction. Harry stared, before a grin split across his face as he beckoned his former roommate to their side. 

Theodore Nott wore house Slytherin’s robes the same way he used to. He was more relaxed here, unlike Durmstrang’s strict rules that triggered them to immediately fix their posture. “You've caught the eye of every person here. How's that feel?” Theo chuckles, falling into step with them as he tilts his head to the side to observe their reactions. 

Harry simply sighs, “Oh dear. Such horrendous gazes. It feels like I'm part of a scandal.” He mockingly swoons, momentarily removing his arm from Aurelia to drape his other arm over Theo's shoulders. “How've you been? Have you been good to Ron? How did the baby snakes react to your return?” 

“One question at a time, Harry.” Theo sighs, reluctantly smiling. 

Harry almost wanted to drag him into a corner and interrogate him. Whatever happened in the month he's been here, Hogwarts had taken a toll on Theo. The Nott heir was a highly skilled dark wizard that excelled greatly in warding. The best Hogwarts could offer when it came to warding was Ancient Runes and Dark studies itself, as no other subject delved deeper into the branch of magic. A shame really. 

“Let's start with Ron.” 

That alone had Theo laughing, grinning like a maniac as they followed along their teachers to the classroom they would be shoved into. “The Weasleys have caused quite the stir in Gryffindor. Apparently, since the repeal of Dark Magic, the twins basically outed themselves as Dark wizards once they started using dark spells for their pranks. Even their little Joke shop advocates for it. Ronald is as brash and loyal as ever. Blaise said he kicked someone on the crotch for talking shit about you and almost beat the shit out of the bastard.”

That sounded just like Ron. 

“Anyways, he's basically been on the lookout for dark wixens being sorted into Gryffindor. He takes them in almost immediately and starts cussing out anyone who goes after the little urchins. The sister, on the other hand, is no different. She's been enthusiastic in Dark Studies. Roksana likes her… a lot.” Theo glances at the Dark Studies professor, before smiling back at Harry. 

As expected, Ginevra of all her brothers took to the dark like a fish to water. The Weasleys' alignment was not always light, from what he's understood. Septimus Weasley was the one who declared them light for some strange reason,  practically deviating the entire family from the manifestation of their magical core. He's suspected long enough that the twins and Ginny were dark. Ron was more grey than he was dark but he wasn't light, not that Harry could completel confirm without properly speaking to him. 

Gods, he should really sneak away from the group at some point to drag Ron to the forbidden forest. So many good memories—especially that horrific incident back in fourth year where they trudged through the forest and found Mr. Weasley’s car practically killing some creatures by running them over. Its sentience was already strange and he wonders if he can take it back to their manor in Germany to dissect it for its strange enchantment. 

Such thoughts came to an abrupt end as they finally arrived in the room. Harry was unaware of this space as it looked more like a common room rather than a classroom. Comfortable chairs and sofas prepared, along with refreshments and some snacks they could grab anytime they want. Katerina came to them, whispering how they should immediately take their seats.

Harry quickly reacts, pulling Genevieve close. “Stay with the kids.” he whispers, satisfied when she nods and ushers Vance and Rowle to one sofa. He took a seat on the other sofa with Theo, while Aurelia sat between them. Their teachers took their own seats beside each sofa, while those that would be interviewing them were quickly taking out identical files. 

Harry watches as the head of the DIMC—Moon as he remembers—summon a clipboard and a quill. It eerily reminded him of Rita Skeeter’s horrid interview three years ago, making him grimace as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

One of the ministry officials cleared his throat, Abbott? He's not quite sure but he observes the man quietly, scrutinising him. “Julius Abbott, head of the DOE.” Theo helpfully whispers into his ear, “Roksana likes him… well… as much as she can like a British ministry official.”

If Roksana had no problem with the man then he was a decent individual. He'll have to give him a chance… somehow. 

“Well then… the questions we ask are approved by the ministry and wizengamot… However, with your permission, the teachers of Hogwarts would like to ask their own questions in order to better their teaching styles.” Abbott explains, making a show of presenting the file that was in the hands of Roksana and Deputy Szekeres. 

“That is up to our students. Do you consent?” 

The six children looked each other in the eye before quietly nodding. 

“Very well then… Our first question… Why attend Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts?” 

Oh…. Oh, that was hilarious. The stupidest question they could choose to be the first one amongst many. It quickly soured the mood of the Durmstrang students, excluding Harry and Theo who were greatly amused by such a dumb question. Of course, it was valid, but to outright ask for their reasoning? It was funny—highly insensitive considering the mere implications of such a choice, but funny indeed. 

Roksana was fond of the man but her judgement seemed to be… well… concerning. 

He glanced at the other three, seeing how Morganacht was already on guard, with Rowle palming, and Vance already frowning at the question. Beside him, Aurelia was staring intently at Maximus Fawley. The Lord was already fidgeting nervously, avoiding his daughter's gaze as he looked down at the floor. 

Discreetly, he glanced at Theo before turning back to Abbott, who looked quite troubled at their silence. 

“Well, Mister Abbott…” he gently starts, promptly crossing his legs before smiling at the man. Abbott seemed to relax at his words, smiling back as if he was going to give good feedback. 

“That's quite the insensitive and stupid question.”

To hell with being nice. 

He watched as everyone stiffened at his response, his expression not even faltering as he tilted his head. Without even hiding it, he nods towards Theo who quickly took advantage of their shock to convey his own reasons. “As a Dark wizard and an heir to a house that declared for the dark, I must admit that I felt quite ashamed at my own ignorance. Books did little to educate me on magic that resonated with the classification of my own core. After the Triwizard Tournament three years ago, I was convinced that Durmstrang would be beneficial for me as heir. So to put it simply, my transfer was for the sake of education that aligned to my magic.”

Abbott visibly swallowed, “I see…”

Next was Morganach, who cleared her throat and sternly addressed the officials who were present to listen to them. “My reasons are similar to heir Nott. As you know, my mother is the current head of House Morganach. However, outside of proper education that aligned with my magic, my mother sent me to Durmstrang after her own horrible experience with Hogwarts.” 

One of the officials—Harry thinks she's a Selwyn from what he remembers—sputtered at her words. “Excuse me? I—Please elaborate, Heiress Morganach.”

Genevieve sighs, looking quite irritated. “My mother was part of the batch of 1957-1965. My family has a bad history with Hogwarts due to my ancestor, Isidora Morganach. Some families, specifically those of light families and some who declared for the grey, ruthlessly bullied and outcasted my mother. She did not wish such a fate upon me and immediately rejected the invitation to Hogwarts and opted for Durmstrang.” She dismisses Selwyn’s concerns before quietly placing her hands back on her lap. 

“Bigotry, bad blood, prejudices—bullying and harassment. My mother was a Ravenclaw and was not given proper justice as she continued to be bullied until her graduation. Knowing that such things still exist makes me quite inclined with my mother's decision to send me to Durmstrang.” She spat, narrowing her eyes at Dumbledore and then Fawley, as if knowing that these two were the culprits of such issues. 

Harry highly suspects that Fawley had been involved in that bullying. 

Moon was furiously scribbling on her clipboard, looking quite disturbed and disappointed. She looked older than what Genevieve explained her mother to be so maybe she was not quite present to witness such bullying. 

Next was Rowle, who gulped and avoided their eyes. Vance whispered something into his ear, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. “Er… well… my magical  affinity… makes it difficult for me to cast light magic.” He admits, not meeting their gazes. “Majority of Hogwarts spells that are taught are considered light or grey. There were practically no dark spells that I could properly utilise. So… Father thought it would be better if I studied at Durmstrang where we could choose between dark and light studies.” 

Vance whispered something into his ear again and they shared quiet smiles. Cecilia Vance looked more comfortable than them, considering that her reasoning for going to Durmstrang was less severe than theirs, similar to Theo. “I was a Hogwarts student until my second year, however, after I spoke with my mother about my interest in different branches of magic, I had to state that Hogwarts was lacking in it. Unlike Hogwarts, Durmstrang has a subject named Principles of Magic and there is an elective in Durmstrang that I eagerly study, which is Ritual Studies.” She sucked in a deep breath, sheepishly smiling at her continuous rambling. 

Harry hums, turning to Aurelia who was quietly staring at her tea. He took it from her hands, humming as he waited for his Lord ring to detect any kind of tampering—veritaserum, poison, etc…—in the tea. When there was nothing, he took one sip before noticing Aurelia had glared at him, prompting Harry to grin and return the cup. 

“So… I suppose my reasoning was that Hogwarts lacked subjects. The school also does not celebrate our holidays, Durmstrang does. Ritual studies has us studying the reasons as to why we perform such rituals and sorts during holidays like Samhain, Yule, etc.” Vance explains, looking extremely enthusiastic whilst she spoke of her specialised subject. 

Katerina clears her throat, startling the girl who's cheeks went as red as their uniform. Though the Dark Studies professor offered her a gentle and proud smile that had Vance chuckling quietly. 

When their gazes turned to them, Aurelia was already satisfied with sipping her tea as she loudly clanked her cup on the saucer. Harry noticed the way Fawley flinched, making him looking away to avoid smiling like a maniac. 

“Would you like me to be honest?” Aurelia pleasantly smiles, addressing every single official in the room. Her question was met with hesitance but Abbott nodded, looking wary. Behind him, Roksana looked stressed. “Very well then.” She says, taking one last sip before placing her tea back on the table. 

“Shame.” She bluntly says and Fawley flinches again. 

“My name is Aurelia Evrin Fawley.” She repeats, “I am a child of a family known to adhere to the ways of the light in the strictest of manners. I am… the firstborn child of Lord Fawley and his first wife. What do you think, does it imply that a firstborn of a light family, one who is supposed to be heiress, is sent to Durmstrang?” 

There was no response so Aurelia kept going. 

“Easy. My mother was divorced and I was disowned for something I could not control. My father was ashamed and decided to get rid of the stain on the lightness of his family by banishing the child that should have been his heir.” Aurelia scoffs, arms crossed as she eyed Lord Fawley’s gradually reddening face. “To summarise it, Lord Fawley is a coward who can't own up to having a dark witch for a daughter.”

Lord Fawley stood up from his seat like a springboard, already prepared to rip into Aurelia. Unfortunately for him, Hyperion Peverell was one of Aurelia's best friends and he did not take kindly to any threat to them. When Aurelia flinched, his wand was already in his hand and Katerina—who was already used to his immediate response with violence—grabbed his wrist. 

“Отставить(‘Stand down’ - commonly used as a military command.)” Katerina hisses into his ear, boring her eyes into his very soul. With a magic charged hand, he almost flinched when he felt it sting him a bit. 

He would have lashed out if it were anyone else, but like Aleksia, Katerina has witnessed his violence before. She knows that words alone couldn't stop him, especially when such violence was caused by his need to protect someone he cares for. Aurelia's negative reaction to her father simply standing was not a good sign for him—reminding himself of how he was quick to scurry away when his uncle stood from his seat. 

“Lord Fawley, sit down.” Szekere sternly says, staring at the man with his strange hawk-like eyes. The other man glared back, before being dragged back down to his seat by Selwyn who sat beside him. 

“Arschloch(Asshole (German).” Harry clicked his tongue, almost shamelessly. He doesn't mind the harsh glare Katerina sends him, not fazed as he stares daggers at Lord Fawley. “Well I don't need to tell you my reasons considering Lord Fawley just revealed it.” He snarkily spat, relaxing in his seat—or, well, appearing to relax. 

“This damned country has declared me the saviour of the blasted light. What happens when that saviour is a dark wizard, hm?” Harry laughs, taking immense and drunken joy from their shock. “After the tournament, I was fucking catatonic. I didn't even know where I was and the first thing you bastards do was publicly terrorise a boy. Rather than sending me a mind healer to help, the ministry decided to call me a liar through the prophet, ruining my reputation when I was already mentally unstable after getting kidnapped by fucking Pettigrew and watching him kill Cedric.” 

Oh—oh he wasn't going to play nice at all. They didn't deserve it after all. 

His gaze strays to Lord Gaunt, who was staring at him as if he was a strange and new species that had suddenly emerged. He felt slighted by the man's presence, horrendously irritated that he was walking around unfazed. 

“Honestly now, if word got out I leaned to the dark, I'd have been accused of being the next dark lord.” 

There was pin drop silence after that statement, causing every single eye in that room to dig into this strange boy with green eyes. Harry Potter—or must he say Hyperion Peverell. The green-eyed boy with a tongue sharper than a knife. 

The way he looked at Marvolo was disturbing, terrifying—somewhat as he bore into his very soul. 

“Honestly now, if word got out I leaned to the dark, I'd have been accused of being the next dark lord.” Peverell spat, waving at Fawley and Abbott as if they were the blights of society. Then his gaze proceeded to direct itself towards Dumbledore and such an eerie smile etched itself across his face. “Plus, Hogwarts was shit. Safest place in the world? Please. I went through near death experiences for all the four years I attended and was still expected to continue to study here.” 

“Хватит. Ты сказал свое, оставь это на этом.(Enough. You've said your piece, leave it be now.)” Morozova snaps, her words heavy and stern—even when Marvolo couldn't understand what spewed from her mouth. 

“Apologies for him.” She says but there is not a hint of remorse in her voice, rather, there is annoyance. “When he is told to be honest, he will be.”

Abbott nods, hesitant and weary. “Yes… yes of course. Mayhaps we can… er… move past the subject and ask more questions?” 

“That would be preferred.” Szekeres hums, waving Morozova off as she quietly gestures to Peverell to keep quiet. The boy follows, and unorthodox sight from the boy known to be ever so defiant. 

“Yes… well… This is a question for Heir Nott. As a student who's recently transferred back to Hogwarts, we would like your input. Any improvements or deterioration of the school? Some direct comparisons between Durmstrang and the reformed Hogwarts.” Abbott asks, turning to Heir not with a quizzical look. 

Heir Nott stares at him, curious before he speaks. “There's improvement, of course. Exorcising Binns was a smart decision, then replacing him with Professor Baumer, a muggleborn, gave us good input. With the perspective of a muggleborn added to History of Magic, I suppose there's a spike in the grades. Muggleborns who are newly introduced to our world can now be properly integrated with the improved History and the addition of Etiquette and Culture classes… but Dark Studies is the issue.” 

He clicks his tongue, glancing at Peverell. 

Marvolo observes the two carefully. They were friends or perhaps acquaintances but they knew one another to be communicating without words. 

“Not many are enthusiastic about it, some downright skipped the class.” Nott sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Most are Gryffindors, to be honest. The only one that I've known to consistently attend Dark Studies in my class of Gryffindors is Ron Weasley.” 

The name easily garners Peverell’s attention, peering at the other boy with a staunch interest that does not fade for a time. 

“I say this without much bias, but all of Slytherin attend the class. We don't skip it, considering we've never been told that dark magic was associated with evil.” He explains, careful with his words and glancing at those who were more aligned with the light. “I don't have much to say since I've only been here for a month, but that's what I've noticed so far.”

“Thank you, Heir Nott.” Abbott says, proceeding to the next questions. 

Marvolo finds them tedious, continuous comparisons between Durmstrang and Hogwarts that makes him recoil every single time he has to hear about it. Admittedly, the interview does not go so well, with the evident annoyances of the Durmstrang students—Peverell and Fawley were especially snappy when questioned, brutally answering their questions with vicious honesty that made Abbott stutter every few times. 

As he's observed, Rowle was the most jittery of the five, clearly fearful of those around him with his magic leaking out from time to time. The boy had been honest when he said that his magic was so dark that he could barely access any aspect of light magic—Marvolo could feel it. The Vance girl was quick to soothe his troubles, holding his hand and whispering into his ear before she smiles at them, pleasant and sweet. Morganach was protective of the two, often silently consulting Peverell for what to do with little glances and nods. They were a tight knit group, a subtle establishment of who was who could be noticed if one could look carefully. 

Admittedly, Marvolo was quite impressed with the young man. Peverell would have transferred to Durmstrang just two years ago and yet it seems he's taken charge so quickly. Slytherin-like, he thinks and can't help but smirk when Peverell methodically dissects the workings of Hogwarts and its flaws, making the professors flinch. 

“The facilities are horrid in comparison to Durmstrang's. For one,” Peverell pauses, glancing at Hooch with a pitying look. “The school's brooms are updated every five years considering not many brooms last for longer than seven years if continuously used by different people.”

The flying professor looks tearful at such a comparison, covering her face as Sprout quickly comforts her. 

“Anyways!” Peverell happily chitters, “Durmstrang offers more electives than Hogwarts, plus some extracurriculars such as swordsmanship. From my own experience, the school is quite unbiased, unlike the reputation it has. Dark Studies and Light studies are electives, so many people who are aligned to either or are grey often take those classes.”

“And what,” Dumbledore carefully asks and Marvolo sees Peverell's smile tighten. “Pray tell, did you take, Harry?” 

“Headmaster Dumbledore, I implore you to remain professional. Our student refers to Hyperion Peverell—” Morozova practically hisses. “It's Mister Peverell to you.” 

Dumbledore's calm expression immediately looks perturbed, “Apologies. Mister Peverell…”

Peverell simply waves away his apology, before a smirk graces his lips. “Dark Studies, obviously.” 

It would be a lie if Marvolo wasn't expecting that, but he's still surprised. The golden boy—the poster boy of the light—was unabashedly dark. His transfer to Durmstrang seemed to have worked well for him, especially as he seemed to come to terms with who he was. He had to admire him for that. 

“I see…” Dumbledore says, looking fairly disappointed in the boy. Such a gaze welcomes a flash of pure and vicious hatred in those viridian eyes. 

He assumes that he's the only one who sees it, as Peverell is quick to shift back to a more cordial expression. 

“Well then,” Abbott clears his throat, turning to the Hogwarts professors. “I've gathered sufficient information, what about you, professors?” 

“Ah! Yes!” Flitwick is the first to say, beaming at them as his eyes become hungry—a Ravenclaw through and through with his love for wisdom. “Majority of the spells practised in my class are light or grey. I know my fair share of dark charms, however, I've wondered what kind of spells your charms professor has taught you.”

Vance seems to perk up, “Ah, right! Well… Dark and Light magic often refer to a classification of magic.” She explains, though it was basic knowledge, Abbott was still writing on his pad. “Different countries have different classifications, to be honest. So the things often said to be dark here don't have a proper label in some places.”

“Care to elaborate.” 

As if in habit, Morganach and Peverell slightly raised their hands, before their teachers gently pushed them down. “Right,” Morganach clears her throat, “Example is France. They have a different classification of magic. Light magic is magic that is elemental while dark magic is any kind of magic that involves the body and mind.”

“In the case of Britain, Light magic refers to magic fueled by intent alone. Wingardium Leviosa, Levicorpus, Alohomora.” Peverell begins to explain, “Dark Magic is emotion-fuelled spells. Fiendfyre, Expulso, a darker yet stronger version of Confringo, and then there's Seco, the cutting spell. Majority of charms itself is simply put in intent, in other words, how strong a person's will can be. But then there's charms like Cave Inimicum which are fueled by emotions like fear and caution.”

“Cave Inimicum… are you talking about the charm that keeps one's enemies away?” 

“Yes.” Peverell nonchalantly replies, “It's taught in our fifth year. But I'm not quite adept in charms like my mother. Cecilia is better at this than I.” 

Marvolo pauses, staring at Peverell who amicably answers questions without much issue. The classification of magic indeed felt strange. Dark and Light meant different things for others. Elemental and body for France, intent and emotion for Britain. If possible, Marvolo himself had fueled many of his spells with his anger, his euphoria. He found that the more he felt, the stronger his spells were. For someone who was declared unfeeling, Marvolo thinks that he's quite emotional if all his life he's known that dark magic suited him best. 

But… if Hyperion Peverell claims to study the dark, it means that he is an emotional creature as well. Yet there is a possibility that the dark he speaks of is not the same one Marvolo knows. As said, different countries define dark and light in their own ways. 

Which one did Peverell follow when he speaks of the dark?

Chapter Text

Learn from your mistakes.

Magic is strange, almost fickle in a way. Sentient and not, so malleable and uncontrollable. A Paradox in the world that they struggled to understand. 

Hermione always questioned the science in which that explains magic. There's no proper science, of course. Her Les fondements de la magie professor would skewer her if she were to start finding logic in magic through muggle science. There were times she could correlate them, sure, but could she even begin to worry for the times that science itself could not make sense of how flesh could be woven back with blood rather than thread. 

Inherently, Hermione worries for herself and her family. They were good. Daniel and Monica Granger were kind people, amazing dentists to be honest. They were always so supportive of her, worrying and fretting whenever she went to Hogwarts. They loved her regardless. 

So it had pained her when she had to forsake her name as Granger to be a Peverell. 

Some things just had to be done for the ones you love… Safety and Security was her priority and having allied herself with her new brother has made her a target for the ire of many. Her parents were her weakness and they would be used against her when the day comes. 

Lacing her fingers together, Hermione took in a deep breath before shaking her head. She felt someone sharply poke her side, earning them her annoyance as the strange person beside her grinned sheepishly. 

“Mia!” 

Oh heavens, she never liked that wretched nickname. It made absolutely no sense to her. How could the name Mia be taken from Hermione? Ridiculous really. 

René tilts her head, smiling as per usual as her eyes shifted from blue to a greenish hue. She can't help but sigh, knowing that her brother has gone and done something stupid—per the letter from Headmistress Aleksia. 

“Professor Verne is looking for you. I think it was something about the recommendations.” She simply waves, tilting her head to the side before her hands slip behind her head to adjust the red ribbon that ties her pastel purple hair. “Oh! Did your brother send you a letter? I heard from my cousin in Durmstrang that Lord Peverell has once again decided to put the rest of the purebloods in their place. Like—can you believe it? One person decided that he's so annoyed with pompous brats that he might as well put some weight on them to keep them from going up.”

Yes… her brother's siege. She can't particul fault him but at the same time she could. Why had he even chosen Durmstrang? There were other schools that could cater to his hunger—yet once again, she cannot blame him. Durmstrang wad—if not—the best school for anyone interested in the dark arts. Hyperion was exactly that—hungry. Harry was not originally known to be an academic but something had snapped inside of him two years ago, manifesting a sort of hunger in him that Hermione could not understand. 

René walked beside her, continuing to ramble about their most recent homework from Elementalism class. Professor Chapelle had been horrifically strict about the ethical uses of light magic. Hermione still frowned upon such a system that France shares with Italy and Romania. She really needed to get more books on what was dark and what was light for different countries. She had heard from Harry that there was a country that used the seasons to categorise their magic. Which was strange to be honest. 

The door to Professor Verne’s office was as imposing as she remembered. For a plain white door, it still felt like one to the afterlife rather than the office of her TFoM professor. Grimacing, she quietly tells René to remain outside, knocking soon after. There's a reply that follows, leading Hermione to open the door and hurriedly dipping her body into the best curtsy that she could ever muster. 

Yvonne Verne sat behind her desk, magic whirling around her as her books and documents remained floating with quills writing on parchment. It was a wondrous spectacle of procrastination and just how quick her professor's mind worked. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Peverell.” Verne says, staring straight at her with her usual contemplative look. She sets her quill down—not the ones floating around—and promptly gestures to the seat in front of her. 

Hermione smiles, lacing her fingers together once more as she keeps them from shaking. Her signet ring feels heavy upon her finger but it had been a gift from Hyperion, showing that she was a Peverell no matter what anyone said. 

“Miss Peverell, it has come to my attention that you were recently contacted by a member of the ICW’s…” she trails off, peeking into the document, “International affairs department to be an ambassador of your home country.” 

Hermione stiffens, a smile frozen in place. True, it had been a strange summer when the ICW had suddenly attempted to recruit her into their political department. An ambassador for goodness sakes. Harry had been both ecstatic and concerned, being a Durmstrang student himself. But they had decided to put that on hold, having written to the person—an Avery apparently—that she had to focus on her studies before an internship could commence. 

“Am I to understand that the person who had previously written to you was…” again, Verne trails off to glance back at the document. “—a Sullivan Avery. Yes, him. International affairs and all that. I would have preferred if Grimsrud from the Law Enforcement would recruit you but blasted Sridhar got to you first.” She scoffs, tossing the document back to her desk. “None of that now… I wanted to know why you have postponed such an opportunity.”

The circumstances were confusing, to be honest. Prophecies weren't particularly welcomed in their world—Britain specifically. But then Harry had to end up dabbling in them and here she was, deciding that getting involved in international affairs when she was clearly unprepared was the worst thing possible. Back then, she would have grabbed at this opportunity like it was a lifeline, a purpose, a reason. She would have been able to prove herself—to the purebloods, to the world that she was just as good as the rest of them. That she could be better. But what was the point of being better when the possibility of crashing and burning looked over her? 

“The time isn't right.” She vaguely explains, smiling sadly at her professor. “I don't have a proper grasp of the world, yet. I need more time, more knowledge, more experience. My brother discussed this with me considering there have been recruitment letters pouring into our home. Both for him and I… Professor… you know my past. You know my brother's past.” 

She sighs and suddenly it feels like a decade had passed rather than two years. 

“We were ambitious and reckless children. We know very well that experience and knowledge is required if we must survive in this world.” Hermione reasons, gesturing as she spoke. “Besides! Would you prefer for me to be trained in politics and diplomacy rather than focusing on my research paper and your tests? Please, professor. I crave to know your knowledge.”

Verne shook her head, fond and amused. “Troublesome girl. The way Demetrius Tasev described your brother in his letters shows that you two are truly alike. Brats… Brats I say.” With a sigh, Verne rubs her chin before levelling her with a stare. “Well then, what are your thoughts in your career? After graduating, which occupation will you pursue?” 

What did she want to do?

Hermione had thought about this numerous times. 

She wanted to be Minister of Magic. She wanted to teach. She wanted to work for Gringotts. She wanted to be a solicitor. She wanted to be a healer. 

There were many dreams that flitted across her mind while growing up. Her desires felt obscure at best, wanting many things yet only able to chose one. Working for the ICW would be the best course of action with the salary and reputation that you can garner. However, the department was her issue. She was suited for Law enforcement and international affairs. Maybe even working on sustaining the stature of secrecy with the Department of Magical catastrophes. 

“I have many possibilities.” She hums, “But I want to be able to… sustain the magical world itself. Evidently, we are deteriorating. Our world is not as advanced as those of muggles, leading us to be quite ignorant to the weapons and inventions they have. Muggles have discovered faster way of communication with their telephones and the creation of the internet. What I want is to advance us but at the same time, I want to keep us safe from being found. They have more lethal and wide-area weapons and they outnumber us…”

Verne nodded, looking troubled by Hermione's words but they were the truth. Spending time with a cynical and nihilistic brother impacted a person greatly and Hermione could barely cling to what little optimism she had. 

“That's a rather big dream, Miss Peverell… but… you have set yourself in a good path. An evolutionary one.” Verne softly explains, smiling again as she tucks her hands behind her back and paces across the room. “I hope to know that in the future, I will hear your name spoken reverently as a witch who bettered the world. Don't forget me, yes? Tell those at Hogwarts that you learned about magic from me.” 

Hermione giggles, nodding fondly at the teacher. 

“Now shoo. Miscreant child. Your little shapeshifter might run a hole outside my office if she continues to pace like that.” 

For a moments she didn't know who Verne was talking about, before her eyes widened. Right. René was still outside. She bowed politely before hurriedly exiting the room. Verne had been correct, considering how her friend was pacing like she had been sentenced to her last meal. Hair shifting from shades of purple before their eyes meet. Purple changed to pink, then to bright blue as René launched herself at Hermione. 

“Did she sentence you to eternity behind a desk?” René screeches, dragging her across the halls in the most uncouth manner she could muster. Horrific, to be honest but there's no blaming her for it. They get some scrutinising looks but Hermione could care less for their judgement. “I mean like—you’re her favourite. Yes! I'm sure about that, Mia. Allard and Blanchet bitch about it thrice a week and it's AWFUL!” 

“Tragic.”

“Yes! True. Anyways—you won't leave, right? I know about Lord Peverell basically putting a bunch of Durmstrang kids on a leash but you won't leave me, right?” René gnawed at her lip, batting her lashes at Hermione. “You're doing good here…”

“I'm not leaving, René. My brother has his little kingdom in Durmstrang. I don't think he'll take kindly to me meddling with it.” Hermione shakes her head. She ought to write a letter to Hyperion to tell him off about letting himself be sent back. If Ron doesn't write to her about it then she must persuade the Headmistress to visit her troublesome brother on the matter. 

“But it would have been okay… right?”

“You don't know the interworkings of Durmstrang. Even I am not privy to that but what little I have gained from my brother is information that scares me. They have a subtle… hierarchy. Someone who gets to play king, so long as he is not overthrown, of course.” Her gaze shifts down to the signet ring, the Peverell crest made out of gold as she plays with it, adjusting the ring around her finger. “He was fifteen when he humiliated a young man, you know. He proclaimed himself king back then,the little leader children turned to. The poor thing hasn't recovered, from what I know. No peep from him in society whatsoever.” 

René winced, looking wary. She was right to feel that, of course. Harry wasn't kind. As she's said, Harry was hungry. 

“That bad? Professor Verne mentions him from time to time, you know. Even Chapelle seems to talk about him too… the infamous Hyperion Peverell who can shift water to fire in mere seconds…” she whispers, awed and a tad fearful from the way her eyes shifted back to a deep hue of purple. Nervously, René smiles at Hermione who can barely return it. 

Hermione shook her head. Oh—dear gods, no. Harry was possessive of things he's conquered. Even towards his closest friends—to her, his sister. Durmstrang is something he's conquered, a place that has succumbed to his words and tenacity that the unfortunate students who received his ire were being dragged to the bottom of the steps of greatness. They were damned by simply garnering his attention and Hermione just knows that she wouldn't be good there. 

Hyperion stopped sharing a long time ago.

“You've never met my brother. Pray that you never will.” 

Okay… change of plans….

They were being made to stay for three days, maybe five. That sucked. 

Harry wasn't exactly pleased when Katya explained this to them after he had to almost hexef Abbott for trying to make them spend the night at Hogwarts. Hogwarts! His bitchiness pulled through, of course, after he scoffed and told him that he had his own manor in Britain or they could stay Lady Morganach until they had to return. 

Why was this even being entertained? Harry was sure that it was stupid because first of all, he had a research paper to attend to! The library at Hogwarts was just trash, utter and embarrassing trash with so little information that he might actually be able to recite the first chapter of every book in that god be damned place. What did he actually want to do? Bury himself on a book about necromancy so he could finally start on observing it! But no! Katya decides that they have to stay, Szekeres decides that he should pity them. 

Ugh.

“Rion… you've set the bloody tapestry in fire again.” Aurelia blabs, gesturing to the burning tapestry that Genevieve was desperately trying to put out. The flames were green and blue, of course they were! 

Irritated, Harry snaps his fingers, glaring at the familiar classroom with such a ferocity that he might actually set it in fire too. Unfortunately, that could not be arranged as Roksana barges into her classroom, takes one look at the burnt ends of her little tapestry decoration, then proceeds to glare at him. Harry only grinds his teeth and everything as he tilts her head at her.

“Cease your nonsense.”

“The only reason why we're even allowed here is because Szekeres and Romanova pity these loathsome and bigoted fools!” Harry spat, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Surprised Dumbledore even let us stay to begin with. His little golden boy helped teach the dark arts. Wonderful!” 

“Don't be a bitch.” Aurelia rolls her eyes, earning her a little indignation from Genevieve who—once again—reminds them to reduce their cussing in front of children. Not that the people would give a damn, unlike Durmstrang who drilled manners into their kids the moment they stepped foot on the castle. “Anyways, what's your plan now? We've been spread thin. You're the only one we can trust among the teachers, you know that… right?” 

Roksana lets out a frustrated noise, “Yes, I understand. But Flitwick will keep Vance safe. I doubt Baumer will try anything with Rowle… you three wouldn't even need to worry with your own experience.”

“I'm stuck with Snape!” Aurelia screeches, looking horrified as she collapses on a chair. They all had specific specialties and Aurelia unfortunately and fortunately was one of the best potioneers in Durmstrang.

“Condolences.” Harry drawls, but she's right with being devastated. Snape was a cunt. “Don't think Minnie will try to hurt you, Vivi. She's great, for the most part.”

“Wonderful…” Genevieve mutters, shaking her head. “Lucky you that you've got Roksana.”

Harry smirks, turning to Roksana. “You'd think that but I'd be cussed out the moment they saw me. Saviour of the light helping teach Dark Studies. What a fucking joke.” 

At least he'd get to see Ron. 

“Enough… All three of you.” The woman already looked exhausted from their complaining alone. If this was the effect they had on her, then what happened when defecting lions became her issue? 

Suddenly, Harry was overcome by anger. Maybe determination. Or spite. Whatever it was, he wanted to wrangle every little Gryffindor that tried to skip her class, stick their asses to the chairs, and have the other houses drag them out once the lesson was done. If that didn't work then he'd knock them out and personally tutor them on the importance of studying about Dark Magic. It would be easy. String a bit of magic, slip it into their minds and they'll drop like flies immediately. 

The world jolted as he looked around. That blasted voice again…

“It's good that Durmstrang and Hogwarts have similar systems in categorising.” Harry sighs, rubbing the thin trail of lightning that was his scar. “Emotions and intent… Funny considering they're bloody good at mixing what's dark and what's light.” 

“Yes… I wish to address that, actually. Would it be possible for you to show them your Fiendfyre? Specifically your capability to shift elements.”

“About that,” he cuts in, looking warily at Roksana. “My Elementalism isn't too stable right now. Stress and all from being in Hogwarts but if there are proper regulations and enough protective spells, then I might be able to cast one on the grounds.” 

Roksana frowns at him, contemplating his words before she sighs. “Alright, no manipulation of the elements inside.” There's a tinge of disappointment in her voice that makes him fidget, gritting his teeth as she paces the room. Classes would start soon; Genevieve and Aurelia would have to get moving. “Girls, go find your respective classrooms…”

“Aurelia can't go alone.” He quickly says, getting up fast enough to grab Aurelia's sleeve. “Her family has not reacted kindly to her arrival.”

Again, Roksana looked terribly stressed. She rubs her temples before waving them off. Genevieve is hesitant to let them go alone but he's quick to tell her that he wasn't the type to stay idle if someone tried to attack them. Harry knows the halls of Hogwarts far better than anyone alive does and quickly navigates Aurelia to the closest secret passage. It surprises her, of courses but quickly shushes her when she attempts to question his knowledge. Thank you Marauders for your genius—minusing Peter because that one was a shithead that tempted him to commit murder in broad daylight. 

The passage to the dungeons were flights of stairs that Harry had to carefully navigate her through. With his voice strung out and magic leaking into his throat, he hisses out commands after commands. Often he found himself frustrated when a simple ‘open’ needed to be rephrased into ‘I seek exit/entry’ depending on whether he was going out or in. Damned castle and it's need for fancy words. What was wrong with ‘open’? It was simple and concise! 

The dungeons were as cold as ever with students rushing in and out of it. Those clad in green were more accustomed to prancing around the dungeons without a worry, a little arrogant but understandable. Snape's classroom was here somewhere. Hopefully he could remember it. 

“D'you think he'd cuss me out?” Aurelia mutters, frowning to herself. 

“Nah. He's too much of a ponce to do that. He's… er… a cunt. Yeah. That's all I have to say about the bloody bastard.” Harry snorts, shaking his head as he adjusted the blood red uniform of Durmstrang. “Wait, no. He was in love with my mother and my father was as much of a cunt as he was. James Potter was a fucking bully, did you know that?” 

“Really? All I've ever heard about your dad was that he was a saint.” 

“He's no more of a saint as me.” Harry cackles, before ignoring the gaping looks of students who watched them pass. 

They arrived to the classroom with no other issues. With students still trying not to inch too close to them after Harry slapped a kid's hand away from trying to grab at his robes. He glances at Aurelia, shrugging before he knocks in the most polite way he could when it came to Severus Snape…

Which meant he wasn't. 

As expected, the door slammed open, revealing a particularly irritated Snape. 

“Good morning Professor!” Harry cheerily says, “I've come to deliver your little assistant. Treat her well and I might just keep your lab intact from a sudden explosion.”

“Insolent boy. You've gotten more arrogant, I see.” Snape sneers and Harry knows. He knows that Snape sees his father in him.

“No more than my father.” He repeats his own words, reversed. For James Potter was no saint and neither was his son. “But at the very least I am better than him. Don't forget, professor, half of me is my mother.”

Snape flinches, glaring at him before assessing Aurelia with a scrutinising look they were familiar with. 

“You were in my house, were you not?” 

“Being Slytherin never helped with my father wanting to keep me.” Aurelia scoffs, shaking her head before her gaze levels with Snape. “Which group am I stuck with today?” 

“For the time being? Be thankful it is Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.”

Harry grimaces, “Good for you. I'm stuck with the hell duo.”

“Lions and Snakes?” 

“First day and I end up with those two. What say you, professor? D'you think that the little lions will attend class now?” He grins, tilting his head while Snape shakes his head in exasperation and—dare he say—amusement. 

“Unlikely… but your friend will have dragged them by their legs like last time.” Snape sighs, sounding both irked and impressed. 

Whatever Ron had done while he was gone had apparently gained him the approval of the resident dungeon bat. Good for you, Ron. Again, he really needed to get some alone time with his best friend to have a… what did Hermione call it again? Right. A heart to heart.

“Psst…” Aurelia nudges him, frowning.

"Sie werden zu spät kommen. Roksy wird nicht glücklich sein, wenn du zu spät kommst."(You will be late.Roksy won't be happy if you're late.) She says, sounding worried an amused. Well, how considerate of her whilst being a little shit yet again. It was a talent of hers at this point. 

Internally, he recoils at Roksana’s lecturing. With a halfhearted wave, he starts walking away from the potions lab, quietly hoping that Aurelia would be fine with Snape. He's never trusted the man, not really. His intentions always seemed to be obscure and his morals were utter shite (not that he could judge him on that part). But he was a ridiculously petty and immature adult—Harry hated those. 

He already misses Durmstrang. He misses the lab. He misses his tinkering. He misses his mechanisms and that unfinished doll he has lying there, waiting for him to finally fix. He swears, if anyone touched that damn thing, he's chop their fucking hands off. Little inventions, prototypes especially were fragile things and Harry was never one to easily forgive anyone who tampered with one of his creations. Even Katya knew never to meddle with the ‘forge’—well, that's what the strange children of Durmstrang called it. 

The Dark Studies room was—thank fuck—not stereotypical. With the workings of Hogwarts, he assumed that Dumbledore would stick Roksana to a dreary and dark room in the dungeon. But no. Her classroom was located on the fifth floor with enough sunlight to go by. 

“Mister Peverell,” She snidely says, displeased with his tardiness. “I hope that you had a riveting conversation with Professor Snape.”

“I did, actually.” He chuckles, passing by the centre, between tables and chairs of lions and snakes who's eyes followed his every move. “He’s just informed us of the class groups for the day and Aurelia is often forgetful when it comes to names, as you know. I had to be there, professor.”

It's easy, really. Bending the truth—no it is not lying when there is truth in it. Rude. 

“Tsk… Come now, I'll have you set up.” Roksana says, gesturing to a suitcase that he's sure is filled with some dark artefacts—approved by the ministry and all. “Yes… apologies for the interruption, students. As you may know, students of Durmstrang have been tasked to assist in integrating dark magic into Hogwarts for a few days. They will be assisting teachers and providing insight regarding their experiences and knowledge. My assistant here, Hyperion Peverell, is one of the best students that Durmstrang can offer. Be mindful as he's allowed us to borrow his precious time from continuing his required research paper.”

“That's an understatement…” Harry grumbles and gets a glare from Roksana. 

“Proceeding…” she curtly says, “A little review, then. Who can tell me what categorises dark and light magic? The first one to answer both gets ten points.”

Hands shot up immediately and Harry notices, almost loathingly, that the majority of Gryffindor remains quiet or whispering to one another with judging looks. He smiles, directly at one boy he doesn't even recognise, and watches as he flinches and lowers his head from whispering into his seatmate's ear. 

“Mister Weasley.” 

If anyone had seen the speed in which his head snapped towards the boy, they'd have assumed Harry had broken his neck. He was taller, more lean than he remembered with a uniform that actually fitted him. Harry highly suspected that the twins had a hand in their brother's clothes. Maybe Ginny's too if he ever saw her.

“Er… Light magic is more on purpose… wait… intent! Yeah. Light magic runs on intent, like what you want and just that. Dark magic uses a lot of emotions and stuff as power. And… wait…” Ron frowns, before he beamd up at Roksana. “Grey magic uses both intent and emotions. That's why a lot of spells are grey instead of just dark or light.”

Roksana smiles, “Could you give me an example for each category?”

Ron stood there, thinking long and hard before he glances at Harry who merely smiles. The other young man looked nervous but answered with as much honesty as possible. “For light is… Wingardium Leviosa.” Harry almost snorted at that. “Grey is Finite Incantatem since you need both will and… uhm… hope, I think, to cast it. And for Dark is…I think Orchideus is considered Dark since it uses either happiness or love to conjure the flowers.”

“Very good, Mister Weasley. Fifteen points to Gryffindor.” Roksana grins, clearly fond of Ron. “Now, as you've heard from Mister Weasley, Orchideous is a dark spell. Yet, when one casts it, you'd immediately assume it was a light spell due to how harmless it is. That, children, is currently how you view dark magic—harmful. That couldn't be any far from the truth. Emotions, they are powerful. Emotions fuel dark magic and why is it considered dark?” She turned to the class, expecting an answer but many were hesitant to speak. 

Roksana tries not to frown, before gesturing to Harry. 

“Because of how your core manifests.” He explains, “The earliest wixen to have been born had abilities to see magic. One's magic core was dark when they are overcome by emotions, while the core is light when they are driven by intent. It is said that Morgana Le Fay had a magic core that was pitch black, as her magic was driven by her emotions which caused many incidents when she could not keep them under control. Meanwhile, Merlin Emrys had a light core due to his ambitious nature in uniting Albion, his greatest goal and the source of his intent.”

Most of it was true, of course. His little visit to Alexandria had been interesting, to say the least. 

“But neither were truly dark or light. Morgana had her goals and her intent, while Merlin was empathetic to even some of his enemies.” He drawls, “There's a ratio to it, right?” 

“Yes. As Mister Peverell said, there is a ratio to whether you are more dark then you are light. They work in threes, usually. Two-to-one, three-to-one, or one-to-one. For the two, it means you are grey but more inclined to a certain category. The three refers to your obvious and deep affinity to this type of magic. But for the balanced one to one, it means that you are equally dark and light. Pure grey, if I must explain.”  Roksana carefully elaborates, conjuring three balls of magic. One black, one white, and another grey. She divided them into groups, visualising the ratio of a person's magic. 

“It's easy to misunderstand but that does not change how awful it truly is to not know something.” She tuts, vanishing the coloured spheres. “There are Dark spells that are mistaken for light due to the effects and results of it. Orchideous, as I've said, is one of them. Would anyone like to give more examples for spells that have been mistaken for different categories?” 

This time, numerous hands shot up. Some from Gryffindor. Harry could recognise Seamus Finnegan in the group, as well as Dean Thomas. The two boys looked enthusiastic about answering the question, whispering to one another before they beamed at Roksana. 

“Hm… Miss Brown.” Roksana says, pointing at a girl with a silky red headband. 

“Skurge, ma'am. It's the charm that frightens ghosts and other spirits. A lot of people think it's dark cause of… y'know… the ghosts. But it's a light spell since all you want is to scare them away. Don't think there's much emotion there.”  Lavender says, looking hopeful. 

“Correct. Anyone else? Miss Davis.”

“Duro, ma'am. The stone transfiguration spell. It's a light spell, ma'am, but since it's similar to the Medusa curse, people assume it's dark.” 

“Excellent work! Yes, Duro is quite different from Pétrefo. Duro is considered light due to its only fuel being the intent to turn an object into stone. Pétrefo—better known as the Medusa curse, petrifies living, breathing creatures. It requires a set of emotions to turn someone into stone. Anger, specifically, is its fuel—reminiscent of the fury of the  infamous Medusa in which it is named after.” Roksana smiles, pleased by the growing engagement of the students. “What about a dark spell mistaken for light? Can anyone give me an example?”

Harry doesn't think much before his hand is raised. Roksana notices, raising a brow while he grins at her. The professor shakes her head, gesturing to him to continue. 

He's intimately aware of dark magic. His emotions had driven him to madness in a future he has suffered from. This new world remains and still he is driven by his feelings. Yet it's what makes him powerful. The human side of him feeds off emotions that gradually corrupt it. He wonders what will happen when they find out what he's done. 

“This spell is easily mistaken for light due to its nature. Its very purpose is to protect and the stigma of Dark Magic being harmful and evil has ensured that many perceive this spell as light.” Harry smiles, a grin across his face that shows his teeth. “But really, it's dark. It feeds off emotions, it is fueled by the feelings invoked by your memories. It's what defines dark magic as the intent does not matter for this spell, so long as you can feel.”

He hums, recalling the thumb of magic upon the tips of his fingers back when he was merely thirteen. The silvery light had been a comfort for him many years ago. 

A shame that silver was tainted red not so long ago. 

“The Patronus charm.”

Chapter Text

The sun shines for all.

“The Patronus charm.”

It’s almost a cacophony of yells and screaming when Harry says that. It’s an obvious fact, allowing him to observe their reactions—even those in Slytherin were blatantly outraged by his claim. Well, it was less of a claim and more of a fact. Was it his fault that their ancestors categorised magic that way? No, it most certainly was not and he wasn’t going to let them pick a fight with him because of ignorance. 

Roksana looked older than she was, making him smile pleasantly as she gestures for him to take the floor. He grins at the confused and loud students, some bold enough to stay standing to spit—quite literally spit and that was just disgusting—questions at his face. He had a fifty-fifty chance of killing a child if this continued. But he’s sure Roksana would Petrificus Totalus him without any hesitation.

He glances at his wand, meets eyes with Ron and Theo, then he grins. With a flick of his wrist, the students who remained standing and yelling were forced into their seats. Their eyes grew wide—almost child-like—as they stared at him with confusion and anger. All Harry does is smile, waving at them while Roksana retreats to her seat behind her desk.

“Lovely to see you all,” He says, faux joy clear in his voice. “My name is Hyperion Peverell, more commonly known as Harry Potter to you chaps, but I don’t really go by that anymore. Lordships and all.” He belligerently waves, grinning like a shark as he twirls his wand, sparks flying soon after.

“Now, you’re all screaming and whining about the Patronus charm being dark but then what does the Patronus really need? It doesn’t need intent, that’s what. The spell is a protective spell made to ward off Dementors. Sure, you can say it’s grey because of it but the fuel of a Patronus? Happy memories. Pure, untainted emotions—joy.” Harry describes, almost feeling giddy with himself as he spoke of the first spell that ever invoked such emotions from him. “Intent? No. The opposite of light is dark. Intent against emotions… What is a Dementor?”

He waits and waits, but no one answers him. Annoying little shits. He randomly points at the Slytherins, grinning when he finds the tip of his wand facing none other than Blaise Zabini. He wasn’t exactly familiar with the boy but Ron’s letters were rather nice to read, even if some of them were littered with numerous mentions of a rather charming lad from Slytherin. Harry couldn’t blame him, the boy was quite the looker.

“Zabini?”

Zabini raises a brow at him, but eventually gets up like the diligent student he was. “A dementor is typically classified as  wraith-like creatures that we shouldn’t go anywhere near. They are the only creatures capable of sucking out the human soul… and happiness! Yes, they feed off happiness and generate sadness as a replacement.”

“Lupin taught us very well about creatures. Don’t really remember what you turned your boggart into.” He sheepishly says, causing the class to laugh. “Anyways… Can a dementor feel emotion? Anyone?”

“Peverell…”

“Professor! Lovely of you to answer. Might you grace your class with such knowledge?” Harry enthusiastically throws his hands open, tilting his head as Roksana relaxes on her seat.

“To answer your question—pay attention children, I’ll be quizzing you on whatever this one lectures you on.” Well, that got them sitting up straight and writing on their notebooks. “Dementors do not feel emotion. They feed off happiness as that is the only emotion they can momentarily feel upon sucking it out of a person. These creatures are eternally glutinous for emotions that they can feel for such a small time.”

“Hear that? They’re hungry creatures for the tiniest bit of happiness. Their purpose is to feed.” Harry summarises, “Dementors run on intent and intent alone. If the classification proves true then Dementors would be considered beings of light magic—don’t fucking tantrum. You’re here for a reason, sit the fuck down.” Okay, Katya would string him up like a dummy if she heard him cussing out a Hogwarts student—with merit of course. 

The poor kid was—yeah, Harry wasn't sure who that was. A little lion, he knows from the robes, but he doesn't remember him at all. McLaren? Never mind. 

“This is a controversial opinion for you people since you've yet to open your minds to the fact that Magic isn't inherently evil and neither are people.” He pointed and looked at Gryffindor before going on. “‘Twas our ancestors who established such a system to categorise our magic. If you would like to complain, kindly enter the crypts of the wixen of old and summon their ghosts so you may whine and cry until they grow weary of the living.” 

Considering his studies on Necromancy, he might just do that… minus the whining and crying. He'd most likely tire the poor ghost with all his questioning and interrogation—to the chagrin of his own ancestors. Perhaps he could rip the souls of the three brothers out of the afterlife and pester them regarding their magical objects that were passed down from generation to generation. 

“Magic systems vary in terms of demographic. Us Brits and some others use the intent vs. emotion system to classify dark and light. France and Italy use elementalism vs. body and mind. With that said, using those systems ensure that the majority of healers are considered practitioners of dark magic.” He shrugs, waving away the outrage on their faces. It was the blatant truth he was willing to slap on their faces. “In some regions, magic doesn't have a light or dark category. In Asia, they just classify them through how the magic works; runic, elemental, illusory, and even divination. Though in some parts, they use the sun, moon, seas, sky, etc. to classify magic. One way or another, you'd be considered dark depending on where you are, so if you intend on travelling, learn to suck it up and deal with it.”

“You're an awful teacher.” 

And of course, the little shit who says that is an arrogant brat from Gryffindor. 

“And you're a terrible student, McLaren. Heard you've been skipping. What? Not enough courage to come to a dark arts class? Too scared?” Harry taunts, already feeling Roksana's glare. “Not quite Gryffindor.”

“It's McLaggen!” 

“Ah… my apologies. I don't quite remember you from when I was still a Gryffindor.” he rolls his eyes, before feeling a tug. His gaze shifts to Roksana, pouting when she's already ushering him away from the front of the class. 

“Alright, alright. Mister McLaggen, kindly sit down before I make you.” Roksana quickly instructs, glaring at the boy who begrudgingly descended back to his seat. In the meantime, she levels Harry with a glare, hurriedly telling him to take a seat himself. 

Well, to be fair, it was his fault for playing coy. Not that he didn't care that much. Good for them. 

The first thing Marvolo did when he realised that Black wasn't going to back down until he saw the Peverell boy… was lock his door, close his curtains, and tapped his wand against the record player. The room echoed the sound of L’Inverno by Vivaldi, making him relax. He nursed a glass of whiskey, just enough to calm his nerves and numb the stress from Sirius’ bouts of mania at the return of the golden boy. 

“Nagini,” Marvolo whispers, his gaze shifting down to the serpent that slowly slithered towards him. He offers a hand to Nagini, awaiting her as she begins to coil around his arm before she settles upon his lap. “Sweet girl, forgive me for leaving you alone for so long.” 

“I am older than you, boy.” Nagini hisses back, indignant as she slaps his arm with his tail. “The Black dog refuses to cease his whining. He speaks of a puppy that he has lost. Make him shut his mouth, Marvolo. He harms my ears.” The serpent says, coiling tighter around his form. 

“But your little undead has returned.” 

Marvolo pauses, eyes narrowed as Nagini gradually uncoils from him. He removes himself from the chair, unlocking his door. As he opens it, Nagini’s words speak true as there stands a hooded figure just outside. “Hm… you've returned earlier than I expected. Come now, report what has happened.” 

A simple nod is what is given to him, allowing him to relax as he returns to his seat. 

“A little late, but… Welcome back, Barty.”

As the hood falls, Barty reveals himself. Marvolo smiles, feeling almost pleasant at the sight of the familiar scar upon Barty's face. A little excursion to Germany had resulted in such a scar, though the cause was yet to be… properly determined. 

Barty immediately kneels before him, “My lord… Apologies for my tardiness. Some… problems have risen upon the investigation.”

“And pray tell, what is the problem itself?” 

Barty clears his throat, quickly getting up and tucking his hands behind him. “My Lord… please understand that the mission you have given me was never easy to begin with. I—not many are willing to divulge information on our targets… worse, they refuse to believe that they exist.” He grits his teeth, keeping his eyes on the floor before he meets Marvolo’s eyes. Barty flinches, looking away at once. 

“Get on with it.”

“Throughout Europe, the Olympians are still thought to be a myth.” Barty explains, clearly careful with his words. “If not, they protect their existence until they die. I have met only a single person who was willing to speak about the Olympians, but even then… My Lord… they were dead the next day.”

Marvolo considers his words, trying to gauge out a lie from his follower. But Barty's rigid posture does not reveal any lies, neither does his mind reveal anything false. All were true, nervous thoughts that swirled around the surface of his mind and continued to do so as Marvolo delved deeper with his magic. Admittedly, if Barty were to lie, the possibility of his tongue being sliced off would increase. 

“The Olympians… when did they surface?” 

“Just a year and a half ago, my lord.” 

“How much damage have they done?”

Barty shifts, uncomfortable and grimacing. “Grand… former head of french law enforcement—Anton Deveraux was killed just a few months ago… we… We are not quite sure who did it, but considering the intel that I received from Becken three months ago… There are currently three known members of the Olympians.”

Three, he clicks his tongue. Only three members of a troublesome group that suddenly appeared were known after a year of investigation. 

“Their names?”

“Either Deveraux’s death, many understand it as an accident. A methodical and strategic approach that painted the man in a bad light upon his death… Becken said that the Olympian—Athena had constructed the assassination.” Barty explains, shuffling through his back before taking out a strange cube. “And—And this! I don't know what it is but it has the symbol of the Goddess of Wisdom on it. That said, the Olympians have taken to naming themselves after the actual Olympians of myth.”

“Yes, of course Barty. I never thought that a group who are named after the council of gods on Olympus would name themselves after the council itself.” Marvolo drawls, glaring at Barty. 

The poor man stutters for a while, before hurriedly continuing on with his explanation. “This cube… Becken had this in possession—stole it from someone, he said. His explanations on the original owner were vague but from my understanding, they were someone the Olympians saved.” 

“Barty.”

“Yes, right… apologies…” Barty quickly says, “Erm… the second is Demeter. It's a name that has circulated across the Black Market. Demeter, apparently, is involved in the creation of strange potions, drugs, and even healing balms. Are you aware of the drug called Somnia Terrifica?” 

A new drug? Marvolo wonders about it, curious and apprehensive. The name itself sounded tacky but if it's name was the literal effect of the drug then he would think it was a terrifying creation from someone named after the Goddess of Harvest of all things. “Terror Dreams. The drug is named Terror Dreams?” 

“Yes… it's a combination of a hallucinogenic and something that causes an excruciating amount of phantom pain. There is no physical damage to the body but somehow, it's capable of targeting the sensors and making people feel pain without a physical cause.” Barty then takes out a small, circular container with dark green dust. “If this is inhaled then the effects happen within the next sixty seconds.” 

“And the third?”

Barty stiffens, gritting his teeth as his hand immediately runs down the scar that slashed over his face. “Ares.” He says, almost hesitant to say the name. Not out of fear, rather, out of anger that tinged the cool of his voice. 

“The most violent of the currently known Olympians. Counterpart of Athena but also the opposite. He's known to cause trouble in Germany and Russia. He managed to cause a battle between two houses, which ended up with five dead.” Barty gestures wildly, magic whirling from his hands. 

“Your magic, Bartemius.”

The man flinches, shaking his hands before hurriedly tucking his hands behind him again. 

“Right….but that's all I got from Becken.”

That was just three but the reputations of the currently known Olympians seemed to exceed their elusiveness. A strategic assassin that managed to end the life of a French ministry official and drag his name to the mud. A dangerous drug manufacturer and potioneer that titled themselves after the goddess of Harvest of all things. Then lastly, someone who fancied themselves the god of war, successfully managed a battle between two ancient houses of Russia, reaping the lives of five heirs.

“And none of them are confirmed to be the leader?”

Barty shakes his head, “The leader is assumed to be named after one of the three eldest gods.”

“So the title is between Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades… They are most likely named after Zeus because the titles are of the Olympians rather than chthonic gods.” 

The assumption isn't quite plausible but it seemed more obvious that this person would name themselves Zeus. Well, there wasn't a confirmed number of members within the Olympians. If they followed the usual numbering of the actual Olympians, then there should be twelve of them. However, things didn't seem to properly add up and their monikers were more aligned to their corresponding specialities in magic. 

Demeter didn't embody harvest and agriculture—if that were the case, they'd have heard more about the agricultural economy rather than the black market. Athena seemed to lean more towards strategic brutality rather than what their namesake embodied. Meanwhile, Ares seemed to be perfecting his role and making his namesake proud with the bloodshed and feuds they are starting. 

Regardless, the group's emergence was unprecedented and frankly undesirable. They shook the magical world in ways that hindered his plans—even the expectations of others. Though, the death of Deveraux did cause the progress of some of his plans regarding French delegates to accelerate. Marvolo had difficulty of the scandal quite literally slapped across international papers regarding the crimes and scandals of Anton Deveraux. From embezzlement to funding organisations that clearly oppressed magical creatures—leading to an increase of death rates on magical creatures. He had heard that the Veela Community was on the verge of a coup d’état because of it. 

“Very well… the issue regarding the Olympians shall be postponed until further notice.” Marvolo sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He stares at Bartyz meeting the man's nonchalant gaze. The poor thing—he’s lost all that fire he had when Marvolo first recruited him. 

“I have a new mission for you. The same investigatory work.” 

Barty immediately perks up, tilting his head and Marvolo can't help but remember a curious dog. Indeed…

“Harry Potter has returned.”

The reaction is instant, the visible stiffening of Barty's body as he stares at him, jaw dropping. It seems—that even Barty—was not aware that the golden boy had returned. 

“What?”

“He goes by Hyperion Peverell now. Apparently, he's been studying in Durmstrang all this time but no other bits of information have been given to us. As expected, Durmstrang does not take the protection of their students lightly.” Marvolo scoffs. The institute seemed highly commendable compared to the numerous dangers that lurked within the castle of Hogwarts. “Find out everything about him. Whatever happened in the past two years, it's clear that Dumbledore's renowned saviour has abandoned all hopes of being the leader of the light.”

Hyperion Peverell…

The topic was a strange one. 

Peverell's Lord, the saviour of the wizarding world, and his prophesied equal. 

He's quite curious about what will happen with that strange boy. There weren't many updates on the Hogwarts curriculum just yet but surely, the news of his return will spread across the country. The uproar would be delightful to witness as the Light crumbles at the knowledge that their little saviour was a blatant practitioner of dark magic. 

But still, Marvolo remains curious and intrigued by what Peverell means when he speaks of Dark magic. Is it the magic of flesh that the French classify, or is it the explosive and powerful source that was human emotions?

Despite his expressive attitude during the interview, Hyperion Peverell was the most guarded person in that room. Marvolo was not blind to the way he took that cup from Fawley, clearly assessing if there was anything in it—veritaserum, if his assumptions were correct. Even before Lord Fawley reacted poorly to his daughter's blatantly anger, Peverell had continued to put pressure on every single individual using his magic. Marvolo was not stupid to think that it had been anxiety and his nerves that made his body feel heavy that day. 

Peverell had made sure that they were all subdued even before the thought of an attack appeared in their heads. 

He had spoken carefully, strategically as he invoked emotions and thoughts in them with the way he manipulated the narrative of his story. But there was truth in his words, especially when it came to the possibility of people sending him to the pyre once it was revealed that the wizarding world's golden boy was more dark then he ever was light. 

Hyperion Peverell…

The entire day was filled with strange and yet fulfilling classes with the addition of the Durmstrang students furiously drilling knowledge into their heads. It was dizzying sometimes but evidently, very beneficial. 

Ron's favourite of all the classes was, of course, Dark Studies. Seeing Harry practically drag everyone into the mud was hilarious and making him proud was joyous. Even Ginny had marched up to him, shook his entire body and scolded him for not telling her about Harry's return. Though Harry was quite busy with all the classes, it became a trademark of the day where everyone kept talking about Harry's classes. 

“Harry's changed a lot, hasn't he?” Dean laughs, already excited to head to the library to bury himself in books about the topics Harry had blabbered on about ever so passionately. 

"He's a right whiz at teaching, ain't he? Had McLaggen in bits by the end, so he did. Oh, and word is that Smith from Hufflepuff got a proper lashing after the idiot went off about magic being dodgy.” Seamus gestures wildly, getting annoyed yells from students walking by as he sheepishly waved them off. "Ah, it's a bit freaky, to be fair. He's totally flipped, like... And, well... He looked like he was gonna chuck some of the lads out the window.”

Ron sighs, rubbing the side of his head. The ordeal of Harry's change seemed to be disorienting for the entire house. Many Gryffindors were clearly angry at the sudden announcement that the golden boy was a practitioner of dark magic. "Yeah, well, it’s been a couple of years, innit? Didn’t really think he'd be the same... No one’s got a clue what went down that day. And now, all his family’s gone too…”

The truth was, Harry must have been ecstatic at the deaths of his relatives. Ron was not ignorant to the horrible nature and treatment of the Dursleys. Though he may not feel sympathy for them, he still thinks it was unfortunate that lives had to be lost. At the very least, Harry was free now. Thriving—to be completely honest. 

But Ron liked to think back on my innocent times. 

When Harry, Hermione, and himself were running around Hogwarts catching on to whatever trouble was in reach. They were dangerous, life-threatening—but those events made the mundanity of his current life tasteless. The lack of… everything reminded him that his best friends were not here with him. That they had to flee for their own safety while he was sheltered in his home with a family that could protect him. Harry and Hermione did not have the support systems he had. One was an orphan and the other had muggle parents that could be killed at any point in time if they made the wrong enemies. 

So… it was invigorating to see his best friend thrive. The last he has seen of Harry was when he was still a boy—so skinny, so lithe, so… exhausted. Ron never sympathised much with his mother, often resenting her for favouritism, but meeting Harry… he could understand his mother then. Hermione came after and suddenly he felt like he had scrutinised his mother too much in her care for them. 

Seeing him so healthy, so happy, so clearly fulfilled with his own life made Ron feel a sense of pride that threatened to swell and burst from his chest. 

With Harry's arrival, he hopes that Hermione would soon follow. He hopes that they'll finally reunite, be together once again and brave the world like they used to. 

Two years ago, the world may have won then but this time, he wouldn't let it. 

“Psst—Psst! Ron!” 

He blinks, turning to Dean who looked worriedly at him. All Ron does is smile, tilts his head and wonders about such worry. 

“Er… six o’clock, Zabini.” He subtly gestures to the left making Ron turn his head (no he did not snap it). 

The boy—man because apparently he was a month or so older than Ron—was leaning against a wall, obviously watching Ron. He was lacking the usual subtlety of a typical Slytherin, which was strange because Blaise took their house’s decorum rather seriously. To be honest, Ron is almost unnerved by how easy it is for him to shift into a different side of him whenever they meet eyes. And it's even more unnerving as Blaise—bloody—Zabini smiles at him like always. Well… Ron doesn't really remember when always began. 

Like a natural, Zabini beckons for him and Ron is reminded of an owner calling for their dog. It's infuriating, horribly condescending but what does Ron do? He goes to Blaise like a good dog. 

“Hey there, tesoro.” Blaise grins, leaning against the wall as he waves off his friends that were clearly questioning whether to wait for him or not. 

Ron sees an annoyed looking Malfoy, promptly sending the boy a taunting grin which garners him an indignant huff. 

“Stop trying to pick a fight with him.” Blaise drawls, pressing his back against the wall as he crosses his arms over his chest. His dark eyes are cast to the floor, as if he's avoiding Ron's gaze. 

It's annoying. 

“You don't call for me out in public for nothing, Zabini.” Ron says, chewing on his lip as he shoves his hands into his pocket. Over the past two years, he's learned the art of being discreet and subtle. Fred and George were strict on that when Umbridge had come to terrorise the school for their last year and Ron finds himself thankful for how his brothers were so adamant on teaching him and Ginny. 

“Zabini?” 

“That's your name, isn't it?” 

Blaise chuckles softly, tilting his head. “I've gotten used to hearing you call me Blaise, tesoro.” 

And I've gotten used to hearing you call me by that blasted nickname… Ron assumes it's a nuisance. Blaise’s first name is easier to say than his last. Besides, Ron likes his practicality now. 

“What do you want?”

“So cold… but, never mind. Come now, it's best we speak in a more… private setting.” Blaise laughs—again. He takes Ron by the wrist, promptly dragging him away from the bustling hall of students that were pushing and slipping past each other. The action isn't unfamiliar now, not after Ron has become a victim of Blaise's shenanigans. 

The classroom is vacant, like many of Hogwarts' classrooms. It's impractical to keep so many and let them dust. They should have been used for different things outside of students making them rendezvous points to shag and snog. Ugh. 

“Blaise—”

“There we go, tesoro. Now… My questions are simple.” Blaise assures, sounding so soft and confident as he runs his hand up Ron's arm. 

“It's about Ha—” Ron pauses, looks down at Blaise's surprised expression expression before he grimaces. “You want to ask about Hyperion.”

“My, my. Aren't you already accustomed to that new name…” Blaise smiles, cheshire-like as he reaches to grip at Ron's bicep. “As if you've called him that a hundred times…” 

Because he has. 

“Blaise… we're friends, I get that… but…” Ron sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Hyperion isn't someone you want to get involved with. He's not… he's not the same person as he used to be.”

“Of course he isn't! I'm not blind, Ron.” Blaise quickly argued, brow furrowing as he shakes his head and quickly withdraws. His hand leaves Ron's arm and he's crossing them over his chest again. The displeasure in his eyes are evident and all the traits of Slytherin—their cunning and ability to mask their expressions—is but a mere speck of dust now. “And I know you're not too. Tesoro… His change might not be so good, especially with the ruckus the light is causing. Many of the scions of light families have already written to home about him.”

“And I'm to worry because…”

“Because it affects us all! You care about him, right? So…”

There's something off about Blaise's insistence. As he said, Ron isn't blind. He knows that the other boy does not say these things for his wellbeing. Something else is happening and Harry is involved, directly or indirectly, they've somehow managed to wrangle Harry into their shit. 

“Look, I'm only going to tell you this once and that's because you're my friend.” Ron purses his lips, hurriedly grasping Blaise's shoulders. He was significantly taller than Blaise, opting him to look down at him as he gently presses Blaise's back against the closest desk. Their eyes are on each other, unable to look away. 

“Don't fuck it up.” His words are harsh, borderline cold but he needs Blaise to listen. He needs him to understand as his grip on the other's shoulder tightens ever so slightly. 

Ron isn't ignorant. He's not dumb. He's not that blind little boy anymore. 

“Hyperion Peverell is a dangerous man. Getting involved with him… or even just pulling him into whatever operation or ideal you and the others have is dangerous…” He doesn't want to speak ill of Harry, never, but again, he's not blind. Ron doesn't ignore how dangerous Harry has become. 

“Don't fuck up shit, Blaise. One wrong move and Hyperion Peverell will get you killed.”

Chapter Text

What is said is done.

“Paddy! Paddy!” 

His hands were so small, so chubby and small. Sirius had looked into that baby's wrinkly face for the first time and he had cried, inconsolable that James couldn't take that child away from him. Lily didn't even fault him, letting him hold the baby for as long as he could until he had passed out on a chair. But Sirius can never forget his baby's crying, his shrill little voice, and how his first words had been star. 

Harry was the only child Sirius ever acknowledged as his own. His baby, his boy. The little boy he sang lullabies too when James and Lily were exhausted from his crying and whining. The little boy that had babbled and reached for his hair, giggling as he tugged. 

“Staw… staw!” Baby Harry babbled, biting on a toy as he pointed at the plush toy of a star. He had heard the word so many times from Sirius' lullabies and all the little endearments his godfather called him. Little star, sweet aster. Sirius had doted on him so much and paid so much attention. 

He was a baby, so full of innocence and love as he ignored the toy and turned to the adults that awed and stared at him like he was the second-coming of Merlin. And Harry had smiled. 

He pointed his chubby little fingers at Sirius and giggled, “Staw!” He said. 

That day, Sirius vowed that this boy would be his. If the world would not bend to Harry's will then he would make it so. 

The day Harry was taken from him, ripped away from the life they could have had as Sirius rotted in Azkaban, was the day Sirius Black slowly died. 

Hearing of Harry's return felt like a fantasy, like he had eaten the lotus that was in the legends of the Odyssey and was incencesed into a euphoric state of delirium. Snape's words felt like taunting knives that stabbed his heart over and over again. Because Severus Snape had always lied to him, always hated him for what they did in their youth. A part of Sirius thinks it was well deserved but knowing that his precious baby had gone through the same thing felt like a karmic debt had been struck upon his child rather than him. 

His first instinct had been to attack Snape, to maul him with his animals form but he had been held back as much as possible. Because his baby boy was in the country and he didn't need to be sent back to Azkaban. 

Course, Gaunt had ordered him and the rest to stay put. Had it not been for Harry, he would have defected immediately. But he had made his bed, shook hands with the devil all for Harry's sake. James and Lily's murderer seemed like a better option than Dumbledore now, not after what he's done to his boy. He never expected for such a day to come but here he was, glowering in Grimmauld place as Kreacher incessantly reported about his grandfather and great aunt's decisions regarding the next soirees for Yule. 

His thoughts were quick to drift away from the ball, immediately latching on to the fact that Harry's time in Britain was limited. His boy had left for a reason and Sirius was willing to do anything to understand why. Had it been the Dark Lord? But that couldn't be, not after that vow and dose of veritaserum before Sirius became some faux Death Eater. Had it been Dumbledore? That felt reasonable after everything he's done to Harry. Had it been everyone and everything? Gods, it drowned him in guilt that even liquor couldn't sway away. 

There's a sudden sound of a crack and Sirius can barely look up to notice Narcissa had marched into his study, looking as stern as usual. 

“Cousin.”

“Cissa…”

Narcissa was only two years older than him, she had been a third year when he was first. She was the closest one in age to him aside from Regulus. But, he wasn't as close to her as he was with Bellatrix when they were children. Narcissa had always gotten along with Reggie more, while Bella and him understood each other from the madness as the first borns. They were the eldest children of their prospective parents, born with a burden on their shoulders to meet the expectations of their house. 

Bellatrix was the only one who fulfilled those expectations. 

“What do I owe the pleasure, cousin dear?” he grins, pressing the glass to his lips as he tilts the liquor down his throat. Narcissa's piercing gaze is as venomous as always, looking at him—scrutinising him. He's a drunken fool, drowning his sorrows with as much alcohol as he can and it's fails every single time. 

“Barty has returned.”

“And? Thought he arrived on Sunday…” It was already Tuesday. 

“Our lord had sent him out on another mission upon his arrival.” Narcissa sighs, flicking her wand to move the glass away from his hand. “It involves your heir.”

His eyes snapped towards her. It reminds Sirius that for all Narcissa looked as a Rosier, she had the eyes of a Black. She didn't have the pitch black hair like Bellatrix, nor did she have the sharper features of Andromeda. She seemed softer, blonde hair that used to be more like honey than it was platinum. But the silver of her eyes reminded everyone that she had been Narcissa Black before she was Lady Malfoy. 

“Make haste, cousin.” Narcissa smiles, small and gentle as she looked cruel. But she was kind in her own ways, stepping towards him, taking his hand and pulling him up. 

He remembers a time when she had done the exact same thing when he tripped in the gardens of their manor, bawling his eyes out as his knees bled from the scrapes while Bellatrix giggled at his sniffling. It had been Narcissa to pull him back up and tell him everything was alright. 

She's a kinder guide than Bellatrix ever was. Narcissa had not been named after a star. She was like Lily—a flower. Delicate, beautiful, valuable. She was sought after as the flower of house Black for many years and then she had married Malfoy for all people. Sirius doesn't want to hate her, it's hard to do that when it was her who healed his scratches and the bruises from his mother, when it was Narcissa who mended Reggie's reddened arms and wiped his tears. 

“Slytherin Manor!” She says, tossing the green powder of floo into the fireplace. She vanishes into the green flames. 

Reluctantly, Sirius follows and finds himself in the foyer of Gaunt’s estate. It's an archaic sight, stringed with snake statues stuck to walls and deep emerald curtains to hide the room from the light. Narcissa takes it upon herself to mutter spells as the curtains tie themselves into near sections, letting some light leak into the dreary space. 

Once again, he finds himself walking down the familiar path to Gaunt's study. His most loyal followers—and Sirius—are gathered there. Lucius, Snape, Narcissa, Antonin Dolohov, and last but most certainly not the least, Bartemius Crouch jr. 

They gathered there, apprehensive and remained standing until Gaunt allowed them to sit.

Barty takes the floor, looking nervous before his expressions are quickly schooled into professionalism. There were files in his hands, an entire stack of them. It baffles Sirius how quickly Barty gathers information, like he knew an oasis of it and simply took a flask and filled it up. 

“Barty, begin.” Gaunt lazily gestures, permitting Barty to speak. It felt like they were in a court room. 

“Right… The objective: Harry James Potter. He inherited the Peverell Lordship at fifteen and changed his name to Hyperion James Peverell. Residence unknown but is suspected to have lived in Russia after the revelation that he has been studying in Durmstrang for the past two years. His social status is still unknown but the name Peverell has been mentioned on numerous accounts and some articles as a contributor and benefactor to numerous organisations.” Barty flips through the files, grumbling before he takes out his wands and floats the folders around him. A newspaper is taken out of the folders, revealing it to them where he had highlighted the name Peverell with a bright red marker. 

“Though his status in society is unknown, his academic status has made him notorious and infamous.” 

“How so?” Lucius asks, curious just as everyone else was. 

“Well… I was only able to get this information after interrogating some recent alumni of Durmstrang.” Barty shifts uncomfortable, a strange gleam in his eyes as he awed at the file in his hands. What the hell has Harry been doing to impress Barty of all people? “Durmstrang has around nine core subjects and twelve electives available to the students.”

Well, Sirius surely thought that wide of a range was impressive. Hogwarts only had 7 core subjects and 6 electives to choose from by third year. Admittedly, the entire curriculum was damningly restricted and limited, making the options for certain occupations in Britain rather small. Either be a ministry worker, start your own business, or go abroad for further studying to become a master at crafts. 

“The average amount of electives a student typically takes is two-to-three. Katerina Morozova is currently known as the person to have the most subjects, going for three electives and making it twelve subjects by the time she graduated.” Barty mutters, before turning to Sirius with a scrutinising look. The bastard was clearly judging him, making numerous comparisons that were obviously meant to insult him. “Your godson surpassed his mentor by choosing five electives the moment he transferred. Peverell has managed to successfully juggle fourteen subjects since his fifth year.” 

Yeah… yeah that did not sound right. 

“I beg your fucking pardon?” 

“Language, Sirius.” Narcissa chides, pinching him but staring at Barty in bewilderment. 

“That's impossible. Harry Potter had average grafes—if not slightly better than that of a typical student. His only best subject was Defence and even then…” Snap quickly retorts and Sirius is overcome with the urge to strangle the motherfucker. 

How dare he belittle his precious boy when even  Barty was clearly in awe with how impressive Harry has become. 

“Well something must have changed because he's not an underachieving student. The complete opposite to be honest. He's managed to snag first place of nine subject rankings.” Barty hums, unable to suppress a grin forming on his face. “He's brilliant!” 

“Barty.” Gaunt raises a brow, looking fairly perturbed and amused. “Continue.”

“Right… right! Magne Lovdahl is only a year Peverell's senior and was there to witness the two years in which Peverell was in Durmstrang. He summarised Hyperion Peverell's arrival into one word: maelstrom.” 

Well wasn't that ominous. An alumnus of Durmstrang describing his little son as a violent whirlpool. It felt so strange to think of Harry that way—that meek boy who was so eager to stay hidden and away from the eyes of the public. 

“I think we need more elaboration of that.” Sirius drawls, earning himself a glare from Barty.

“I was getting to that. Anyways… Lovdahl says that the day Hyperion Peverell transferred to Durmstrang, everyone knew he was either valuable or dangerous—drew everyone in like a maelstrom. That boy didn't waste time and went straight to gathering himself a little group. The runts of Durmstrang were his targets, usually other Brits. Aurelia Fawley, Genevieve Morganach, Theseus Rowle, Cecilia Vance, and the other transferee—Theo Nott. He managed to fling those students to higher ranks in the student hierarchy—methods are still unknown.” 

“Those are the students who volunteered for the interview.” Snape mutters, crossing his arm over his chest and narrowing his eyes. “Fawley is assigned to me. The girl is, evidently, superb at potions. Better than any of my students—yes Lucius, even Draco. But she's talkative and repetitively mentions Potter.”

“Yes, Lovdahl mentioned that. Fawley, Peverell, and Nott were never seen without one another until Nott unexpectedly transferred back.” Barty flips through his notes again, “Well, Peverell and Fawley are often paired up during potions. Those two were the best of their year, Fawley at first and Peverell being second.”

“Why in Morgana's tits couldn't he be this good while he was my student?” 

Sirius snorts as he heard Snape mutter such frustrations. For now, he was ever so proud of his godson's achievements. 

“Back to the topic at hand… er… From Lovdahl’s time in Durmstrang while Peverell was present, there had been a unprecedented change. Admittedly, the word mudblood—or variations of it—is commonly used amongst the pureblood population. After Peverell, it's apparently become a taboo.”

Sirius chokes on his saliva, blinking in surprise. “What? I mean… I can see Harry managing to make people stop saying the word around him but to make it an entire taboo?” 

Barty nods, impressed and looking fairly wary. “Peverell is good friends with almost the entire halfblood population of Durmstrang. They were admittedly at a lower section of the hierarchy due to how they were raised, but somehow, Peverell had rallied them to his side. Lovdahl wasn't willing to speak too much about the consequences of being caught saying that word. But he did imply that some students were silenced in more… practical ways.” 

By practical, he must have meant being targeted by numerous students. The mere thought of Harry—his baby star—had recruited halfbloods of Durmstrang to practically stage a revolution against purebloods felt in character and not. He had a heroic streak, true, but he hated the spotlight. Goodness, his boy's kindness extended even to different countries. It was utterly brilliant. 

“That's all I have for now. Lovdahl was difficult to persuade but even he gave vague information. The greatest source would be the teachers… or Peverell's friends.”

Lucius sniffs indignantly, “Theodore Nott. That boy is strange. I'm quite sure he had a hand in the delay of Thaddeus’ trial.”

“Why wouldn't he?” Dolohov snorts, “The bastard killed his mother right in front of him.” 

“But still—” 

“Malfoy, I may have tolerated Thaddeus Nott back then but even I was ecstatic when I found out he was chucked into Azkaban. I'm quite sure Adrik’s already told the boy that it had been our faction who called for a trial. He's not going to help the people trying to free his bastard father.” Dolohov scoffs, gesturing towards Lucius like he was a speck of dust. 

“Make your little scion try to befriend him. Last I saw, Draco was particularly snappy towards Nott.”

One: Sirius had absolutely no idea what the hell they were talking about. Except for the case issue. He had heard about the murder when Nott was promptly dragged into Azkaban, screaming his head off about how it was well deserved. He was the epitome of a scumbag, to be honest. He's quite adamant to defect from Gaunt about that and vote against proclaiming that rotten bastard as innocent. 

Two: his darling godson has made so many friends! Harry must have developed amazingly without Dumbledore breathing down his neck. Oh that would have been wonderful to watch! His precious Harry grew into such a charismatic and bright person.

He couldn't wait to see Harry 

The fundamental aspect in which Magic is perceived to have moral standards are the actions of those that use it. Throughout history, perceptions of magic have shifted from negative to positive and negative once again. It is a never ending cycle just as society changes. Just as people change, magic follows with every shift of society. 

Morality is neither black or white, it is an intersection of both creating grey. Magic, as a concept itself, is classified by dark or light, oftentimes the classification is influenced by human morals (Szekeres, 1981). With this in mind, it can be said that so long as humans have morals, Magic itself has morals as well. 

According to Black, L. V., et al (1965), the system in which Magic is classified within European regions has changed approximately three times. The continent followed the Intent vs. Emotions theory that dates back to the times of Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred until 1231. After 1231, western Europe began to follow the variation of the Intent vs. Emotions theory. By 1567, different regions applied fundamentally different theories to categorise magic (e.g.: elementalism vs. flesh and mind, magic type theory, natural.magic theory…)

However, the shifts in which Magic is perceived can be changed by the influence of a single person within history…

He clicks his tongue, narrowing his eyes as he chews on his pen—yes pen because fuck quills. Never mind. 

His usage of muggle products wasn't the issue at this point. No. Harry's crisis lies in the fact that he had the introduction of his research paper down, but something felt off. There was something missing in the opening of his research paper, leaving him horrendously unsatisfied. 

Classes were out for the next period—something about a new procedure that was implemented just the year before. He didn't particularly care about the procedures. He was too stressed about his limited sources of information with how meagre the Hogwarts library was. Either he went home or ran off back to Durmstrang to get scolded by Katya for leaving his temporary post in Hogwarts. It was the second day of teaching—after tomorrow he could finally go back. 

Tossing his paper to the side, he grabs his notes, muttering curses under his breath as he searches for adequate sources to cite. Supporting this study was viral for him. 

“Have you picked a research title?” 

Harry blinks, throwing his head back to see Aurelia and Genevieve looking more haggard than he's ever seen. They were usually elegant and well kept girls, but Hogwarts seemed to affect them in the worst ways possible. 

“Yeah. I already submitted the first chapter of my Dark studies and Transfiguration research. POM and Arcane studies are the only ones I haven't submitted yet.” He admits, sounding too disgruntled for his liking. “Professor Tasev approved of my title before summer so I've been working on the draft for the summer.”

“You're overworking again.” Genevieve mutters, sitting on the desk just as Harry moved some of his belongings to the side. 

“I'm bored. I have nothing to do here!” He threw his hands up in the air, utterly exasperated by the mundanity of Hogwarts. It was so strange to relate the word mundane to Hogwarts after years of adventuring through its halls. 

“Mhm. Anyways, we got a letter.” Aurelia whips out an envelope with a wax seal. The stamped lily emblazoned upon it had Harry grinning, gesturing for her to hand over the letter. But, cheeky as she was, Aurelia merely stuck her tongue out and ripped the letter open. “Oh! It's from Eisenberg.”

“Which one?”

“Bastian.” Aurelia contemplates softly, promptly taking a seat on one of the desks as she skimmed through the letter. “Says that everything is still in order, except for a third year deciding that since you weren't present, calling others his age mudbloods was a good idea. Poor thing. Truly ignorant really.”

Genevieve sighs, “Did the other third years do something?”

“Well, didn't send the little shit to the infirmary but he's been traumatised after his arachnophobia was weaponised against him.” Aurelia snorts, crossing her legs as she grins. “Apparently, the youngest Eisenberg was the nutter that locked th kid into a closet filled with spiders.” She cackles, grinning like a proper maniac as her legs swung and swayed. She met eyes with Hadrian, who observes her curiously. 

Sure! He wasn't particularly keen on returning to Durmstrang while it was dissaray from unruly little shits like that, but it would beat the mundanity he was going through now. He might actually die of boredom at this rate. 

He glances back at his paper, clicking his tongue as he scribbles on his notebook. 

• Regional perceptions of magic by Cheong B.
• Changes of magical systems in Asia by Martinez P. S. 
• Evolution of Morality by Joyce, R.
• Relationship of human beliefs and magic systems by Harinath, N.

“None of the books I need are in the Hogwarts library. The only one I found that suites my study is this—” He tosses Genevieve the book, more displeased than ever. 

“‘The history of the British magical system’ by Esmeralda Montgomery.” Genevieve hums, lifting the book up from it's cover like it was something filthy. “Is it accurate?” 

“Barely. It's too subjective—the author doesn't even hide that she's biased by painting light magic like it's something holy.” Harry groans, running his fingers through his hair. He missed Durmstrang, he missed his mansion, he missed his sister! Gods, everything felt horrible here. “Gah! I can't take it anymore. I'm going to look for Ron.”

“Ronald Weasley?” Aurelia perks up, eyes sparkling. “Hey! You promised to introduce me to him.” 

Harry waved her off, “Sure, sure. C’mon, I'm sure that their procedure thingy is done.”

“It's a medical examination from what I've heard.” Genevieve helpfully explains, removing herself from the desk as well. 

He paused, blinking as he turns towards her with a quizzical look. “What?”

“Hm… Lord Gaunt had advocated for physical examinations of students, claiming that the children's safety was essential. Since the exams started, a fourth of the Hogwarts population were found to be victims of domestic abuse. Half of that population were muggleborns.” Genevieve explains, “I heard it from Cecilia—who has already ran through the rumour mill to get us some information. Those students, especially the younger ones, are currently in the process of being removed from their unsafe homes and will be fostered.”

“Seriously?” Harry whispers, unable to look away from Genevieve. 

Identifying victims of abuse. Taking action and removing them from the danger. Making sure they were safe. 

A laugh erupted from his throat, doubling over. 

Ridiculous! 

Where the fuck was this when he was still a damn student? 

Damn everyone and everything!

Dumbledore, that utter bastard. To think it was Marvolo fucking Gaunt who was making sure that children were safe instead of the holier than thou headmaster. What a fucking joke!

“Riiiight!” He drawls, rolling his eyes before promptly exiting the classroom. He needed to find Ron. Perhaps he'll be entertained then. 

As he passed by students and through halls, he garnered many curious gazes. Though the excited and wondrous looks of first years were softly welcomed by a placid smile before he walked past them like they were mere ghosts in the hall. There some disdainful gazes—specifically from Gryffindor—but he returned them with whatever menacing smile he could muster. Theo always did say that Harry's smile was more of a warning than a pleasantry. 

Contrary to what he believed, Ron was apparently very hard to find. 

First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, why the fuck were people telling him to ask Zabini for Ron's location? To be fair, he knew that Ron had a strange interest in the boy (from the numerous letters of him either complaining or praising Blaise Zabini) but he wasn't expecting this. 

Most students seemed to come the same direction, the hospital wing since the physical examinations were done there. Madame Pomphrey must have her work cut out for her since this exam seemed to be done once a month for the entire school year. It was reasonable to be honest but it also showed the high rates of abuse victims in Hogwarts. Even Durmstrang had their physical exams but those were conducted approximately four times for safety purposes and academic reasons. Mostly because duelling and combat lessons required strict supervision on the physique and physical state of a student.

If this was done alphabetically then Ron was rightfully fucked as a seventh year who's surname started with W. The hospital wing would be his best bet at this point. 

Well, Harry could think of more efficient ways for the physical exams to go. Like segregating students by gender. Male teacher with male students, female teachers with female students—with Madam Pomfrey attending to both as the only healer of the school. Okay, that was also pretty stupid. Hundreds of students and only one healer? Yeah, he felt pretty bad for her. 

He found himself in the hospital wing, where students were waiting for their turn. The hall outside was horrifically crowded and seeing that most looked like fourteen-year-olds, he supposed that the fourth years were examined next. No seventh years in sight. If the schedules aligned then fifth and up would have their examinations the next day. No Ron there. 

The tower? Nope, not there either. 

The quidditch pitch? Seriously, he only found Ginny, who saw him. Then proceeded to land. Then proceed to hold her broom like a weapon. Then proceeded to chase after him until he took a sharp corner and mix into the crowd. 

The great hall? Nyet.

Professor McGonagall?

“Ask Blaise Zabini, Mr. Potter—I… apologies, I meant—”

“Call me Hyperion. Or Harry!” He smiles at the aging old witch, watching her stern features soften. “Honestly, I wouldn't mind since it's you.”

“Harry, then.” McGonagall smiles softly, before she clears her throat and her strictness returns. “Ronald is either with Mister Thomas and Mister Finnigan, or he is accompanying Mister Zabini. Since the two are currently out in the pitch, I suggest looking for Zabini.”

“Right, right!” Harry grins, pressing a kiss to her cheek before running of like his life depended on it. “Thanks Minnie! Love yah!” 

Well, apparently, Zabini was the best choice. Why? Because Harry found Ron with the boy in question. 

The two were caught up in a rather deep conversation that led Harry to yo easily sneaking up on Ron. 

“Won-Won!” 

Ron yelps, instinctively swinging his arm and almost hitting Harry. 

“Woah! Your reflexes have gotten better!” Harry grins, catching Ron's fist and tilting his head to the side. “I see you're with a friend. Am I interrupting? Should I go?” 

“What? NO! no…” Ron clears his throat, a lopsided grin gracing his countenance. “It's nothing too important. Right, Blaise?”

“Right…” Zabini mutters, meeting Harry's gaze. 

He smiles pleasantly ay the other boy and he mirrors it. Ah, Slytherin decorum of being fake little shits. Well, he had to applaud Zabini for looking so friendly, especially with Ron beside him. It enhanced the appeal of a friendly Slytherin. How quaint. 

“Well, anyways—” Harry immediately says, dismissing Zabini all together. “Aurelia really—really wants to meet you. It I don't haul your ass to her, she might sick the dragons in me once we get back to Durmstrang.”

“There are dragons in Durmstrang?” 

Harry scoffs, grabbing Ron's arm. “Course there are. You won't mind me stealing him away, won't you? Ronnie and I haven't seen each other in centuries! You get it, don't you?” 

Zabini smiles, pinched and clearly irritated by Harry's insistance. It was a funny sight to see such a charming boy look so horrendously pissed. Even when it was hidden by smiles and flowery words. Kinda cute, to be honest, but Harry insists that the boy wasn't much his type. He liked them older. 

“No, no. I wouldn't mind. Ron speake it you—a lot. I could never stop him from reuniting with his best friend.” Zabini grits out, still smiling. 

“Good… I'm glad you know you're place.” Harry chuckles, before pulling Ron away from the boy. “Now…Aurea mea is surely torturing poor Vivi by whining about you.”

“You sure Fawley will like me?”

“Oh, my dearest! She adores you!” 

Harry's grin widens, twirling Ron around the crowded hall like they were performing a waltz. Evading pushy students, tilting his body just enough to avoid bumping into someone. He relished in the adrenaline from such a simple yet extravagant act. It left him laughing so loudly that people stopped to stare. 

“I swear it, dearest. Even Hermione agrees that she would adore you.”

Chapter Text

Feet on the ground, eyes on the sky.

Calloused hands held strange mechanisms. Magic imbued into metal, magic in mechanical. The thought was absurd. Everyone knew that magic and technology never mixed—always against each other, always fighting for control. 

Many do not simply believe that things can be done. The impossible cannot be done, it cannot be understood. Humans had limited understanding of their surroundings—they could not easily comprehend things beyond the limits they knew. This was a simple matter. But for humans it was either being mortal humans. 

Or be a limitless god.

“You are a strange one.” Aleksia traced her fingers over metal—magic staining it gold. It was amazing. “How are you capable of doing this? Even the most ancient of us wixen were incapable of mixing mechanics with technology outside of runic arrays. How can you do this?”

Be human or be god.

Aleksia questions it everyday as the boy before her puts pieces together, creating something she cannot easily comprehend. Magic wears off when it comes to these things. It fades away—yet she stares at this… this magnificence and sucks in a deep breath. 

Magic was paradoxical itself. 

And yet her new charge was just the same. 

“It’s easy… if you understand.” The little Peverell whispered, wrenching his new mechanism, eyes darting between his new little toy and the messy plans he drew. Diagrams over diagrams, runes and magic stones and metal. There’s a strange tool in his hand that she doesn’t recognize. Neither muggle nor magical. It’s a tool, made of gold and metal and something. Aleksia thinks it’s one of the little gifts he received from his mysterious benefactor. 

“Many attempt to understand these things, little void.” Aleksia hummed, tilting her head. Void—she’s grown used to calling him that. He feels like one. So young, so much potential and ambition. But he felt like a void. “And yet you look at it and immediately know. You hide many things—are you a seer, child?”

“No. But the future is a cruel one I try to change.” Little Peverell laughed. 

“But can you tell me anything? Anything at all.”

“My name.”

“I already know your name. But… I want to know why you chose that one.” 

He tilts his head, discarding his toy. “Hyperion.” He whispered his chosen name with such fondness and hatred—it baffled her. 

“It’s from a Greek myth.”

Aleksia hummed again, “I know. One of Gaia and Ouranos' titan children. Heavenly light, correct?”

“The father of the sun, moon, and dawn. Hyperion means He who Goes Above. He was one of the pillars that held heaven and earth apart, the east to be specific.” Hyperion whispered softly, marvelling his own work. A strange mechanism—a weapon. She knows it is a weapon from the way he caresses it, from the way murder was veiled in his eyes gazed at it. Unfinished yet utterly dangerous. “I want to be like that. A pillar between the crushing sky and the world. I want to see through the eyes of birds that look down upon us.”

Magic singed the air and she could smell it. Aleksia leant against the wall, eyes narrowed as the pure fascination glazes his viridescent eyes. The mechanism awoke, a glowing emerald at its very base before the weapon extends and conducts green lightning through it. 

“You want to be god.” Aleksia frowned. “You will die if you keep thinking like that.” 

But Aleksia is ignorant to the cold and blackening hand that pressed against Hyperion’s shoulder. A looming presence behind him, lurking and lingering. The voice is cold and yet so warm and familiar to him.

“Don’t listen to her babble. You are capable of greater things.” Death whispered, leading Hyperion’s hand to the trigger.

Magic imbued in mechanical. Aleksia finally recognised the weapon—a gun. Made from magic and murderous intent. Her breath hitched, unable to decipher this feeling of terror that haunts her nerves. It is old, it is ancient magic that should have died long ago. Not even arcane studies could recreate this paradoxical power that bursted from that weapon. His finger against the trigger and his eye looking through the scope.

Magic burns and bursts and it shoots a hole into the wall. It burns green, like the killing curse, like Hyperion’s eyes. 

“Then I’ll die a god.”

The crystal ball keeps moving as he pushes it over the table, even as it falls, it continues to roll off the floor. Only when someone’s foot pressing against it, does the crystal ball stop. 

Green eyes travel up from the floor and to the face that owns that damn foot. 

Draco Malfoy looks more mature than he last saw him. His features were as sharp as both of his parents’, the clear indication he was a Black and a Malfoy. He must have been able to make his family proud from how he turned out. 

Harry tilts his head, staring at his crystal ball before he gestures—demandingly—for Draco to return it. The other young man looked irked, but bent down and picked up the ball. It’s cold in his hand, making Harry hum as he leans back against the chair.

“What brings you here, mister Malfoy.” Harry drawls, waving at him as he sets the crystal ball back on its stand. 

Silver looked directly into green eyes, curious and fairly shrewd. “I heard you spoke with Blaise—”

“Mister Malfoy, I am here as the assistant teacher of your Dark Studies professor. Kindly do not waste my time by talking about personal matters.”

Draco grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “It’s Heir Malfoy—”

“You’re at Hogwarts. No point in pulling rank here.” Harry doesn't simply say it—he laughs. It's absurd, almost familiarly ridiculous. It reminds him that he's not in Durmstrang, that Draco did not fall into the jaws of the institution and spat out with a sense of hopelessness. But that hopelessness that was drilled into fresher students was what hardened them along the years. 

“If you were a student of Durmstrang and had that sort of attitude with a teacher? Mister Malfoy, they'd make you run laps under the rain.” Harry grins, tilting his head. 

The way the young man stiffened was a sight to behold. Harry wasn't one to thoughtlessly bully someone, but then again, for all he's done in Durmstrang with the pompous purebloods, Draco was easy pickings. It wasn't hard to see through him, all that underlying anger and resentment. To hell with it, Harry didn't need Aurelia or Genevieve telling him he's gone soft. 

“So, again, what do you want, Mister Malfoy.” His scathing tone with the brightest smile he could muster. Draco—and it's better to call him that now—was visibly hesitant. So much for Slytherin decorum. “If it's in regards to your studies, then I'll gladly help. But if it involves our personal lives, then I must ask you to refrain. I'm on duty and it is our last day.” 

The other young man's body goes even more rigid, tense as his face shows a hint of surprise and agitation for a millisecond before it's carved into marble nonchalance. “You will be returning to Durmstrang tomorrow?” 

“Well of course. The others and I must return to our studies immediately, as Genevieve, Aurelia, and I are in our final year. You can understand the strain that has been placed upon us for simply volunteering with this… charity.” 

“You call this a charity?” 

“Absolutely! Are we not working to help those in need? I suppose that in your eyes, the students of Hogwarts are perfectly capable. But if you were to compare yourselves with that of other schools like Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and even Castelabruxo, you are quite… subpar.” Harry shrugs, tilting his head as he smiles at Draco. “But that is not the fault of students, no? The teachers should be condemned for it. Hence why we—the British students of Durmstrang—pitied our fellow Englishmen and decided to provide our assistance.”

Draco’s magic immediately flared at the jab, making Harry laugh internally. It was amusing to witness the rumoured well kept and disciplined Draco Malfoy let his emotions influence him. “You think you've been able to help? You're only students!” 

“And yet there's been a significant increase in productivity and student participation since we've arrived.” Harry drawls, “You are ignorant, to say the least. Even those of the dark families that educate their children of old Magicks are still fairly oblivious to things. As said, you people are influenced by stereotypes. The Patronus charm, remember?” 

The British isles weren't isolated, but they were conservative—to say the least. Their beliefs on magic were influenced by humans, by their history. But history was written by the victors, was it not? Not to mention the atrocious state of their education when they continued to let Binns teach even after death. Surely, the ministry had enough money to fund Hogwarts that salaries weren't so bad. But to think they were cheapskates who kept a ghost so they wouldn't have to pay another teacher. 

“Perhaps your parents should have sent you to Durmstrang back in fourth year.” Harry hums, “It would have been beneficial.” 

“Tsk… I wanted to ask more about some principles of dark magic. It runs in emotions, that's what we've been taught, but how does it actually work? Intent is strong as it gives spells a goal, so what does emotions do? Every spell has intent, a goal—so how did dark become dark?” Draco asks, clutching a book by his side. Silver eyes bore into him with malice and curiosity. 

Oh! Good question. Harry couldn't help but smile, leaning against his chair. Such questions should be applauded. Draco was putting in effort to thoroughly understand the principles of magic! Oh, Professor Tasev would have adored him. But wanting to know and being able to comprehend it was two different things. 

He dragged two fingers across the air and the chair nearby moved, promptly startling Draco who was forced to take a seat. The other young man looked utterly baffled but Harry only waved him off, humming to himself as he rummaged through his bag before taking out a strange glass tablet. 

“Tell me about your understanding of magic. The intent vs. emotion theory, to be specific.” he mutters, taking a marker—because marker's were useful compared to simple ink. Aleksia would have scolded him and Hermione for walking out in the muggle world just to buy whiteboard markers. 

Draco watched in fascination as Harry continued to draw something on the reflective tablet. He was curious, but cleared his throat and began to explain his perspective of the situation. 

“Light magic constitutes spells that are driven by the purpose of a caster. It feeds off of the intent itself and manifests into a spell. Dark spells are spells that are created by emotions. These spells are fueled by human mentality—emotions in other words. Grey spells are the combination of both, hence why many spells are grey. However, pure light and pure dark are more powerful than grey spells because of the raw power that fuels them.” Draco dictates—definitions written on books. 

Harry hums, glancing up at him.

“Light magic is driven by intent. Not purpose.” He corrects, grabbing a red and green marker from his bag and continuing to draw. 

“What's the difference?”

Harry rolls his eyes. He takes it back—Tasev wouldn't like Draco. 

“Intent is ambition—of sorts. It is what the caster wants, their needs. Intent is what the caster intends to do. Light magic is made up of goals, desires, ambition.” He sighs, utterly exasperated by the ignorance. “Purpose is the ‘why’ of magic. Purpose means what something is designed to do, the reason. Function is what something does.” 

Harry flips the reflective tablet and presents it to Draco, “Every spell has a purpose and function.” He taps his marker on the surface, leasing Draco to the green diagrams and spells. Then he points to the red. “Everything has a purpose, a function. Spells are no different.” 

The green for light and the red for dark. 

“Light spells run on the intent of the caster. Their desires, their goals. Dark spells need pure and raw emotion. But!” He sets the tablet down, pressing his finger in the very centre. Two spheres emerge from the tablet, making Draco jolt and push himself away from the desk.

“But nothing is black and white. Though it is known that light and dark spells are stronger than grey, it does not mean that they are completely separate.” Harry points to the green sphere that symbolises the light. “If you were to have a goal and feel nothing, can your goal be clear? Do you see your objective clearly while feeling nothing?” 

Draco hesitates, staring at the green sphere before shaking his head. “No. All kinds of goals have emotions attached to them.”

“Exactly. Determination, love, anger—any and all emotions stain your goals.” He pressed his finger against the green sphere and the smallest bit of red bleeds from the centre and mixes with it. “The same goes with dark magic. Emotions are morphed from something. Take the celestial illusion spell—Astrum Illūsiō. It's a dark spell as it requires empathy, but there is always some sort of intent. To create, to deceive.” 

Like the green, the red begins to bleed some green at the centre. 

“Then what is the point of these categories if everything is grey?” Draco stammers, his mask melting away with his curiosity and bewilderment.

Harry can only shrug, “Humans need to define anything and everything. The concept of limitless and infinite is frightening to them.” He explains, his tone detached. 

“But to answer your question, it's the matter of which one is stronger. The intent will always be stronger for light spells. You can cast the killing curse with the same intent but your emotions can shift. You can feel anger, joy, whatever you can—but your intent will never change. For Dark spells, emotions are naturally strong. The intent will shift, even if a little. Orchidius will always use happiness and love but the caster can think: make me flowers, make this bloom, give me something beautiful. The intent shifts ever so slightly, but the emotion overpowers it.” 

The concept of the intent vs. emotion theory will always be confusing to him. Perhaps it was because it's the oldest known magical system in the world. The concept of light and dark never ceased to irk him. What was the point of giving magic some sort of moral category? This was why he liked the function system over anything else. 

“I see… so it's the overpowering aspect that defines the category. Grey just means that it's more balanced than the latter categories.” Draco murmurs, more to himself than to Harry.

“To summarise: all spells have a function and purpose. All spells include emotions and intent. Whichever aspect fuels the spell the most will dictate the category it falls into. Dark is mainly fueled by emotions; Light is mainly fueled by intent. But that does not mean they are completely absent from the other aspects.” 

The malice and scrutiny in Draco's eyes suddenly shift to awe, envy, and admiration. He nods, understanding it all easily from the explanations alone before he turns back to Harry with a curious look. He's been more curious lately. Perhaps Theo has some idea as to why Draco Malfoy was so… 

“Why haven't you explained this to the class?” He asks and it's a good question. Amazing. 

Harry shrugs again, “Not many of you are willing to learn, to adapt. Humans are inherently stubborn, hence why I found no reason to provide more explanation. Why continue to teach them if they refuse to learn. It's a waste of time.” 

Draco frowns, “I never expected you to be so shallow.”

“Me? Shallow? Mister Malfoy, I am more gracious than you think!” Harry laughs, snapping his fingers as the illusions vanish. He waves his hand over the reflective tablet and watches his writing melt away, leaving the glass cleaner than ever. 

Very gracious. 

“Last question.” Draco finally sighs, seeing that Harry wouldn't give him a clear answer unless it's academic. “Why volunteer? You left for a reason, so why come back and show yourself?” 

“Why indeed.” Harry hums, staring off in the distance. It's complicated. Very much so. But he searches through all the hundreds of useless reasons and finds the suitable one. It's a fact, the truth in his heart as he drums his fingers over the desk. 

Green eyes are back on silver. Harry's reminded of Sirius. He wants to see the man who's somehow supporting Gaunt. He doesn't know why. He's a bit resentful, but Sirius most likely had his reasons. He was one of those reasons, if he had to speculate. A little laugh escapes him as he leans forward, looking at Draco with a smile. 

“Ron.”

“Ronald Weasley?” 

“I couldn't abandon him. I wanted to see him, to make sure he was getting a decent education. So if you want an honest answer from me, then that is it. I volunteered to assist Hogwarts for Ronald Weasley.” Harry hums to himself, “I cherish him, see. He is precious to us—my sister and I. In all honesty, none of you matter. Ron, however, does. He matters to me.”

Draco’s mannerism immediately changes. He looks at the boy from Durmstrang with utter annoyance. Because it's the truth. 

Hyperion looks at him and there’s the truth in his eyes. There is no lie that leaves his tongue. What’s the point of lying? There’s no benefit to it. Because, yes, Ron was one of his reasons as to why he returned. He also wanted to spite Dumbledore and the Ministry because they were utter arseholes. He wanted to show them how he’s thrived, how great he’s become. 

“Any more questions?”

“No… you’ve managed to answer everything I question.” Draco mutters.

“Hm… Oh! You’re in contact with Sirius, right?” Harry smiles brightly, “Could you give this to him?” He hands over a black envelope with golden wax.

It’s light. To him, it smelt of magic—crisp and a bit ashy, a bit like smoke. No one could open this, except for Sirius Black himself. Well, hopefully. If a certain resurrected Dark Lord got his hands on it, then Sirius wouldn’t be able to read it. Oh well, he’ll find a way to send another one. 

“Why not send it yourself?”

“Hedwig is a spoiled princess. I can’t send her off for one measly letter. Besides, she’s not familiar with Sirius so she might be difficult with him if he ever saw her.”

“...What’s the point then?”

“Careful now, that’s my familiar! But then again, I don’t send a lot of letters. People are annoying.” He blanches, detesting the thought of having to deal with thoughtless fools—like how he was being made to deal with idiotic students when they had signed up for an interview, not an internship. 

“Run along, little dragon. You have a Dark Lord to report to.”

Draco’s blood ran cold—Harry could feel it. Licking his lips, he tilted his head and grinned at Draco. Poor thing, he was frightened and visibly shaking. Deep down, a part of Draco Malfoy will always be cowardly—but that cannot be shamed. Humans were always scared. Their relationship with power was always complicated, Harry was intimately aware of that. 

Lacing his fingers together, he observed the boy carefully. The way the little colour on his face drained made it seem like his skin was almost transparent. It fascinated Harry to no end. What would happen if he just… took Draco by the jaw and dug his nails into that pale skin. Would he immediately bleed? Would he bruise? Would his skin turn red or purple? 

“Don't look so jumpy.” Like a wolf looking down at a ferret, Harry inclines his head to the side again. “It's a simple task, Draco.”

Draco Malfoy’s first impression of Harry Potter was of a small, fragile, and maybe stupid boy. Potter was antisocial, shy. He made little friends, his grades were mediocre, and he was brainwashed like the rest of the fools. He carried no such greatness that the stories told. 

But then the boy vanished two years ago. 

Draco wondered about it every week. What happened to Potter? Where did he go? Did the Dark Lord truly kidnap him? Was he secretly stowed away under their manor? Paranoia was common amongst his mother's bloodline, so it wasn't much of a surprise when it got to him. Then more than a year ago, Sirius Black was proven innocent and was restored as Lord of the House. 

He visited often, wishing to have the company of his cousin, Draco's mother, and the two would reminisce or simply keep one another company. Whenever Draco speaks to him, the man gets all foggy eyed and nostalgic. His mother tells him it's because Draco reminds Sirius of his younger brother Regulus. The new Lord of Black wasn't unpleasant, he was a Gryffindor, yes, but he was civil enough with them that he didn't go manic all willy-nilly. 

His peers find his fascination with the golden trio strange. They think him mad for being suspicious of the disappearance of the two most formidable members of Gryffindor. Hermione Granger had been the brightest witch of their age—loathe it as he may, he must admit it. Harry Potter was the bloody boy who lived. 

Then he came back. 

Draco's first impression of Hyperion Peverell was a confident, borderline arrogant, and shrewd young man. He was taller, leaner, clearly more powerful than Harry Potter ever was. He was cruel sometimes. Stupidity seemed like a sin in his eyes and somehow he managed to make Draco feel inferior—again. 

Because Hyperion Peverell was the definition of natural genius. He spoke in ways that showed that he understood the literal principles of magic with pure and utter ease. Stubborn and hard-headed students were dealt with immediately, humiliated once he could dissect their arsenal of knowledge and questioned them where they didn’t understand. It was almost painful to watch once Potter—Peverell found a weakness. 

It reminded him of how snakes hunt. They used their tongues to smell their surroundings, tracked heat, and used their sight. Once they find their prey, they coil around their prey and squeeze until they die. Peverell gouged out your ignorance and walked around you, questioning you until your head spun. Draco had seen it when Cormac McLaggen opened his mouth and the wrong words were spoken. 

And it wasn’t long until his parents told him to gather information. Peverell was open, he was seen almost all the time. He ate with his peers in Solovyava’s office. He’d join them during dinner. He was always present, always had an alibi if anything happened.

And he was aware. 

The other Durmstrang students were highly reactive when it came to Peverell. Fawley was stuck to Peverell outside of their classes, she was always with him, he was always with her. Morganach looked to him for advice, for counsel whenever something happened. The younger two—Rowle and Vance—always looked for his approval. They wouldn’t do anything unless he gave a visible signal. 

Hyperion Peverell was the leader. Subtle as it was, Draco saw it clearly. He was detached. It was so strange for him, the way Peverell spoke about human nature as if he weren't one. 

The trip from the Dark Studies classroom to the common rooms was long. He could feel the cold sweat drip down his face, the way his body trembled slightly. 

He ignores Pansy once he passes through the stone walls, slipping away from the common room and to his own bedroom. Breathing out a sigh, he closed the door and locked it. He didn’t want to be bothered until he could give out his proper report to the Dark Lord. 

“You got what you wanted?”

Draco froze, snapping his head towards the figure on his bed.

Theodore Nott was an old friend and a new enigma. He lied on his bed, reading one of Draco’s books. The other boy was his roommate—unfortunately. His roommate is well known for the fact that he was close to Hyperion Peverell.

“That’s none of your business.” Draco snarls, tugging at his tie.

“Ron’s already warned Blaise.” Theo blankly looks at him. “Don’t pick a fight with Rion, Draco. He’s a madman.”

“Theodore—”

“I’m not on your side, Draco. I’m on his. So this isn’t me being concerned, or worried. No.” Theo rolls his eyes, tossing the book and quickly cornering Draco. He stepped closer and closer, eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. “He’ll eat you alive and spit out your bones, then use them as toothpicks.” 

“Threats don’t scare me.”

“They’re facts, little dragon.” 

Draco doesn’t want to admit that he flinched. Theo spoke like Peverell. He should have noticed, should have known. While he watched Peverell, Theo watched him. 

“Go to Snape. He’ll be waiting.” Theo hums, pulling away and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Rion doesn’t want me stopping you.”

“You take orders from him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Never took you for a mutt.”

Theo smirks, “Draco Malfoy, your family follows a powerful man. I’m simply doing the same.” 

Draco gulps, sneering at Theo before he marches out the room with his written report on the events he’s followed. He swallowed thickly, hurrying off to Snape’s office. Thankfully, he wasn’t stopped, no one dared to do so. With a single knock, the door opens and Snape ushers him inside. 

“How did it go?”

“Awful.” 

Snape raises a brow, scrutinising Draco. “You were caught.”

“He knew. I think he’s always known.” Draco grits out, “And Nott is a cunt.”

“Language.” Snape sighs, shaking his head as he turns to the fireplace. “He is waiting. I can only spare you two hours, Draco. Be quick about it and don't fail.”

“I won't.” Draco shakes his head, glancing at the portkey. He reached forward, faltering as his hand shook. But Severus held his hand for a moment, directing Draco's gaze back to him. He could see the firmness in those eyes as he steadied Draco. With a shaky breath, he shook his head again and took the empty ink bottle in hand.

The world swirled around him until he lands on an intricately designed floor pattern. The mixture of green, gold, and white. It was a familiar place, making Draco shudder as he heard his mother's familiar voice echo across the foyer. 

“Draco, my son.” Narcissa reaches forward, cupping his cheeks as she smiled softly at him. She was always so soft and kind, but he had to remind himself that her mother was a Black first and a Malfoy second. “Were you successful?” 

Draco purses his lips, “I've gathered as much as I could, mother…”

Narcissa frowns for a second, before her expression falls blank. She nods silently, leading him to the drawing room where their lord and his other followers awaited. 

His nerves were gradually getting to him, making Draco's hands shake. 

Sirius was present, as expected, lounging in one of the seats in the middle of the long table. Barty sat to the right of the Dark Lord while his father sat on the left. His mother was quick to usher him to the other end of the table, where he remained standing as his mother took her seat beside his father. He noticed Dolohov sitting beside Barty, between the seemingly mad man and Sirius—who was also mad. 

“Welcome back, Draco. I expect that you've done well in your research.” Gaunt smiles, cocking his head to the said with his fingers laced together. “Now… what have you discovered?” 

Draco quietly fidgets with his notes. It feels like he's presenting a thesis to his professor, it's just that failure was not met with verbal lashing, but a curse. He gulps, coughing into his hand before quickly skimming through them. 

“Harry Potter, now known as Hyperion Potter. He's the current student-assistant for our Dark Studies class and is well versed in the principles of magic. From his demeanour alone, he does not tolerate any sorts of bigotry or forms of stupidity. He has little patience, in truth, and a terrible temperament.” Draco grimaces, reminded of how Peverell detested being kept waiting. “He has the tendency to humiliate anyone on the spot if they were to show naive ignorance. Multiple students have run out of the class crying from his cruelty alone.”

There were three accounts of that. A fifth year Gryffindor, a seventh year Hufflepuff, and a sixth year Slytherin. It's in his notes written in bold red ink. But Peverell was gentler with those in fourth year and younger. It reminded him of a watered down version of Severus. “His progress in Hogwarts is commendable. Dark Studies has significantly improved since his arrival and many participate more.”

“Because they're excited or because they're scared?” Dolohov snorts. 

“A mixture of both, Lord Dolohov. Just yesterday, he had asked for the names of absent students and hunted them down. Many witnessed him levitating Arthur Bagman and Trinity Fawcett—gryffindors—through the halls. He stuck them to their chairs once they were seated.” 

Sirius barks out a laugh, more canine than human as he grinned roguishly at Draco. 

“Anything else?” 

“Er… I asked him about his views on the magic system. He explains it as magic being categorised by the aspect that plays as its strongest component. Light is based on intent but there is still emotion there, while Dark is fueled by overpowering emotion yet intent is not completely removed. He essentially explains that all kinds of magic have the same aspects, just different capacities of it.” Draco shrugs, trying not to place his hand in the back of his neck. 

“What? It's not that simple!” Barty protests, clearly disgruntled by Draco's words. “The magic system is complicated. He can't just declare that light has emotion and dark has intent. It's absurd!”

His outburst is immediately tamed once Gaunt raises a hand, to which Barty immediately sits back down. The Dark Lord quietly contemplates the explanation, humming softly. “Indeed, the intent against emotion theory is a complicated structure. Yet Peverell has managed to simplify it.” 

“My lord—”

“Emotions and Intent cannot be easily separated. They are severely tangled and connected, hence they cannot be completely absent from one another. Peverell is correct, young Malfoy, listen to him.” Gaunt explains, calm and patient and intrigued. 

Draco flinches at the flash of red in those eyes, grimacing quietly. 

“What else?”

“He returned for Ronald Weasley. In his words, we don't matter but Weasley does. So he came back to make sure he had some decent education.” Draco fidgeted again, swallowing thickly as he tried to continue speaking. 

“Were there any problems?” 

Ah… that. 

“Yes.”

Gaunt narrows his eyes, leaning back against his seat. 

He saw the way his parents stiffened, dreading what must happen as their son admitted that there were complications in his mission. It was so simple. All he needed to do was gather information and he still went through trouble. 

“What happened?” 

“Po—Peverell knew. He knew about you. He… he knew I was gathering information on him.” Draco whispers, swallowing again. 

His father paled and his mother closed her eyes. 

Gaunt says there, inquisitive and clearly irked. “He knew… who else knew?” 

“Theodore Nott… I met him before coming here… he explained that he allowed me to continue spying as per Peverell’s orders.”

Dolohov chokes, “Peverell told him not to stop you? I told you!” He slams his hand on the table, pointing an accusing finger at Lucius. “That boy would immediately go against us after we tried to free his father. Peverell is why Thaddeus’ trial is on the verge of being denied.” 

“Enough.” Gaunt snaps, “Thank you, Draco. Take a seat.” He glances at Barty, “Anything to add?” 

“About Theodore Nott.” Barty immediately latches on to the topic, summoning a file and hurriedly rummaging through numerous papers. He whipped out a report on someone's profile—Draco could see Theo's picture plastered at the top right of the paper. “Excelled in Warding, Ancient Runes, and Durmstrang’s combative classes. He's adept at duelling, a good swordmaster, and was well known for the fact that he was Hyperion Peverell's sparring partner. As said, they were always together regardless of the situation.” 

“We don't need you vying over the Durmstrang students, Crouch. Get on with it.” Sirius huffs, arms crossed over his chest as he impatiently tapped a finger on his arm. 

“You're just snippy over the fact it's not your godson.” Barty snaps right back, shaking his head and looking utterly exasperated. “Anyways, Theodore Nott was a person students knew to be wary of. Despite being a new student who was at the bottom of the hierarchy when he transferred, he managed to tear himself up until he stood just below Peverell at the top. As we suspected, the change in power dynamics was mainly caused by Hyperion Peverell himself.”

Draco shudders, unable to fathom that the golden boy would quite literally break through a hierarchy so he could sit on a throne at the very top. 

“I discovered that Nott had a nickname, a title given by the students.” Barty smirks, glancing at Sirius with a mocking look. The Lord of House Black let out an almost animalistic growl, once again reminding them that he was often more dog than he was man. 

“Peverell's Bloodhound.” 

Draco felt the colour drain from his face. He was sharing a room with a boy known to be a fucking bloodhound. 

“Nott was well known for the fact that he sniffed out anyone who tried to oppose Peverell. He'd drag them out from the shadows and did one of two things. Deal with the issue himself or drag his target to Peverell. He's essentially Peverell's second in command until he transferred, and that position was then passed to Aurelia Fawley.”

“She's with Snape.” Draco mutters. 

“Is he perhaps joined by a… Genevieve Morganach?” 

He immediately recoils at the familiar name. “Transfiguration assistant.”

“Wonderful! Durmstrang's court of rulers are in Hogwarts!” Barty cackled. “Morganach the saintess, Fawley the fury, Nott the bloodhound, and Peverell the emperor.” 

“That's what the student population calls them?” Narcissa sucks in a deep breath. 

“Peverell is obviously the leader. Fawley is tasked with identifying the problems and planning for it. Nott is their hunter and deals with it. Morganach, on the other hand, plays the role of the nice one. She's trusted by others because of it. And when people trust her—”

“They give her information.” Gaunt grins, “And she gives it to Peverell.”

Sirius gawks, “Why the fuck are you all talking like they're running a criminal organization? It's a school!” 

“Had you been sorted into Slytherin, you'd understand the importance of a hierarchy.” Narcissa scoffs, “Durmstrang has a much stricter one that students have created. Even though the teachers are known as the proper authority, so long as someone conquers, they become king.”

“Think of it this way!” Dolohov joyously laughs, “It's preparation for the real world.”

“And so you're saying that my godson, who's only been in Durmstrang for two years, has managed to put himself on a metaphorical throne and is bordering on becoming a dictator.” Sirius frowns, turning to Draco then to Barty. “Surely you are exaggerating.”

Barty cackled, “Tell that to the alumni I dealt with. Your little godson overthrew and dethroned someone and forced his way to the top. He's vicious, alright.” 

Great. Just great. He was dealing with a schoolboy who might end up trying to dominate the world once he graduated. Draco might as well have made an enemy of a potential future Dark Lord and his bastard of a second in command. Was he going to get killed in the future? Peverell seemed like the type who held grudges. If not him, then most likely Theo. 

“Other things in regards to their hierarchy?” Gaunt drawls, waving at Barty to continue. 

“Theseus Rowle and Cecilia Vance.” Barty hums, “Vance is known to be Peverell's favourite. It's a known rule to never mess with her, lest you catch Peverell's wrath—personally.” 

“Hm… seems like our chosen one has undergone quite the change. What else do we have on Nott?” He gestures belligerently, snapping his fingers at Barty who fidgeted nervously. 

“The boy hides his tracks well. Since their enrollment, there have been multiple incidents that have lead to numerous purebloods heirs being discredited or almost expelled from Durmstrang.” Barty clears his throat, sneaking a glance at Draco. “Theodore Nott was suspected to cause the incident with the Dobzhansky heiress. She almost died when she snuck out the castle to go ice skating when the ice cracked beneath her. A passing teacher witnesses it and managed to save her before she died of hypothermia.” 

Gaunt snarls, “Why was Nott suspected to cause it?” 

“Because Valentina Dobzhansky sabotaged Hyperion Peverell's potion the week before and almost killed him when it blew up the entire hall.” Barty clicks his tongue, “He's a loyal dog, that's what. But Peverell has done the same things for him. One student apparently targeted Nott during a duel and injured his arm, which was almost lethal if not for the immediate treatment. That student ended up being sent home for an entire month after he stole himself some wine and got drunk. He fell down the stairs.”

“Let me guess, Peverell?” 

“Most likely. The boy broke an arm.”

“My godson is not capable of such things!” 

Draco sneers at Sirius, unable to understand why the man was adamant in believing that Potter—Peverell was some sinless angel. He shudders, admittedly preferring Harry Potter over the new Hyperion Peverell. At least Potter was borderline harmless when it came to the student hierarchy. Peverell was obviously tyrannical. 

“Hm… what about Ronald Weasley? Was something wrong with him?” Dolohov asks, turning the attention to Draco who felt utterly out of place. 

Again, he can't help but cringe away. 

“He's also an issue. Blaise Zabini is close with him and when he tried to pry information from Weasley, Blaise got a warning. Something along the lines of getting killed if he meddled with Peverell.” And wasn't that alarming? The heroic advocate of innocent children telling someone that they'll die if they try to stick their noses in the wrong place. 

“So he's in the know with… whatever the hell Peverell is doing.” Dolohov scoffs, “Your godson has an inner circle. Anything else?” 

Barty looked utterly giddy once he was asked that. “His inner circle, as you say, isn't limited to Durmstrang. Beauxbatons has been taken by storm as well.”

“By who?” 

Barty laughs, handing Gaunt the file and crossing his arms. A grin across his face, almost manic. 

“Well isn't that interesting…” Gaunt chuckles, “So that's where she went.”

“Who?” Sirius frowns. 

“Hermione Granger is Beauxbatons.” Barty snickers, “Well… Hermione Peverell.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?!” 

And Draco might as well faint. 

Granger and Potter becoming Peverells. Taking over other schools of Europe. What the hell has the world come to?

Back in France, Hermione frowns as René frantically tried to help her pick out a proper outfit to use. 

Maybe she'll stick to blue. Or perhaps their signature silver. 

Chapter Text

Knowledge is power.

Seeing the students of Durmstrang off was quite the difficult endeavor, especially when one Sirius Black refused to stay away. The knowledge that his godson would return to Durmstrang without them even meeting was a devastating thought that had the man willing to fight the minister. (Though that was never hard for Sirius with his utter disgust and hatred for Fudge.)

“Cissa, if I don’t get to see my godson before he leaves, I swear I’ll blast a hole straight through the Ministry and make a bloody criminal of myself all over again.” Sirius spat, having paced dozens upon dozens of times that the ancient rug beneath his feet might as well wear out. Harry was set to leave in a few hours time and Sirius didn’t bloody know when he’ll be able to see his godson again. Maybe he should invest in the murder of Dumbledore—by grabbing an actual gun and shooting the motherfucker between his eyes.

Alas, Narcissa seems to have sensed the murder, harshly slapping his arm and scowling. “Sirius, do try not to be so crass. As much as I’d dearly love to assist in reuniting you with your heir, I’ve already told you—our Lord and Lucius are seeking ways for you to meet him. If you insist on acting recklessly now, you’ll only diminish your chances of seeing Hyperion.” She pinches his arm ever so lightly (very hard) and scoffs at his dramatics. 

“I would only have very little time with him, ‘Cissa.”

“Then emphasise your desire to start writing letters, Sirius. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you reunite with the young lord. It would be a shame if you embarrassed the House of Black to our heir of all people.” Narcissa shook her head, a deep frown etched across her face before she let out a soft sigh. Her gaze flicks over Sirius—lingering on the disheveled collar of his robes, the defiant set of his jaw, the restless clench of his fists—before drifting back to meet his eyes, cool and unblinking. “Keep calm.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to keep calm knowing that my son is about to leave and I may never get another chance to see him?!” Sirius groaned, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking until the ribbon slipped loose, dark strands falling messily over his eyes. His gaze darted to Narcissa, perched with effortless poise, every inch the composed lady, while his own feet throbbed from relentless pacing. He huffed, jaw tightening, the restless energy coiling in his chest sharper than the hollow stretch of twelve years in Azkaban. How could a few hours feel worse than that?

“Sit down already.”

“No—AH! CISSA, WHAT THE FUCK?!” He hissed, rubbing at the stinging pain on his arm as he glared at the wand in Narcissa’s hand. The way she narrowed her eyes painfully reminded him of the way his aunt Druella—Narcissa’s mother—would scrutinise them for their poor behaviour. “What spell did you use? Damnit.”

“Just the normal stinging spell, Sirius. Now sit down before I break your legs.” Delicately wrapping her fingers on a tea cup, sha spares him a single glance before gesturing to the seat opposite to hers. “Sit.”

Sirius knows a command when he hears one. Reluctantly, he trudges towards the plush seat. He crossed his arms, turning to Narcissa with a small pout while the other pays no mind to his glare. 

“Patience. All children of House Black are taught that from a young age, my dear cousin. I understand you never took such lessons to heart, but it would be most unwise to forget them.” With a small huff, Narcissa shakes her head. 

There is no patience left in Sirius’ bones when it comes to Harry. He is willing to remain patient for his boy, to be the best that Harry deserves. But merely seeing Harry forces the patience out of him, making every part of him want to rip a hole in the planet just to be with his godson. Twelve years and Sirius remembers every single moment in which he held his boy. Even then, it didn’t reach thirty—wrecking his very soul with devastation. 

He wants his little star. He wants his boy. 

He needs Harry. 

A faint knock snapped him from his musings. The image of little Harry—just a baby, chubby finger pointed at the stars Sirius had proudly named—faded like smoke. The room grew still, the air tightening around them. Sirius and Narcissa rose in unison, wands slipping into their hands with practiced ease. Their eyes locked on the door, unblinking, breaths shallow. The faint creak of the floorboards beyond sounded louder than it should have. Was it an intruder or an ally? Hard to tell these days—especially since Dumbledore had all but forced his way into Grimmauld Place months ago. 

“Cissa?”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked to Sirius, sharp and glinting like ice, a silent command woven into the briefest glance. His pulse pounded, each beat loud in his ears, his breath shallow. He blinked once—just once—before Narcissa stepped forward, her movements fluid but taut. The tip of her wand met the door, steady, ready, the magic thrumming beneath her fingertips. If it was an enemy, they wouldn’t get the chance to strike first. The walls of Black Manor stood strong, more secure than Grimmauld Place—but the weight of old blood carried its own brand of paranoia, etched into marrow and muscle,  a legacy as old as the name they carried.

“Did it go well?” Narcissa’s voice was firm, woven into a softness that would make her seem unsuspecting. But her eyes were narrowed, watching and waiting. “Is our fils chéri (beloved son) well?”

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn wire. Then—six faint, deliberate knocks, each one punctuating the stillness. A voice followed, smooth and sharp, every syllable crisp with practiced authority. Lucius. “Everything went smoothly, mon amour. Our petite étoile (little star) was merely nervous.” 

Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief, quietly gesturing to Sirius that it was clear. There was not much for Sirius to decipher the little hint that showed an imposter over the real thing. But it involved Draco. It always involved Draco for this couple. 

She pulled the door open just as Sirius reluctantly lowered his wand, fingers twitching like they weren’t quite ready to let go of the fight. Lucius stepped in, all polished arrogance and perfectly timed precision, planting a stiff kiss on Narcissa’s lips— ugh, as if that wasn’t nauseating enough. His gaze shifted to Sirius almost immediately, sharp and assessing, like he was measuring every flaw, every crack beneath the surface. Sirius met it head-on, masking the itch crawling under his skin. That look—serious, calculated, layered with unspoken threats. Typical Lucius. Always so stiff, so insufferably proper. Hmph… what a boring man.

“It has been decided that you shall accompany our Lord in my stead. You are expected at Hogwarts within thirty minutes, following the feast.” Lucius clears his throat, frowning at Sirius. Those mercury eyes flick up and down, observing Sirius with practiced condescension. “I expect you to conduct yourself with decorum, Sirius. This is a significant occasion, one that may well secure an alliance with Durmstrang… so do try not to embarrass yourself by bursting into tears at the sight of your godson.”

“I will curse your ass to the next month.” Sirius spat, rolling his eyes before he turned to Narcissa. "Ma chère cousine,(my dear cousin) help me pick an outfit. I mustn’t make a fool of myself in front of my boy!”

“You already make a fool of yourself, petite étoile (little star).” Narcissa rolls her eyes but isn’t quite subtle about how she unhooks herself from her husband to drag her cousin out the room.

Sirius tilted his head ever so slightly, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that practically begged to be irritating. Lucius responded with an eye roll so dramatic it was a miracle his head didn’t fall off from the sheer weight of disdain. The audacity. As if he had any right to be annoyed—please. If anyone should be rolling their eyes, it was Sirius, having to endure Lucius’ perpetual air of self-importance, like the man was allergic to being remotely tolerable.

With a dramatic huff, his fingers raked through his hair, as though the strands had personally offended him. A quick glance swept over his belongings. Impeccably packed, naturally. The room? Practically gleaming under his expert touch (or perhaps it had always been that way, but why split hairs?). His gaze landed on the small box of cookies tucked neatly by the door. Ah, yes—the cookies. A generous offering for the house elves, of course, though if he “forgot” them, his dear sister might just resurrect ancient curses to express her gratitude on their behalf. She had strong feelings about house elf rights—passionate, really. Noble of her. Admirable, even. But his ears were still recovering from the last... enlightening lecture on the subject. Best not risk another round.

He drank it all in with the kind of wistful detachment reserved for great men leaving behind their legacies. The walls, of course, were practically bursting with the echoes of his brilliance—woven seamlessly alongside the lesser stories of students and teachers who’d merely had the good fortune of existing in the same space as him. Honestly, sentimentality was overrated. Best to let the castle breathe, free from the clutter of old memories, both dazzling and dull (mostly dull, if we’re being fair). A thorough cleansing would do wonders, really—a fresh slate, unmarred by the past. Not his responsibility, though. If the place grew heavy with history’s dust, well, that was hardly his fault. Blame the headmaster! After all, wasn’t that what headmasters were for?

The heat in his pocket flares, sharp and insistent—impatient, like it knows something he doesn’t. He hums—because of course he does—as if he’s got all the time in the world, fingers lazy until his thumb grazes the edge. Just a little press, a smug smear of red, and the mirror drinks it down like it’s been waiting all day.

His reflection ripples in the mirror, before he yawns and lies back down on the bed. Great, he’s gonna have to smooth that down again, but a flick of his wrist would have already done that. “Neville, my dear, why are you calling?” 

“Hyperion,” Neville’s tired expression ripples into being within the mirror, dark bags under his eyes as a tired glare sets upon his expression. It was far different from the timid boy two years ago. He was now more… “Why is Hermione in a war path?”

“Oh! That’s cause I’ve been in Hogwarts for the past few days.”

“You’re fucking where?!”

“I’m not having sex at the moment, Nev. Very rude of you to—”

“Asshole.”

“Rude.” 

Harry hums again, all casual charm, arm tucked behind his head like he’s posing for a portrait no one asked for. His gaze hooks onto the mirror, where Neville’s looking delightfully worse for wear—eyes dulled, frame trimmed down like life’s been gnawing at the edges. And yet… better somehow. Funny, that. Harry smirks, already spinning the tale in his head: Neville’s found himself a new distraction. Probably fragile. Definitely breakable.

“What did you do?” 

Neville spares him but a small glance, “Nothing.”

Harry cackles, “You got a new plaything?”

“Maybe.”

“Hm…” Harry’s eyes narrow, rolling over on his stomach. “Show me.”

“Hell no!” Neville vehemently denies, clearly tossing his mirror on his end. It lands with a loud clatter and thud that makes Harry huff, watching as the other boy was left to his own devices. Which, by the way, Harry could see was him tinkering with potions and powders.

“C’mon. I’ve shown you my trinkets and toys. Why won’t you show me yours.” Harry pouts.

“Because you’ll manage to add it into yours again. Remember what you did when you got your hands on my Somnia Terrifica?” Neville glances back at him again, loathing and irritation in his eyes.

“Good times, those were. I don’t regret giving that bomb to Theo.”

“Oh, brilliant, Hyperion—a bomb. You actually made a bloody bomb with my pain-inducing hallucinogenic and then, in all your infinite wisdom, handed it over to one of our most chaotic, violent nutters. Absolutely fucking stellar!” There’s a loud bang on Neville’s end, most likely cause he either threw something or tripped on it.

Either way, Harry was horrendously delighted to see Neville’s suffering and annoyance with him. The smirk he wore spread across his face without shame, just as he stared at the mirror to see Neville re emerge into view. 

“Neville, my dear! It was all rather beneficial, wasn’t it? Helped us get rid of those blasted Yaroviks and Daskalovs. I mean, if I hadn’t let Theo have a go with it, those five would still be breathing, wouldn’t they? Ha!” Harry chuckles, “Oh, it’s not such a dreadful thing. I’ll be a darling and ask before nicking any more of your concoctions, promise. Oh, speaking of which—have you refined that fear potion yet? I’m absolutely itching to try it out on someone!”

Neville smacks his hands together, scoffing. “Oh, I do hope you manage to shoot yourself while faffing about with that bloody gun of yours. Go on, give the Cruciatus a whirl with it next time—might just blow up right in your face. Wouldn’t that be delightful?” 

“I will!”

Neville sighs, already seeing a loss cause. “Nevermind. Just know that Hermione is already on her way.”

Harry lets out a groan, clicking his tongue. “I know, I know. ‘Mione needn’t come here yet she insists.”

“What better way to say fuck you to everyone who underestimated her than to come prancing back as the one and only sister of Lord Peverell.”

“Sweet of you, Nev.” Harry drawls, dropping the mirror by the side of his head. “Come back to the manor on yule, alright? Wait… does Castelobruxo have any breaks by December.”

“Yep.”

“Come home.” Harry hums, “We’ll pick up Luna on the way back.” 

“Yeah, yeah. But aren’t you s’posed to be clearing off? Best get a move on before ‘Mione barges in and yanks you out by the ear.” With a small tilt of his head, Neville gives Harry a pointed look. “Bye.”

“Wait—” But Neville’s reflection ripples away, leaving Harry to his own musing—cursing under his breath. 

The knock hit like an insult—rude, unwelcome, and terribly timed, slicing right through Harry’s colorful string of curses. He groans, fingers tangling in his hair, shooting the door a look sharp enough to cut. Silence answers, stretching thin and taut, as if daring him to care. Just one knock. Soft, simple, annoyingly polite.

So it was between Genevieve and Cecilia. Hm…

“Vivi.” 

He flicked his wrist as the door swung open, revealing Genevieve dressed in neatly pressed, light navy robes with a cream coloured dress to pair with it. Her soft features and oval face is a familiar and almost comforting sight that makes him tilt his head.

“Need anything?”

Genevieve frowns, crossing her arms as her thick brows furrowed at his behaviour. “Rion, I do understand you’re not fond of this place, but do try to keep your room tidy. We really don’t need anyone passing remarks about our decorum while we’re outside of Durmstrang.” 

“I’m on my best behaviour, Vivi.” Harry scoffs, already rolling his wrist as his magic wove through the air and seamlessly tidied up his wrinkle sheets. He turns to Genevieve with a smile, “See?”

“Horrible.” Genevieve smiles, “I have a question, regarding my POM research paper.”

“Theoretical or Philosophical?”

“Mechanical and Functional.”

“Ah! What kind of study? Considering mine is more historical and descriptive.” Harry shrugs. His Principles of magic research was based on the absurdity of morality being forced upon magic. And from what he remembers, Hermione’s equivalent of POM in Beauxbatons was a research study on reality manipulation from transfigurations and illusory magic. 

“I’m conducting a comparative study on magical conduits. I’ve been delving into wandlore recently, but I’ve hit a bit of an impasse when it comes to literal weapons being used as conduits. Might you have any books on the subject? I must, rather unfortunately, admit that the Morganach library is woefully lacking when it comes to material on magical conduits.” Genevieve let out a long-suffering sigh, pressing her hand against her cheek as she looked up at him whilst his trunk was being floated out the room with him.

“Tragic. I’ll see what I can do. Any more research papers aside from POM?”

“You’re the only one insane enough to choose the research papers over the exams. But yes, I do have another research paper to work on. Professor Morozova’s mandatory research paper.”

“Katya’s research paper. Already have an idea for a title?”

“It’s been a month and nothing comes up.”

Harry tilts his head, a lazy sort of curiosity flickering. Funny how people weren’t wired like him and his sister. He’d nailed down his subjects ages ago—because, well, when you’ve got obsessions loud enough to drown out common sense, decisions make themselves. Lucky him, really. Gifted, some might say. He’d agree.

“What exactly are you interested in? Take my studies for example.” Harry shrunk his trunk, dropping it into his pocket and making sure it was secured. “I’m more curious about the emotions vs. intent theory so I’m conducting a study on the effects of emotional overload on spellcasting.” 

“Well, of course yours is horrendously interesting. I’ve not the faintest idea what I actually want to research when it comes to Dark Studies. It’s all rather confusing, really, since the categories seem to shift depending on where we are. Should I lean into the ‘dark as emotion’ theory, or focus on ‘dark as magic tied to the body and mind’? Honestly, it’s maddening.” She lifted one hand and the other, pretending like they were scales as her lips were etched into a frown. 

“If you want to go for the emotion-based theory then you can research the different effects and results from the emotional spectrum. For the French theory, you can delve into healing magic being dark magic.”

“The French Theory sounds harder than the Emotion Theory.” 

“The harder the subject, the more interesting it is.” He shrugs, grin all sharp edges and teeth, like he’s daring her to disagree. Genevieve doesn’t. She just shudders, a quiet little tremor, and nods.

Their conversation snaps in half as Aurelia storms toward them, her face wearing frustration like it’s the latest fashion. Cecilia and Theseus trail after her, jittery and unsure—like skittish cats debating whether to bolt or cling. “Where the hell have you been? The bloody headmaster’s not just going to let us waltz out of here! And Morozova and Szekeres still aren’t here!”

Harry rolls his eyes, “Oh, right, because Dumbledore’s just dying to let us leave. He’ll want that bloody feast to drag on, all smiles and twinkly-eyed nonsense, trying to convince us to stay. Play the usual ‘wise old grandfather’ act, guilt us into being his little soldiers. So, do us all a favour—don’t sit anywhere near him, and stick close to Roksana.”

“I’m this close to blowing the whole bloody place up if that senile old codger keeps prattling on, trying to play nice. Ugh! I already miss the sodding cold!” Aurelia whines, turning to Cecilia and Theseus who were still rather hesitant. “What the hell are you two doing? Oi, get over here. We’ve got to stick together, or these idiots’ll pull something spectacularly stupid. Ugh… Absolutely ridiculous.” 

Genevieve huffs, already shepherding Cecilia and Theseus towards her. “Where is Theodore?”

“Already in the hall with his buddies.”

Harry clicks his tongue, “Bit tempted to knock him out, actually. Fun fact—Hermione’s on her way to make sure we actually get back to Durmstrang. No clue what the hell she’s fed Maxime, but she’s out of Beauxbatons on our behalf. Isn’t that just charming?” A grin spreads across his face yet again, the thought of his sister returning to Hogwarts in all her ink-scented glory. 

“Hyperion, what the fuck?!” Aurelia screeches, quickly summing a mirror, shoving it into poor Theseus’ hands and quickly checking herself. “Why didn't you tell me earlier? I look horrendous! Haggard!” 

“Dreadful.” Harry drawls, snickering as he watches Aurelia whip out her wand and start styling her hair, the top section loosely pulled back and pinned, creating a relaxed half-up, half-down style. “Try curling it a bit. Also, why do you do this every time we see my sister? I do hope you aren’t in love with my darling Hermione, Aurea Mea (My golden), or I might just have to curse you.”

He snaps his fingers, causing poor Aurelia to scowl at the sparks that came from him. 

“Oi, piss off! I’m not in love with your sister. It’s just that… Hermione’s a brilliant person, Harry. Who wouldn’t want to impress her?” Aurelia clicks her tongue quietly, brushing her fingers through her curls. “Theseus, do I look good?”

“Uhmm… Uh—Y-You look grand, Lia. Very elegant! And—And your makeup’s still perfect!” Theseus stutters, his Irish accent tripping over itself, thick and clumsy with nerves. Honestly, Harry figures the kid’s wound a little too tight, like life’s one big pop quiz he forgot to study for. They’ve tried to iron out the anxious edges, sure—but Theseus’ knack for unraveling at the worst moments? That’s proven harder to fix, thanks to… well, history.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Aurelia huffs, pressing a gentle kiss to Theseus’ cheek before hooking her arms with Genevieve and Cecilia. “Let’s be off, then. Best hurry so we don’t miss Theodore’s face when Hermione just pops out of nowhere.” 

“Isn’t it too much if we suddenly start bullying him for such things? Poor Theo hasn't done anything bad lately.” Cecilia hums softly, “He's been well behaved here.”

“Ironic, right? Not like the Theo I know.” Harry huffs, “I'd have expected him to punch someone by today, but he's holding up pretty well.” 

“But with Hermione in the picture? Oh, someone’s bound to run their mouth and say the wrong thing. Vivi, fancy a bet? “Aurelia grins, snickering to herself. “Which one lands the first punch? Hyperion or Theodore?” 

“Hey!” 

Genevieve hums, “Knowing Theo’s temper, I’d say he’d be the first to get physical.”

“Yeah, but Hermione is Harry’s precious sister. Didn’t he punch that Rochefort boy the last time he attended a ball in France.” Cecilia immediately points out, “Oh, regarding that…”

“Nothing bad happened.” Harry rattles off the explanation, nice and simple, earning a collection of puzzled looks. By “nothing” , of course, he meant a charming little meeting with the Rocheforts about their son’s stellar display of barbarism. Tossed in a harmless comment about Daddy Rochefort’s frequent visits to a business partner’s wife—purely informational. And maybe, just maybe, he lightly suggested that Mummy Rochefort’s habit of attempting to bribe Beauxbatons professors wouldn’t make for the best bedtime story in the press. But really, nothing worth mentioning.

“Alright, that’s enough betting. Why can’t any of you be like Rowle? He’s much sweeter than the rest of you.” Harry groans, slinging an arm over Theseus’ shoulders, “You’re my favourite right now.”

“Erm… T-Thanks, Hyperion. But—But sure, Cecilia’ll always be your favourite.” Theseus lets out a shaky laugh, the kind that tries too hard to sound casual, swallowing like his throat’s staging a rebellion. Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch or bolt with Harry lingering close—guess the poor kid’s getting used to it. Or just too anxious to move. Hard to tell.

“Ugh…”

The feast was, as expected, a spectacular bore. Nothing to do but quite literally pull out his notes—because why suffer in silence? The library? Pointless. Even the restricted section was a glorified paperweight for his kind of studies. But this was Hogwarts, after all, and Harry knew better than to flash around anything too… specific. Dark studies, arcane magic—best kept tucked away. Besides, pretending not to notice Dumbledore’s incessant, twinkly-eyed staring was tedious enough without adding fuel to the fire.

“Mr. Peverell—”

“Minnie!”

Minerva’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before she gave him a pointed look. It only fuels Harry to grin at her, “I told you to call me Harry. I like you well enough to let you.”

“Goodness me, you’re quite the handful… Professor Morozova certainly wasn’t exaggerating about your spirited behaviour. That said, I must stress that reading during the feast is rather rude… Now then, what exactly are you working on?” Minerva hums, tilting her head as she glances down at the notebook in Harry’s hands. 

Harry took the moment to think what to do. On one hand, he didn’t need to show Minerva anything, on the other hand… he was also interested in her opinion on his studies.

“My final research paper on Transfiguration.” He smiles, watching as her eyes light up in interest. “I’m studying Molecular manipulation. I’ve had to check in both magic systems and muggle science to determine whether magic replaces molecular structures.”

Transfigurative Magic, commonly referred to as Transfiguration, is a complex and highly advanced branch of magic that focuses on the alteration of the form or appearance of an object or being (Switch, 1867). Unlike simple enchantments, which may imbue an object with magical properties, Transfiguration involves a fundamental change in the object’s physical nature. This discipline is traditionally divided into several sub-branches, including Switching Spells (the exchange of properties or positions between two objects), Vanishment (the removal or disintegration of matter), and Conjuration (the creation of objects seemingly from nothing). Each sub-branch requires a deep understanding of both the object being altered and the desired outcome, highlighting the discipline's reliance on precision and control (Switch, 1970).

In the context of magical science, traditional Muggle concepts of molecules and atoms can be paralleled with what this study terms Thaumic Particles or Arcane Molecules. These are hypothesized to be the fundamental units through which magic interacts with physical matter (Fenwick, 1937). Thaumic Particles may bind to or influence mundane molecules, facilitating the changes observed in Transfiguration. This dual-layer structure suggests that every object possesses both a physical and a magical composition, with the latter acting as the medium through which transformation occurs. ^[1]

While Muggle physics adheres to the conservation of mass and energy, magical laws are governed by principles like Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. While Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration outlines certain limitations—such as the impossibility of creating food from nothing—there remains debate about how strictly these laws apply to all forms of Transfiguration (Goshawk, 1890).

Along with all of his multiple notes on the matter, with some references he’ll have to check out at some point. He hands it over to Minerva, who looks fairly hesitant with taking the notebook. All Harry can do is smile at her, silently insisting to let her read. 

Minerva sighs softly, taking the notebook while Harry picks at his lunch. Soon enough, they’d be heading back to Durmstrang, thank Merlin. He missed the sharp bite of the cold sneaking past every warming charm, missed the castle’s unforgiving chill. Three days here had stretched into something unbearable—an eternity wrapped in pleasantries. Funny, really. That damned place had once been a prison, and yet, here he was, itching to go back.

Harry’s interests were, admittedly, a bit… peculiar. Not that he minded. He was well aware of his obsessive streak—Hermione and the rest made sure he never forgot. The curse of juggling multiple hyperfixations? Tragic, truly. But hey, it made him an excellent student (source: Katya Morozova, 1996). Downside? He got gloriously sidetracked whenever something shiny caught his attention (see: Aleksia Romanova, 1995). Honestly, the women in his life acted like his passions were personal attacks. Was it a crime to contribute to the discovery of new magic? Apparently, yes. Absolutely dreadful.

“This is amazing!” Minerva exclaims, turning to him with a glint in her eyes that he's never seen before. “Really now? Where did you get this idea?”

Harry smiles. “Inspiration.”

(There's an apple right in front of him. Then a knife in his hands. Death smiles beside him, staring at the fruit before they guide Harry's hand, cutting it in half. 

A pomegranate. )

“Transfiguration is essentially the manipulation of atoms. To change one thing to something else.” Harry tilts his head, “Gamp's laws states five exceptions. Food, Emotions, Will, Magical energy… the soul. Those things cannot be transfigured. I played around with trying to bypass those limitations on food. But, like always, magic has its ways to limit wixen from infinite.” 

Minerva nods sagely, “Yes. I suppose it would be a little reckless of you to try and break through properly stated limits.”

“It was… but… I couldn't really help myself. When one turns food into another kind of food, does it subtly taste different from the original thing it was transfigured into.”

(Teeth sink into flesh—crisp, sweet, wrong. Not an apple. Not a pomegranate. Sweetness floods his tongue—familiar, yet wrong. The taste twists, slipping between what should be and what was. Not an apple. Not a pomegranate. Something in between, shifting, slipping through certainty. Juice bleeds red against his fingers. It shouldn’t. But it does.

Behind him, Death hums. A quiet thing.  hand, cold and sure, takes his own—fingers brushing the stain, smearing it. A smile—blurred at the edges, yet unmistakable—carves itself into the void.)

Minerva hums softly, “Your father once did something similar. Though, his transfiguration was perfect to the point he could not taste the lingering taste of the original fruit. An apple into an orange.”

(Hyperion wondered… what would happen if… he transfigured something else… would… would their insides be the same as the outside?

Try it, Death whispered, directing his gaze at the jittery and frightened animal clinging to the wall.

Yes… Yes, he should try.)

“Well… It was his forte.” Harry shrugs, “I’m more in tune with elemental magic and all sorts. Plus runic and mechanical configuration.” 

Minerva nods, the motion slow, deliberate. “It is better when a child is different from their parents. It makes them unique.” Her goblet tilts in his direction, the firelight catching on the rim. “May you live the prosperous life your parents wished for you, Hyperion Peverell.”

A toast. A blessing. A curse, maybe.

Harry chuckles, the sound curling at the edges, and lets his goblet meet hers with a quiet clink. “Harry, Professor. It’s Harry for you.” The words slip past his lips, light, easy—like they belong to someone else.

He drinks—the pomegranate juice rich, cloying, staining his tongue with something that tastes too much like memory. The goblet lowers, and Minerva is met with his grin—sharp, wide, a smear of crimson lingering where the juice had been.

Chapter Text

The Calm Before the Storm.

Aurelia wasn’t stupid. She was rather smart, in all honesty. One of the most brilliant students in Durmstrang—after Hyperion and his manic academic streak, of course. She didn’t really know anyone to be capable of rivaling Hadrian when it came to academic innovation. No one else had his brilliance.

No one but Hermione Peverell, of course. 

It was a blessing to know that Hermione attends Beauxbatons instead of Durmstrang. If that were the case then the students—especially the blood supremacists—would not survive. The siblings were the literal definitions of viciousness, worse when it came to avenging themselves. But worst of all was their protectiveness of each other, how they would send someone to hell and back just to keep the other safe, just to make sure their sibling was thoroughly avenged. It truly was worse when they were together. 

Aurelia’s gaze sharpened as Hyperion captivated McGonagall, his discourse weaving through theories with the fervor of obsession. His papers didn’t just impress—they defined excellence. Research was his fixation, his indulgence. His compulsive nature was no secret; Katya, equal parts exasperated and admiring, often noted it with a sigh that carried more pride than annoyance. He lived and breathed knowledge, and Aurelia recognized the cost of such obsession—fragility, should the wrong string be pulled.

Yet, beneath her aloof facade, Aurelia calculated with precision. Hyperion’s brilliance was undeniable, but brilliance bred blind spots. And blind spots could be dangerous—especially with those like Hadrian and Hermione prowling the same board. Victory, after all, belonged not only to the brightest but to the most observant. Her mind spun through possibilities, strategies, and outcomes—because in a world of intellect and power, foresight was survival.

“She’s brilliant. Not as good as Durmstrang but brilliant.” Genevieve hums beside her, “But she has a tendency to be a bit biased towards her lions.”

“Magical prejudice?”

“No, merely the usual house rivalry. She is Head of Gryffindor, so yes, some bias is to be expected. However, it can be corrected with the proper course of action. I believe… she simply needs broader exposure.” Genevieve whispers, “She strikes me as open-minded—though, of course, that is only my personal observation.” 

Aurelia mutters, her eyes glinting with amusement as they flicker toward the Hufflepuff table. Her younger sister, Philippa, stared back—a mixture of disdain and confusion tightening her expression. Sweet little Pippa. Her father’s bastard and living proof of his infidelity, born when Aurelia was three years old, long before he divorced her mother at nine. The timeline was damning, and the irony never failed to delight her.

With a smirk, Aurelia flicked her wand, conjuring a cascade of flower petals above Philippa’s head. The gasps from the surrounding students were almost too easy—an effortless performance, yet one sure to earn her sister’s simmering ire. Delicious.

“Don’t play.” Genevieve’s voice cut in, sharp and disapproving. Her attention shifted briefly to Cecilia, whose focus was on calming Theseus—his fingers clenched tightly around hers. He trembled, his breath quickening, every flicker of stray magic from the crowd scraping against his nerves like static. The shifting auras, the mingled emotions, the crackle of spells—it was all too loud, too bright, too much. Poor boy, Aurelia thought, more attuned to magic than even Hyperion. A gift, until it became a curse—his mind drowning in a flood of sensation, the world an unbearable assault on his senses.

“Focus your Occlumency, Theseus,” Genevieve urged, her tone gentle but firm. “It’ll steady you.”

“Thes?” Cecilia mutters, taking his plate and promptly segregating his food, cutting them into almost symmetrical pieces before handing it back to him. “Eat, please? You barely ate anything during breakfast.”

“S-sorry… it… it ain't like the ones back home. ‘Course… Durmstrang ain't home, but…” Theseus trails off, his words halting as he picks at his food, fingers twitching with barely contained tension. “It’s… it’s not the same. The bloody castle… it doesn’t feel right t’me… Don’t… don’t you lot feel it too?”

Aurelia blinks, watching Theseus closely, his discomfort palpable even from where she’s sitting. His hands tremble slightly as he pushes his food around the plate. She knows what he’s feeling before he even says it—his energy is different today. Trying desperately to cope, even as he speaks through it like it’s not affecting him.

“Not like you, love.” Aurelia drawls, her voice light, too light, trying to distract him from his own thoughts. "But yeah, even without your sensitivity, we get what you mean. Hogwarts isn't Durmstrang… it will never be.” Her eyes stay locked on him, a flicker of something almost... concerned behind her bored expression. It’s only a flicker, barely a shadow before she masks it again. She can't help but worry about him, not openly, but it's there, a quiet hum in the back of her mind.

“D’you… d’you think Theo’s doin’ all right? This place… it’s not as free as Durmstrang, but… it does feel more alive. Like… like the castle’s—” Theseus chokes, his voice faltering with something Aurelia can’t quite understand, something raw that cuts through the usual calm façade. He shudders, and it’s enough to make her pause, her eyes narrowing again. "The castle’s alive. Sentient. Knows we’re here. Inside her walls. I… I don’t like that. Don’t get how you lot find it comfortin’—walls that actually watch you. I ain’t sleepin’ with that knowledge.” 

Aurelia exhales slowly, noting the way Theseus reacts to the very walls around them. It’s like his entire being bristles at the concept of sentient walls, as if he’s too sensitive for the very magic that clings to the castle itself. She doesn’t feel it the way he does, but his discomfort is so painfully obvious it’s almost suffocating. Hogwarts, she thinks, is alive in a way that unnerves some and comforts others. It doesn't comfort her, but she doesn't have the same… sensitivity as Theseus. And she wonders if that’s why everyone else here seems so bloody relaxed about it. They like it. They’re at home in this living thing. She wonders if Theo feels the same way.

She gives him a casual glance, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, but there's no mistaking the concern in her eyes that she tries so desperately to hide.Aurelia’s voice dipped into a low murmur, smooth and measured, “Be patient. Die Heimat wird bald nahe sein. Also halte dein Herz fest und deinen Verstand geschützt.”(Home will be close soon. So keep your heart steady and your mind shielded) 

The soft cadence of her german was steady, a shield and a promise. She dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, her gaze sliding back to Hyperion with calculated ease.

Their eyes locked. No words—only a silent accord. Time to go home. Rising in unison, the familiar rhythm between them felt almost inevitable.

Dumbledore’s voice, grand and hollow, droned on—a sermon on unity and acceptance. Amusing, really, how the man who preached open-mindedness was blind to his own prejudices. Magical affinities, after all, were just another excuse for wixen to cast judgment.

The air shifted as Roksana herded them from the hall. The cheers and farewells crashed around them, but Aurelia didn’t indulge in the spectacle. Let the crowd bask in their illusions. Cecilia, on the other hand, turned with a dazzling smile, her charm rippling through the onlookers. It was a simple thing, that smile—simple, and devastatingly effective. Aurelia’s lips curled. Yes, Cecilia and Genevieve truly were gems, polished and waiting to be wielded.

“Rion?” Aurelia quickly pauses, halting in her steps as she turns to the end of the hall, their exit, and sees the usual group of representatives waiting for them. But her eyes immediately zeroed in on a weathered man with bright eyes, gleaming silver like stars. She notices how Hyperion has stopped as well, staring at the man who looked to be on the verge of tears. 

“That your godfather?”

“Sirius Black, Lord of House Black… Yes.” Hyperion murmurs, humming a soft tune. She knows that look on his face. That expression of conflict, silently debating on what to do. Most people wouldn’t have noticed but two years of spending time with Hyperion in walls where he practically climbed out of pure curiosity and spite forced you to learn of his habits. 

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“As much as  I wish, it would be irksome to do so immediately. He already looks so emotional.” Hyperion sighs, “I better try to calm him down.”

“Best you do. Try smiling—on second thought, don’t. That might make him cry.” Aurelia snickers, “Try waving.”

Hyperion did just that, lazily waving at Lord Black.

Aurelia’s lips nearly curled into a scoff at the sight of the once-feared fugitive, now a lord, unraveling before his newly found heir. She felt a flicker of something close to envy for Hyperion—until she imagined the weight of Lord Black’s suffocating devotion. Too clingy. Too controlling. Her mother, at least, had never clung so tightly. No, Mildrith Avery loved her, but from a careful distance.

The thought of her mother tightened something in Aurelia’s chest. She swallowed it down, her gaze sharpening. Mildrith was undoubtedly still in Iceland—strong, enduring, as ever. The woman who had shielded her from her father’s cruelty, who endured humiliation when he condemned her for birthing a dark witch. A quiet woman, yes, but one who knew when to act. When her father’s wrath boiled over, it was Mildrith who took Aurelia’s hand and fled, though even her family offered only a fleeting refuge.

Hogwarts had been a cage of whispered slurs and cold stares. Slytherin, of course—how fitting. And Philippa, her illegitimate half-sister and bitter adversary, would have likely joined the tormentors, relishing Aurelia’s misery. But Mildrith had shattered that fate, spiriting Aurelia away to Iceland’s chill, where a cousin opened the door to Durmstrang. A new path, a colder, harder one—but hers alone to walk.

“Lia?” Genevieve whispers, “Lia, focus. Something’s happened.”

Aurelia immediately stiffens, her mind snapping out of the haze of her usual messy family thoughts. She doesn’t need to look long to see the change—Hyperion. He’s an arm’s length away from Lord Black, his face unreadable. The usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the cocky charm, completely gone. It’s unsettling. She can feel the shift, the way the air around them thickens. It wasn’t just his expression—it was everything. Abbott and Moon are talking fast, their anxiety practically radiating off them.

“Lia, Vivi!”

Theo’s voice breaks through, barely registering as he stops beside them, out of breath. She glances at him, vaguely annoyed that he’s not even trying to hide his discomposure. “Fucking hell, I could feel his magic from the great hall!”

Her body responds before her mind catches up—she flinches, the raw, untamed magic clawing at the walls, a beast desperate to break free. The sensation is almost physical, like the walls themselves are caving in. She can’t help but take a step back, instinctively pulling the others with her.

(Hyperion Peverell. The first time she saw him, he was taking apart a clock like it was nothing. In seconds, that clock became something else entirely. That was the moment she knew: he wasn’t just strange. He was dangerous. He could destroy, create, remake. A volatile force that could bend reality to his will.)

“You know something.” Theo hisses, his tone sharp. “What the hell are you not telling me, Fawley?”

“Don’t call me that, Nott.” She spits the words out, the venom sharp, biting. She watches him—those twitching fingers of his. Every muscle in her body tenses. It’s a bad sign.

(Hermione Peverell. She remembers the first time she saw Hermione. Brilliant. Brilliant and sharp as a diamond, with a mind that could slice through any barrier. She was a walking library—every word from her mouth felt like it was straight from a grimoire.)

Aurelia’s mind sharpens, but Theo’s voice drags her back. She exhales, pushing away the unsettling thoughts. Theo’s part of the circle, she reminds herself. There’s no need to keep everything from him. But… with Hyperion on the edge of chaos, things are different.

“Hermione announced she was coming here.”

A beat.

“I beg your fucking pardon?!”

The surprise in Theo’s voice barely registers; her thoughts are already elsewhere. She’s thinking about the Peverells. The real Peverells. Not like the Fawleys.

(The first time she saw Hyperion wrath—The way he stood there, watching the Falkners wail over the son that dared speak ill of Hermione. How Leopold Falkner thought it would be wise to put his hands on Hermione without her consent. Aurelia remembers the wailing, the pleading, the mess of blood staining the floor.

All the while the boy’s murderer screamed as guards pinned her down—a vengeful lover, they said. A woman who descended to madness at the Falkner heir’s playboy nature. Hyperion had just sipped his wine, Hermione kept close to him. Calm. Controlled. Perfectly in control, as the life drained out of the Falkner boy beneath him. She had stood there, watching. Silent. Calculating. Every inch of her understanding how the world worked through their eyes. It was a game to Hyperion—one that left a lot of people dead, a lot of people broken.

And she’d never looked away.)

 The five were quick to hurry forward, rushing towards Hyperion’s side. Aurelia could feel the electricity flicking through the air, triggering her instincts as she quickly turned to Cecilia. “Get Theseus out of here—NOW!” 

Cecilia winces, but she doesn’t hesitate and takes Theseus’s hand, pulling him out of the castle before anyone could protest. Theseus Rowle was already hypersensitive to the castle. Hyperion’s magic layering over that would have caused a seizure or maybe some sort of anxiety attack. Nevertheless, the possibilities were dire and he needed to be extracted from the area quickly. 

“Rion, what happened?” Aurelia whispers, trying to calm him down. As expected, her efforts are futile and Hyperion continues to give the ministry officials the death stare. 

She can vaguely hear the officials and the professors arguing, but she tunes that out to listen to Hyperion. “Harry?”

“They have her.”

“What?”

“The ministry arrested Hermione.”

Aurelia can feel the world crumble.

(Aurelia remembers the first time Hyperion refers to her as aurea mea—my golden, his golden. It was a declaration of protection, of favor, of salvation.)

 Marvolo observed the Fawley girl’s attempts to pacify Peverell, though the effort was ultimately futile. The boy looked composed—expression schooled into perfect blankness—but only a fool would believe it. His fury was palpable, unraveling at the seams. The air itself crackled, thick with the biting cold of something ancient and uncontrolled. A volatile blend of ice and lightning surged outward, its presence intoxicating in its rawness. Marvolo had always appreciated power, but even he was not so arrogant as to ignore the warning signs. Peverell was at the edge of something… destructive.

“Harry—Harry, it's okay.” Black was quick to intervene, voice trembling from the sheer weight of conflicting emotions—relief, anger, barely contained desperation. The man was transparent in his intentions. He would soothe, placate, do whatever was necessary to keep his godson from turning that rage on him.

“I'll fix this, alright? I'll go to the Ministry myself and curse Fudge for even trying to go after your sister.”

A predictable move. Black’s loyalty had always been his weakness, a sentimentality Marvolo had long learned to manipulate. The man had colluded with him without hesitation, all for the sake of retrieving his godson. And now? Complications had already arisen. Black would not risk losing the boy again, not when the Ministry had proven itself a direct threat.

“Lord Black—” Moon tried, ever the diplomat.

“Enough of you! What the bloody hell do you mean that Hermione Peverell was arrested on the spot? On what fucking charges?!”

Black’s fury exploded outward, his magic flaring in violent response, intertwining seamlessly with Peverell’s. A dual force of outrage and something far darker. Something lethal.

Marvolo exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the Ministry officials, studying them in turn. Their unease was evident—flickering glances, barely restrained flinches. They knew precisely what kind of danger they had walked into.

“Yes,” he murmured, tone measured, precise. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, ensuring his displeasure was understood. “I would like to know that as well. As I recall, Hermione Peverell was not declared missing—she formally transferred out of Hogwarts. And unless the Ministry has rewritten the law overnight, I do not recall her committing any crime.”

He already had his suspicions. The Ministry had long since proven itself incompetent, but incompetence alone was not enough to explain such a reckless decision. This was targeted. Deliberate.

“My sister hasn’t stepped on British soil for two years.”

The shift in tone was… unexpected.

Marvolo had heard Hyperion Peverell speak before, not even a week prior. The boy’s voice had been smooth then—suave, charming, pitched just high enough to carry an air of mischievous amusement. A carefully cultivated performance.

But now?

Now, Peverell’s voice was low, rough, unpolished. A blade no longer hidden in its sheath. He wasn’t bothering to disguise the threat. No need for masks when one is ready to kill.

It was fascinating.

And more importantly—dangerous.

“Uhm—we—” Viviana Moon stutters, “It's—”

“This is the second time it has already happened. First, it was Aurelia and me. Now my sister?” Peverell laughs. A performance, undoubtedly. The amusement is too sharp at the edges, too practised. His fingers rake through his hair with the kind of deliberate ease that suggests anything but ease. His teeth—gritted, not bared in any genuine display of humour—betray him.

“Miss Moon, it would be best if you could defend your Ministry properly because this is just getting ridiculous.” His grin widens, but Marvolo recognises it for what it is—a predator flashing its teeth. The boy plays his role well. Too well.

“Your attempts to make international connections might as well be futile, given your Ministry’s tendency to arrest students from different schools.”

There it is. The first strike.

“Mister Peverell—”

“Right now, I’m not speaking to you as a student, Miss Moon.” The boy’s voice is smooth but firm, layered with the weight of something far beyond his years. “I speak to you as Lord Peverell, who has now been inconvenienced twice.”

Marvolo watches as Moon visibly stiffens, her expression a fascinating blend of indignation and thinly veiled unease.

“This is offensive,” Peverell continues, not relenting, “and an embarrassment to your Ministry, which is already the laughing-stock of the political world due to your narrow-minded views.” The eye-roll that follows is deliberately disrespectful, perhaps one of the most contemptuous gestures Marvolo has ever seen. A touch excessive, though effective in its execution. A carefully calculated insult.

Moon flushes deep red, caught between fury and humiliation. Peverell scoffs, arms crossing in a show of casual defiance as his gaze sharpens, pinning her in place.

“I’d like to inform you that my sister is a student of Beauxbatons,” he adds, voice measured but lethal. “This isn’t merely a matter concerning our school but also Headmistress Maxime.”

And there it is—the second strike. The precision of a duellist, each verbal cut placed with intention.

Julius Abbott pales instantly, the colour draining from his face at the mention of yet another prestigious school. The ramifications of the Ministry’s blunder settle upon his shoulders, heavy and inescapable.

Unfortunate.

Marvolo has no particular fondness for the Ministry, nor does he care for their diplomatic standing beyond how it serves his own ends. However, converting potential allies into enemies so carelessly is inefficient. A waste of resources. If Barty’s intelligence is accurate—and it always is—then Hermione Peverell is currently the favoured daughter of Beauxbatons. A prodigy. A girl who has dominated nearly every competition she has entered in the past two years, save for when her only true competitor was her own brother.

The Peverells, it seems, have a habit of being indispensable. Now, with the Ministry having so brazenly offended both, Beauxbatons will undoubtedly distance itself, just as Durmstrang might. A severed connection that may prove difficult—if not impossible—to mend.

Marvolo exhales slowly, his gaze flickering between the boy and the Ministry officials, already weighing the possible outcomes.

Hyperion Peverell had played his hand masterfully. And Marvolo was beginning to wonder just how far he was willing to take the game.

“Rion—Theo.” Fawley chides, her tone sharp with warning.

Marvolo turns his attention to the Nott heir, who radiates the same unbridled fury as Peverell. However, there is a distinct difference between them—one that is both fascinating and telling. Nott is utterly unrestrained, his rage on full display, lacking even the slightest inclination to conceal his murderous intent. If left unchecked, he would no doubt launch himself at the two officials standing before them, tearing through them without hesitation.

“Theodore—Morgana’s tits, calm the fuck down.” Fawley snaps, her irritation only fuelling the tension. “Let Harry handle it.”

“To hell with that!” Nott spits back, his eyes burning with an eerie glow that sends a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd.

Marvolo observes with mild intrigue as Severus steps forward, his expression taut with warning. “Mister Nott, I implore you to settle down!” Snape snarls, though even he looks wary of the young man’s volatile magic.

“You can shove your authority up your arse and fuck off.” Nott’s glare shifts with lethal precision to Moon and Abbott, his voice a razor-edged snarl. “What the absolute fuck is going on in your empty heads? Hermione hasn’t done shit to your bloody Ministry, and I know for a fact that she’s the last person who would commit a fucking crime.”

Marvolo blinks. Well. That was certainly a colourful vocabulary.

“Theodore Nott!” Severus bellows, the sharp reprimand nearly lost beneath the collective shock of such vulgar language.

“Mister Nott—”

“That’s Heir Nott to you.”

Marvolo notes the way Abbott grits his teeth at the correction, though he manages to compose himself before speaking again. “Heir Nott, we do not appreciate such language. Especially—”

“Neither do we appreciate you unjustly arresting Hermione!”

A valid point, albeit delivered with unnecessary theatrics.

“Theodore.”

The single word—soft yet commanding—halts the onslaught of rage instantly. Peverell does not need to raise his voice. He does not even need to look directly at Nott for his presence to be felt. A mere glance is enough to silence him.

Marvolo watches closely, intrigued by the effortless way Peverell wields control. Satisfied that the outburst has been quelled, Peverell turns back to Moon and Abbott, his patience visibly thinning.

“We’ve wasted enough time.” His voice is measured, but there is no mistaking the authority laced within it. “Just tell me the charges, and I’ll handle it.”

Moon swallows thickly. “Lord Peverell—”

“If you don’t comply right now, I’ll simply inform our Headmistresses and have them speak with the ICW about your misconduct.” The shift in his tone is subtle but effective. No longer merely irritated, but weary—disappointed, even. It is the tone of someone who has grown exasperated by incompetence, forced to deal with imbeciles who should have known better. Like a parent who has endured one tantrum too many. Marvolo finds the display remarkable.

“And Theo?” Peverell drawls, as if the matter is already decided. “Go get Ron. The walk will help you calm down.”

Marvolo’s lips twitch. Effortless. This boy continues to surprise him.

“Lord Peverell,” Marvolo calls out smoothly, extending his hand as though sealing an unspoken agreement. “If you wish to see your sister immediately, I will gladly take you to her. It would be best if you heard the details directly rather than await a messenger. Perhaps it would also be prudent to leave your companions here whilst we deal with this matter.”

Peverell meets his gaze, assessing him with the same quiet calculation Marvolo had come to expect from him. There is no hesitation—only a moment of measured observation—before the young lord nods.

“Alright.” Then, he turns to his little entourage. “Aurea mea… stay here for a bit, alright? Make sure Theo doesn’t end up punching anyone. Get Ron so he can meet with Mione once I get her… Then just stick to Roksana.”

Marvolo watches with interest as Peverell pauses, his mind clearly sorting through additional details before continuing.

“And have Theseus placed somewhere quiet. So he won’t be overwhelmed. Maybe have him sit by the lake and meditate.”

“Noted.” Fawley whispers, her expression carefully schooled. “Make sure Hermione is alright.”

Peverell does not so much as blink.

“I’ll drown the Auror who arrested her, and if it was your arrogant cousin, I’ll dangle her by her legs and drop her headfirst onto the floor.” The words are delivered with such deadpan finality that Marvolo nearly smirks. They make no effort to conceal the conversation. Predictable. Arrogant. Deliberate.

“Now, Harry, my boy, that is inappropriate.” Dumbledore frowns, finally deigning to intervene.

Marvolo is vaguely surprised the man had remained silent for so long.

Peverell clicks his tongue, barely sparing the old man a glance.

“Kindly… fuck off, Headmaster. This is a family matter, and you are in no way involved.” With that, he steps away from his little group, already separating himself from them with the ease of someone accustomed to leading. “Let’s go.”

“Harry—”

“Sirius, stop dallying.”

Black brightens at once, all but vibrating with energy as he eagerly follows his godson. He does not hesitate, does not so much as glance at the others. It is almost disgraceful—how utterly transparent his joy is—but Marvolo does not fault him for it. He has seen the lengths Sirius Black is willing to go for his child.

And, really… it is rather remarkable.

They apparate to the ministry with ease, just as Peverell lands with grace that was mastered to perfection. He dusts off the nonexistent grime on his robes, running his fingers through his hair. 

“Germany's ministry still looks better than this.” Peverell hums. 

“Have you visited many Ministry buildings?” Marvolo inquires, tone light—conversational, even.

“Berlin, Paris, Moscow, Athens, and MACUSA.” Peverell moves through the crowd effortlessly, as if he has traversed this path countless times before. He does not stop, does not hesitate in his direction. Interesting. He knows exactly where he is going. Yet, despite his unwavering pace, he glances back at Marvolo, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Have you?”

“I have only been to MACUSA and the French Ministry at this point.”

“A shame.” Peverell hums, the ease in his voice betraying no real disappointment. “Berlin’s Ministry is remarkable. The architecture alone is worth the visit.” He laughs, smooth and unbothered, falling into small talk as though this were nothing more than a casual stroll. “I’m surprised you’ve limited yourself to so few prospects. Britain already has stable connections with the French and MACUSA.”

Marvolo’s lips curve slightly. How transparent.

“Why would you say that?”

Peverell merely smiles. Not the polite, meaningless gesture of a socialite, nor the cutting smirk of someone trying to prove a point. No, it is something sharper—amused.

“Let’s not pretend I’m a fool, yes? It’s getting tiresome.”

Marvolo exhales a quiet chuckle. “Then I shan’t.”

Peverell is not easily provoked. Good.

“Was it you who dreamed me a mad child begging for attention? No, I think not.” Peverell does not break stride, nor does he flinch at the weight of the conversation. His tone remains light, even detached. His words are measured, deliberate. Marvolo recognises the restraint—an acknowledgment of anger without the foolish impulse to act upon it. “Though I am quite resentful for what you did to my parents, I am not particularly attached. We live, we move on… and besides, what would be the point of revenge when I would gain nothing from it?”

A calculated answer. A deeply pragmatic one.

Marvolo exhales a quiet laugh.

“Again, unexpected.”

He had not anticipated this level of cold detachment from the child born of noble sacrifice. The golden boy, the supposed hero, the child who had survived the wrath of Lord Voldemort by the sheer strength of his mother’s love. And yet… this? This was not the naïve, self-sacrificing boy he had once imagined. No, no… Hyperion Peverell was not the sentimental fool the world had expected him to become. And that last statement… hah!

Peverell sounded so much like a Slytherin that Marvolo could not help but feel something akin to pride—though, truly, he could not fathom why.

“I’m not that brash child anymore,” Peverell sighs, tilting his head, eyes locking onto Marvolo’s with an amusement that should not belong in the gaze of a child he had once tried to kill.

Those eyes—so strikingly green—so very familiar… Marvolo wonders if he should be unsettled. Or if he should be intrigued.

“We're here,” Black mutters, “I'll have them summon the head auror and… what will you two do?” 

“Wait.” 

“I'll just be here, padfoot.” Peverell flashes his godfather a smile, charming and sweet. And like a fool, Black seems to forget all of that cruelty from mere moments ago. Truly, love makes you blind. 

Black scurries of rather quickly, eager to grab Scrimgeour by the ear and demand answers about his pseudo-goddaughter. Perhaps curse someone along the way. 

“What will you do once your sister has been released?” Marvolo tilts his head slightly, feigning idle curiosity while observing every flicker of expression that crosses Peverell’s face. He does not ask simply for the sake of conversation—he is probing, assessing the young man’s priorities, his methodology.

Peverell does not hesitate.

“Take her back to Hogwarts to meet with Ron, leave, then perhaps inform our headmistresses about this event. This can’t go unpunished.”

Decisive. Immediate. Marvolo notes how Peverell speaks as though his sister’s release is inevitable, not even entertaining the possibility of failure. It is not arrogance—no, it is something far more dangerous. Absolute certainty.

“And what of the charges?”

“Whatever these idiots spout, it’ll be bullshit anyway. My sister isn’t a felon.” Peverell exhales sharply, rolling his eyes as he drags a hand through his hair. The gesture is careless, but Marvolo does not miss the tension in his fingers, the barely restrained frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Hyperion Peverell is angry. But more than that—he is calculating.

Fascinating.

“What about you?” Peverell asks, turning the scrutiny back onto him. “What shall you do once we depart?”

Marvolo hums, glancing away briefly as though considering the question, though he already knows the answer. “Tend to this mess, most likely. Our Ministry is already in shambles.” He allows a scowl to form, permitting himself to display a fraction of his disdain for the incompetence surrounding them.

Peverell scoffs. “Just run for Minister. It’s easier to deal with the problem that way.”

Marvolo stills.

It is not the suggestion itself that unsettles him, but rather the way Peverell looks at him when he says it. There is no jest in his tone, no trace of sarcasm. Only expectation.

Something unfamiliar curls in Marvolo’s chest—something sharp and uncomfortable. He has never cared for the expectations of others, never been burdened by the weight of someone else’s regard. And yet… Hyperion Peverell is different.

“Is the Golden Boy suggesting that I run for Minister?” His voice is smooth, deliberate. The question is not what it seems.

Are you truly suggesting that I—Lord Voldemort—should govern this country?

Peverell appraises him, eyes sweeping over him with an unsettling level of assessment before he merely huffs, crossing his arms.

“Better you than Fudge.”

Marvolo stares at him, calculating. Perhaps…

“Harry!” Black returns with a confused and angered Scrimgeour in tow. “There's an issue.”

“Another one?” Marvolo sighs. 

“Yes,” Scrimgeour looks grim, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “I was not informed about the two incidents, neither did I order for the arrest of your sister, Lord Peverell. I have checked, and she is indeed in our custody. Currently, Hermione Peverell is in a detainment unit in the building.” 

“Then who the hell had my sister arrested? Mine and Aurelia's issue was caused by familial rivalry but Hermione was arrested, for Hecate's sake.”

“I understand. But I swear that this has nothing to do with me. I have discerned what unit she is currently detained in. If you would follow me…” Scrimgeour clears his throat, quickly leading them towards another section of their department. 

“I'm going to end up killing someone.” 

Marvolo blinks, startled by the sudden parseltongue. Though, from the looks of it, Peverell doesn't seem to be aware that he was muttering in hisses rather than any understandable human language. He swallows thickly, shaking his head. 

“Try to restrain yourself.” He hisses back. 

Peverell looks him dead in the eye. 

“Make me.”

Chapter Text

Farewell, But Not Forever.

Neville had known that Hermione was running off to Hogwarts to chase after Hyperion’s utter bullshittery. And honestly? Stupid. Completely, undeniably stupid. There was absolutely no point in trying to persuade Hyperion out of something once he had latched onto it like a particularly rabid terrier. The last time someone tried, Luna—the poor thing or not—had managed to redirect his obsession with the mechanics of Apparition to portal creation. That, naturally, ended in absolute disaster. Because Hyperion, in all his genius, had essentially chopped his own arm off.

So yeah. Neville had zero faith in Hermione’s ability to talk him out of whatever idiocy he was currently entertaining.

What he hadn’t expected, though, was for his Etheris to start blaring red instead of its usual calm blue tint. His frown deepened as he grabbed the crystal, and not even a second later, Ron’s name popped up with a message.

Neville just stared at it.

Blinking, he immediately searched for Ron’s link on the Ether system. The moment the connection established, Ron’s obnoxious face filled the projection—looking equally as horrified as Neville felt—before the link passed.

Neville inhaled deeply. And then—

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK DO YOU MEAN HERMIONE WAS ARRESTED?!”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

Ron’s voice was as loud and aggressive as always, but there was a tremor to it that immediately made Neville pinch the bridge of his nose. Fucking wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

He knew coming back to Hogwarts was going to be a shitshow. He just didn’t have the patience to deal with it.

Theo had already transferred back for his heirship, and that alone was enough of a problem. Having Theo and Ron back at Hogwarts meant that there were less people for Hyperion to fixate on, and while Aurelia and the others were competent enough to keep the compulsive bastard distracted, Neville knew—deep in his exhausted, overburdened soul—that two watchers were not enough to prevent him from committing mass murder.

Aurelia and Genevieve?

Yeah, they were not going to fucking survive this.

“Y’know…” Neville lets out a long-suffering sigh. “He used a fucking enchanted mirror. He had me bloody use an enchanted mirror to call him today because he was not going to let anyone see his bloody Etheris.” 

“To be fair, he had a right go at me for whippin’ out my etheris in front of Zabini that one time. Lucky for me, Blaise didn’t give a toss.” Ron murmurs, watching as the lines that represented his voice went up and down with every word he spoke.“But seriously—Theo just told me Hermione got nicked the second she stepped foot in the Ministry. I’ve got no clue what the bloody hell’s goin’ on, but Harry’s livid! Had to get Theseus outta the castle ‘cause his magic was goin’ mental.”

“Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. This is exactly why I keep tellin’ you idiots to stay the fuck away from that place—‘cause all it does is cause problems. You hear me, Ronald? Prob-lems.” Neville practically spat out, rolling his eyes and trying to tug his hand away from one of his rather clingy plants. “But nooo, I say ‘Go to Ilvermorny! Come to Castelobruxo!’—but do you listen? Course you don’t. You stay there, and darling fucking Teddy thinks it’s a great idea to go back. I am just so unbelievably proud of you both.”

“I missed when you were shy.” Ron murmurs. 

“Choke on a cock.”

“Rude!” 

“You sound like Harry.” 

“You arse!” 

Neville rolled his eyes, sighing as he weighed his options. In the process, his hand smacked into one of his plants, which promptly retaliated by latching onto his sleeve. He cursed at it in Portuguese, prying its stubborn vines off with practiced ease.

He had choices, technically. He could either run off to Britain and willingly throw himself into whatever shitstorm was currently brewing over there, or…

He could stay in Castelobruxo, tend to his plants, finish his research paper, and actually relax for once in his godforsaken life.

Honestly, his thesis did need attention. His professors would be downright disappointed if he showed them half-baked results on his study of healing arts, and that kind of work required an extensive amount of research. And time. And effort.

Yeah. No. Hard pass.

"Yeah, deal with that shit yourselves."

“WHAT?! NEV—”

With the kind of ruthless efficiency he prided himself on, he shut the Etheris off, cutting the connection before Ron could launch into a tirade. The crystal immediately resumed its cool blue hue, humming faintly in his palm. Peace. Finally.

Or at least, it would have been, if another call hadn’t immediately pushed through the link.

Neville groaned, already regretting his entire existence, and jabbed the Etheris with barely restrained irritation.

“Neville…”

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hi, Luna.”

"Cher frère... Quel plaisir de te voir."(Brother dear… it's a pleasure to see you.)

Hermione Peverell sat in her holding cell as if she was merely sitting in a waiting room. Her calm exterior was almost unnerving, dark brown eyes tinged with a hint of silver in the middle peers at them, expectant and almost demanding in a way that visibly disturbed the aurors that were tasked with guarding her. 

"Ma douce sœur, je suis vraiment désolé d'avoir mis si longtemps. On ne m'a informé qu'au moment de notre départ. Depuis combien de temps es-tu retenue ici?"(My sweet sister, I am so sorry for taking so long. I was only informed when we were about to depart. How long have you been kept here?) Harry grimaces, watching his sister intently who crosses her arms and frowns at him. Internally wincing at her displeasure, he immediately moved to placate her. "Ich kümmere mich darum und sorge dafür, dass du freikommst, okay? Sirius wird uns sehr helfen, also hab bitte etwas Geduld."(I'll handle this issue and have you released, alright? Sirius will be of great help to us so please be patient.)

"Prends ton temps, Hyperion. Ce n'est pas comme si j'étais pressée. Mais occupe-toi plutôt de ces deux-là. Je suis presque sûre qu’elle est une parente de notre chère Lia. Elle a été plutôt brutale avec moi... Je crois que mon bras est déjà en train de marquer."(Take your time, Hyperion. It's not as if I am in a rush. But do tend to those two over there. I'm quite sure she's a relative of our darling Lia. She was rather rough with me... I think my arm is already bruising.) Hermione drawls, gesturing to an auror that Hyperion recognises to be the same Fawley that had attacked them upon arrival. 

"Hermione, ça va? Lequel t’a fait mal? Montre-moi."(Hermione, are you okay? Who hurt you? Show me.) Sirius practically snaps, almost startling the siblings. 

Harry hums, head tilting as he watches Sirius, keenly aware of the way Hermione falters under the weight of his godfather’s concern. Fascinating. Did she truly think herself exempt from Sirius’ affections? As if her mere association with him—her brother—wasn’t enough to make the man latch onto her like some stubborn, overprotective parasite.

“I’m alright, Sirius.” Her voice is softer now, her smile gentle—too gentle, too fleeting—before her gaze sharpens once more, shifting to him.

“Hyperion.”

“Hermione.” Honestly? He’s exhausted already. “Patience. Gaunt is interrogating Scrimgeour about your charges.”

“Gaunt? Lord Slytherin?” The disbelief in her voice is almost amusing, her eyes widening—just a fraction, barely perceptible—before her jaw goes slack for a split second. Then, like clockwork, she shuts it, schooling her features into something more composed. She clears her throat, sending him a look—confusion bleeding into it, uncertainty lacing her expression.

“Lord Slytherin is helping us.”

“He’s been hospitable.” The words leave him in a lazy drawl, his attention flickering back to where Gaunt stands, speaking with Scrimgeour. Grim expression, sharp posture, every movement deliberate.

It’s… fascinating. Voldemort has improved. Significantly. The difference is striking, almost jarring, like watching a corrupted script rewrite itself into something eerily efficient.

Harry watches him for a moment longer, mind buzzing, thoughts skittering like restless insects.

Leaving was the right choice.

It had to be.

Not that he’d had much of a choice to begin with.

But still. Yes. Yes. Leaving was good.

He shifts, uncomfortable, gaze darting, cataloguing. Everything, everyone. The way Aurelia’s auror cousin hovers, practically breathing down Hermione’s neck like she’s just waiting for an excuse—just one excuse—to pounce.

And a part of him—a big part, most of him, really—wants to hex her into next week.

It would be so easy. Harry has so many weapons, so many options. Tools, really—nothing inherently evil about them. Just creations, things he’s built. Perfected. Others still waiting for the final touch, the right moment. Magefire is a good gun. Not his best, but a fine prototype, one of many.

He wonders, just for a second, how it would feel to power it with a Sectumsempra. To fire it like a bullet, watch the spell carve through flesh the way it was meant to. Intended to.

Harry blinks, thought dissipating the second Gaunt moves into view. Instinct pulls his entire body toward him, shifting away from Hermione without a second’s hesitation. His head tilts, smile curling onto his lips, expectant.

Gaunt sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Auror Lauren Fawley inspected her upon arrival and found an item that is supposedly illegal. Fawley claims that Miss Peverell over here brought a Dark artefact into the country with malicious intent.”

Ah.

Harry keeps smiling.

He is going to murder someone.

No, no—murder is crude. Messy.

He’s going to experiment. That’s what he’s going to do

He’s going to test his prototypes, push the limits of magic and metal, watch them work—watch the bodies fall, rot, decay with every single bullet he crafts, every ounce of magic he pours into them.

His fingers twitch.

Yes. That will do.

Pain. Blinding, unjust pain. His head throbs, the impact sharp enough to pull a startled yelp from his lips. Betrayal! Treachery! His head snaps toward his assailant, only to find—Hermione.

Once seated in all her elegant refinement, she had now forsaken grace entirely in favour of—violence. Violence against her own flesh and blood! His jaw drops, scandalised, affronted, wounded by this cruel and unprovoked assault.

The betrayal sinks into his bones.

“Mione!” he gasps, horror-stricken.

Hermione narrows her eyes, expression promising nothing but doom. “I know what’s going on in that head of yours, Hyperion Peverell. Don’t. You. Dare.” Each word is punctuated with growing menace before she lunges—oh, Merlin, she lunges—nails pinching his cheek with the precision of a seasoned torturer.

Harry jerks away, clutching his abused cheek as if she’s struck him a thousand times over, as if she has committed an unforgivable act of cruelty against his very soul.

“Traitor!” he hisses, wounded, betrayed, devastated beyond reason.

Hermione groans, long-suffering, rubbing at her temples like he’s the problem here. The audacity! “Just get me out, Hyperion.”

The exasperation in her voice stabs deeper than her betrayal.

How dare she?

How dare she be so dismissive of his suffering, of his boundless efforts to ensure her comfort, his tireless dedication to fixing this mess? And yet, she dares—nay, she has the gall—to act like he’s the inconvenience?

Unbelievable. Utterly unforgivable.

“You hit me!” 

“And I will do it again if you keep being a brat!”

“I'm lord to our house!”

“And I'm older than you!” 

Harry gasps, scandalised once more. “Do not say such things sister. We cannot let the public known you are becoming a spinster!” 

Hermione gapes, offended and already willing to strike him like promised. Oh the horror! What kind of sister she is! 

Someone clears their throat, rudely interrupting Hyperion’s entirely justified horror at his sister’s blatant violence. His head snaps towards Gaunt again. The man is handsome—this, he can acknowledge—but now is not the time to dwell on such things. Priorities.

He straightens his back, schools his expression into something appropriately pleasant, and offers Gaunt a charming smile before shifting his gaze to Sirius—who is shaking with suppressed laughter. Amazing. Splendid. Spectacular. Truly, this day just keeps getting better.

His mood improves significantly at such reactions. Satisfaction hums through him as he tucks his hands behind his back, his voice slipping into something soft, almost wistful. “Apologies. I get carried away when I see my sister. It… Tis been two months since we last saw each other.” A sigh, carefully crafted, full of melancholy.

Sympathetic looks are thrown his way.

Idiots.

“Understandable,” Gaunt says, ever the reasonable man, “but we must address this situation now.”

He turns to Hermione, expectant. “Miss Peverell, what was the artefact that Auror Fawley claims to be dark?”

Hermione huffs, irritated, her gaze flicking towards the so-called auror in question. Judgement radiates from her, sharp and cutting, her condescension barely concealed. “Dark, not dangerous,” she corrects, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “I brought something called a Nocturne Bell—that’s the English translation. It resembles an ordinary bell and is often worn as jewellery or tucked into a pocket. It alerts the owner of anyone approaching them, particularly those with malicious intent.”

Harry idly searches his memory for the artefact in question. Ah. Cloche Nocturne. A fascinating little trinket they’d acquired in France last year—one that he had, of course, improved. Left in its original state, it would merely ring when someone approached, which was boring. So, naturally, he had enhanced it. His version would not only ring—it would vibrate violently and heat up should someone with hostile intent dare approach Hermione.

“And it just so happens,” Hermione continues, her tone dripping with irritation, “that when Auror Fawley over there approached me, it activated.” A slow blink. A scathing look. Her lips curl in disdain. “So forgive me if I was wary of you from the moment we met when such warnings proved true.”

The woman sputters, face darkening with outrage, and then—ah, there it is. Predictable.

“How dare you, you mudb—”

Harry tilts his head, watching her with detached curiosity.

“Watch your words before I cut your tongue out, Fawley.”

Silence.

Fawley goes rigid, and Harry smiles, mild and unassuming. She does not want to know the many ways he could remove her tongue from her mouth.

Because he could.

Easily.

“And to clarify this, Head Auror—”

The warmth, the amusement, the carefully cultivated mischief—gone. Just like that.

“The Cloche Nocturne is categorised as light magic in Britain, given that it operates on intent-based enchantments.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking towards Fawley with something akin to pity—though, really, it’s just thinly veiled disgust. “Not only did Auror Fawley come after my sister with clear, unambiguous ill intent, but she also arrested her without cause.” A pause. A moment of silence to let the weight of her failure sink in. “Her assessment was wrong, her assumptions terrible. Tell me, has the Auror Department learned nothing from the absolute disaster that was my godfather’s case?”

Scrimgeour goes exceptionally pale.

As he should.

The unjust imprisonment of Sirius Black is still fresh in the public’s mind, a stain on the Ministry’s already pitiful reputation. The Dark faction was furious—and rightfully so. A Lord of one of the oldest, most prestigious Houses in Britain, thrown into Azkaban without a trial. It had been pathetic. And now? If word got out that the Auror Department had, once again, wrongfully arrested someone from a prominent family—one with significant international connections, no less—then, well…

The Ministry might not survive it.

“Oh, right… Right,” Scrimgeour stammers, visibly scrambling to salvage what’s left of his dignity. “Release her! Now! No need for any documents—”

“I think some documentation is required,” Gaunt interjects, ever the reasonable man, smiling in a way that is not at all friendly. “Best you keep a record of aurors who display… biased and unjust tendencies, Rufus. It’ll assist in disciplinary measures. Training programs, perhaps.”

“I second that,” Sirius grits out, eyes burning with something very close to murderous intent.

Scrimgeour swallows hard, his gaze flickering between them. Three of the most powerful Houses in Britain—aligned against him.

He does not dare argue.

He wouldn’t survive it if he did.

Hermione is released with no further issues. 

He'd have to tell Aurelia about her cousin’s failure and punishment. It would delight her so. 

“Ow!” And now Hermione was back to assaulting him. “What is wrong with you woman?!” 

“You! You trouble-attracting, idiot!” Hermione promptly spat, “I knew that looks on your face. Don't even think of cursing someone here, in public no less.”

“Why did you even come here?”

“Because I knew you'd cause trouble.”

“Your case was the trouble!” 

Hermione huffs, refusing to meet his eye before she detaches herself from him, unhooking their arms like she was about to abandon him. How cruel! 

She switches off to attaching herself to Sirius, arms locked and walking in front of him. “Let's go Sirius. My brother is too stupid to comprehend the worries of an older sibling.”

Sirius laughs, “I understand perfectly.”

Harry pouts. Because, truly, what else is there to do when his traitor of a sister and shameless godfather abandon him so cruelly? Off they go, walking toward the Apparition point, leaving him to suffer alone. Abandoned. Forsaken. Forgotten.

Scoffing, he runs a hand through his hair in a valiant attempt to fix it, despite knowing full well it’s a futile endeavour. But! Since when has impossibility ever stopped him?

“Your sister is more… aggressive than I expected,” Gaunt observes, his gaze flicking toward him with far too much curiosity. Oh? So much for the ever-elusive Slytherin mask.

“She’s only like this with me,” Harry drawls, shaking his head as if Hermione’s betrayal is some tragic burden he must bear. “Don’t worry, she’s not about to assault anyone else.”

Gaunt hums. “I hope not.”

“Sure.” Harry waves a hand dismissively. “Are we done here? Best I return to Hogwarts and pick up the others. Kat—Professor Morozova and Professor Szekeres have most likely arrived already.” He turns to Gaunt, watching him carefully, a bit irked but not too displeased. He’s simply in a hurry, that’s all.

“Unless you wish to escalate the matter, then no. We no longer need to remain here.”

“Oh—Of course I want to escalate this.” Harry grins, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “The same fucking Auror lost her mind when Aurelia and I first arrived. I’ll take it up with my headmistress—she can deal with it. No need to involve myself in this senseless drivel… unless, of course, I can dump the issue on someone else.”

“I recommend you hand it over to your godfather,” Gaunt muses, chuckling like this is all great amusement. “I don’t doubt he’d love a crack at the Auror Department after his own experience.”

“Oh, great idea. Let’s sic the man who spent twelve years in Azkaban on the very people who put him there. Brilliant.” Harry clicks his tongue, smirking. “Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to know why my godfather is acting… strangely cooperative with you, would you?”

Gaunt’s expression remains maddeningly neutral. “You’d have to ask him that.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Fantastic.”

Gaunt only hums, as if he couldn’t possibly care less, clasping his hands behind his back. “Lord Peverell…”

“Hm?”

“Will you be returning to Britain next time?” Gaunt’s voice is too smooth, soft like he’s carefully soothing a cornered beast. Like he expects Harry to lash out.

A reasonable expectation, given how he might have lost his temper a little earlier. But it’s not like Hyperion is some ticking time bomb or anything! (Many, many people—including a certain someone from the other side of the world—would vehemently disagree.)

Harry tilts his head, considering.

What does Britain have for him? Sirius, maybe. But that’s about it. He could easily whisk Ron away, have him live with them at Peverell Manor. Theo can visit whenever he wants. Sirius might actually leave the country altogether if Harry asked. So… really. What’s the point of staying?

He crosses his arms, thinking.

“I don’t know,” he admits, flashing Gaunt a grin. “I have no reason to stay.”

And then, because he can, because the timing is perfect, he tilts his head just so and asks—

“Will you give me one?”

Gaunt freezes. Mouth opening as if to answer, eyes flickering with something infinitely interesting.

But he never gets the chance.

Because Harry is already apparating away, disappearing in a whirl of magic back to Hogsmeade.

Ronald Weasley knows full well that men—proper blokes—shouldn’t cry. Shouldn’t sob in front of people. Shouldn’t wail like some heartbroken old widow in a sappy romance novel.

But he is not a simple man!

He is a man whose masculinity is solid, unshakable—not as bloody fragile as his Great Aunt Muriel’s precious china set! So damn the world, damn expectations, because the moment Hermione pops up in the castle, alive and well, he’s already sobbing into her shoulder, clinging to her like she’s his last lifeline.

And if anyone so much as looks at him funny? He’ll absolutely go crying to Harry and have him deal with it.

“Oh… oh, Ronald. Stop crying, alright? It’s gonna be okay,” Hermione soothes, voice all soft and proper as she pats his back, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead while he wails into her shoulder.

He sniffs, vaguely aware that she’s talking a bit posher than usual. All elegant and refined, sort of like how Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass sound when they’re being all high and mighty.

“No, it’s not!” he whines, words muffled against her robes. “You’re abandoning me all over again! You and Harry are all legal siblings now, and I’m stuck here! How could you?”

“Ron—goodness.” Hermione sighs, a fond chuckle escaping her as she kisses the crown of his head. “You’re such a crybaby now. That used to be Neville.”

“Yeah, well, now he’s a bitch!” Ron wails, throwing his arms up dramatically before burying himself back into her embrace. “A mean and rude bitch!”

He already mourns for what once was—when Neville was all sweet and soft, looking at the world with wide, hopeful eyes.

Now? Now he’s all snark and sharp edges, glaring at people like they’re no more than dust under his bloody shoe.

“You guys left me here, all alone. They kept calling you names, and—and—” Ron felt like he was about to vomit, but Hermione quite literally slapping his back made him swallow immediately. He didn't really care that people were now watching him cry and sob. Nothing else matters now that he had both Hermione and Harry…

Speaking of Harry—

“YOU—YOU PRAT!” 

Harry struts back into the castle with Gaunt of all people in tow—ooh… yeah, that was concerning. Best not let that slip to Neville, or he’ll go off on another bloody tirade about their constant fuckery. Anyway—

“Why’s he crying?” Harry hums, suddenly hovering over Ron’s shoulder like some nosy little git.

Ron, in retaliation, buries his face further into Hermione’s neck and sniffles—because sod Harry, that’s why.

“He misses us, that’s all,” Hermione answers smoothly, all gentle and soothing like she’s not just abandoning him again.

“Oh! Yeah, he cried when I first got here.”

Ron snaps, head jerking up just to glare. “Fuck off!”

“Language!” Hermione scolds, shaking her head before letting out this long-suffering sigh like she’s exhausted by them both. “And behave. Stop fighting already, please? We’re in public, for goodness’ sake.”

“But you’re gonna leave again,” Ron whines, gripping her tighter, “and I’m not gonna see you two for who knows how long and—and—”

“And I can just pick you up for Yule and bring you back to the manor for the rest of winter break,” Harry cuts in, the smug little shit, grinning like he’s oh-so-clever. “Stop crying now, Won-Won.”

Ron elbows him right in the gut for that. Harry lets out a pained oof, groaning and grumbling curses under his breath. Serves him right.

“You better,” Ron sniffles, barely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out like a child—not that it’d be unwarranted. His complaint is cut short when Hermione presses a napkin to his face, dabbing at his tear-streaked and snot-ridden mess of a face. Not like he was all that concerned about it.

“What happened in the Ministry?” he mumbles, blinking at her.

“I’d like to know that too!”

Ron blinks, turning his head just in time to see Aurelia Fawley—who insists on being called Lia—marching toward them, the rest of the group trailing after her.

His arms tighten instinctively around Hermione. He can’t help it. It’s not like he’s mad at them, not really, but he can’t quite stop that ugly twist of resentment in his gut. These were the people who got to see Harry and Hermione all the time. The people who didn’t have to pretend they didn’t know them. Was it so wrong that he hated them for it, just a little?

“Mione?” Lia asks, a hand on Hermione’s arm, her frown soft but still there. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Lia,” Hermione assures her, voice light but sharp with something unspoken. “Though your cousin won’t be.”

Lia blinks. “Wait, what?”

Harry snorts, eyes flashing with something that’s probably barely-contained murder. “Your bitch cousin was the one who went gunning for Hermione—said she was carrying something dangerous. It was a fucking Cloche Nocturne.”

“A Nocturne Bell? Lauren arrested you for a bloody bell?” Lia snaps, looking properly aghast.

“What’s a Nocturne Bell?” Ron asks, scowling.

Genevieve—the nice one, the one he actually doesn’t mind—pipes up with an explanation, all patient and know-it-all in that way only Ravenclaws can be.

“A Nocturne Bell, or Cloche Nocturne, is a bell enchanted to alert the owner of any approaching individual. It’s light magic.” She sighs, shaking her head before glancing around, probably checking on—

Rowle and Vance?

Ron isn’t too sure about the younger two, but he does know that Rowle’s supposed to be super sensitive to magical outbursts. Lia mentioned once that Harry had the bloke meditating by the lake just to calm him down. Which, honestly? Sounds properly reasonable.

For once.

 “Ah… Ron, could you come here?” Genevieve gestures for him to come over. 

Ron, still very much confused, reluctantly loosens his grip on Hermione, though he makes sure to send her his best kicked puppy pout before stepping away. She barely spares him a glance, which is rude, but whatever. He approaches Genevieve instead, only for the girl to greet him with this soft, knowing smile—and yeah, that is unsettling.

Ron doesn’t trust it. At all. Why is she so insistent on pulling Hermione away? Why is she smiling at him like she knows something he doesn’t? And more importantly—

“Nott!”

Ron’s head snaps toward the sudden yell, instincts already screaming at him to pay attention. There they are—the usual suspects. Parkinson, Malfoy, Greengrass, Blaise. All of them looking like they’ve just witnessed a crime. Eyes wide, faces caught somewhere between bewildered, horrified, and just plain shocked.

Ron immediately clocks that something is wrong. He just doesn’t know what. And then he follows their line of sight—

—and oh.

His jaw drops. Because there—wrapped around Hermione like she’s his long-lost sibling—is Theo Nott.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Ron is beyond confused.

“Thank Morgana you’re okay…” Theo whispers, clinging onto Hermione like she’s about to vanish into thin air. Arms tight around her waist.

Hermione, frozen, just stands there—clearly just as lost as Ron—her hands hovering awkwardly over Theo’s back like she has no idea where to put them.

Ron is trying very hard to make sense of this. Really, he is. But—

“Erm… thank you for the concern, Theodore.” Hermione’s voice is polite, careful, even has that soft little smile to go with it—

But Ron’s brain is still buffering.

What the fuck is going on?

“Who did this to you? Who thought it was a good idea to fucking arrest you? Ath—Hermione—tell me.” Theo practically breathes out, like he ran a fucking mile to get to her. “My lady—”

“Theodore.” 

Ron stiffens. So does Genevieve. So does Aurelia. So does Hermione. So does Theo.

The whole bloody room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something massive to happen.

Harry just stares at Theo. Not glaring, not sneering—just watching. Like he’s weighing something really important in his head. His expression is completely blank, not a flicker of emotion, not a twitch out of place. And then, just as Ron’s about to explode from the tension, Harry smiles.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Theo swallows. Hard.

“Right,” he breathes out, stepping back from Hermione like he’s only just realised what he’s done. “I overstepped. Forgive me.”

Hermione, being the absolute saint that she is, smiles at him. Like Theo hasn’t just thrown Ron’s entire world into question. “It’s alright. You did nothing wrong.”

Ron begs to differ, but whatever.

“Alright!” Harry suddenly claps his hands, all charm and ease like he didn’t just send Theo into a near-existential crisis. “It’s been a long day. Our professors are waiting, and we must go.”

Ron bristles at that. Must you? He wants to desperately ask.

Harry, the smarmy git, barely gives him time to complain before he grabs Hermione’s hand, ruffles Ron’s hair—which is just rude—and smirks.

“I’ll kidnap you on Yule, and you can have your brothers pay the ransom.”

Ron scowls, swatting at his hand. “Please don’t.”

Harry snickers, completely unbothered. “Kidding. I’ll send an invite to the rest of your siblings. The manor gets empty when it’s just us two during winter break.” He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Be available by then, alright? I’ll cry if you aren’t.”

Ron squints. “Bet you’re an ugly crier.”

“Oh, most definitely.” Harry doesn’t even try to deny it. “Don’t I look hideous when I cry, sister dear?”

Hermione giggles, which—traitor—before nodding solemnly. “The most dreadful.”

And then, before Ron can even think about stopping her, she turns away from Harry’s grip, cups his cheek, and presses a quick, soft kiss to the other.

Ron falters. His throat tightens, and suddenly, his arms feel too heavy at his sides.

“Be well, Ron,” Hermione murmurs, her voice gentle, her gaze fond—and shit, this isn’t fair. “I’m sorry we couldn’t see each other for so long.”

He tries not to frown. Really, he does. But it’s hard.

“I know. I understand. You had to go.”

Harry sighs—already looking like he hates this as much as Ron does—before he grimaces and yanks Ron into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you with us.”

Ron sniffs, pressing his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “You can bring me along next time.”

And it’s not a question. It’s a demand. A fact.

Harry grins, the weight of his promise pressing into Ron’s ribs.

“I will.”

Ronald Weasley knows full well that men—proper blokes—shouldn’t cry. Shouldn’t sob in front of people. Shouldn’t wail like some heartbroken old widow in a sappy romance novel.

But he is not a simple man…

Chapter Text

Alone Among Friends.

The mechanism before him is flawed. A disappointment, really. A glorified heap of wasted potential. It refuses to function the way it’s supposed to, which, frankly, is the least it could do after all the effort he’s put in.

Mechanical and Magical—two entirely different concepts. Two bitter enemies, really, locked in an eternal feud where one always ends up throttling the other. Usually, it’s magic that loses, short-circuiting everything into sentient madness, because of course it does. Nothing like an enchanted kettle developing a personality and attempting to stage a rebellion in the middle of tea time. Utterly deplorable. Infuriating, even. And yet, here he is, having to fix the mess like some underpaid maintenance worker of reality itself.

The best course of action? Strip the electricity out entirely and replace it with magic. A logical solution, except for the minor inconvenience of magic being temperamental and most conduits crumbling under the sheer force of it. Crystals are the usual victims, their fragile little existences shattered by a touch too much magic. But, well. Hyperion has never been a man bound by limitations, has he? He’s a madman with Death itself as his ever-faithful benefactor. If he can’t leverage that kind of privilege for his current fixation, then really, what is the point?

“Careful with those aetherites, little death.” A cold hand wraps around the back of his neck just as he smooths the crystal into a perfect orb.

Death, always so dramatic. Always so fond of vague, ominous warnings that have lost their impact entirely.

“They are fragile, powerful. It will kill you if you temper wrongly.”

Ah, yes. The usual song and dance.

Harry blinks. Doesn’t even dignify it with a reaction. He’s heard it all before, after all. Not that Death ever follows through. The entity has a soft spot for him—one he exploits at every given opportunity. As he should. As he must.

“I am,” he sighs, clicking his tongue in irritation. “I’ve been careful with it since you taught me about it.”

And really, Death needs to stop bringing up that one mistake. It was one mistake. One tiny, microscopic, completely understandable oversight.

“How was I supposed to know the Aetherite would explode on contact with foreign materials?” he huffs, deliberately ignoring the memory of said explosion nearly taking his face off. “It reacted just fine with my magic.”

Which, in hindsight, may have been precisely why it overreacted to a single drop of potion. But that’s beside the point.

"Now, now..." Death whispers, a gentle murmur laced with something that is probably meant to be reassurance. Their fingers, cold as the void itself, trail along his cheek, turning his head with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for glass dolls and other fragile things. Which, frankly, is a bit insulting.

The faceless veil of shadow greets him once more—featureless, empty, unreadable. And yet, somehow, he just knows. Death is smiling.

Yes. Smiling. Right at him.

“Patience, little one. You walk down the path of greatness, hence you must tread carefully. Aetherites are difficult to procure. It would be a waste if you kept unintentionally destroying them.”

Which, fine. Fair point. Not that he ever intends to destroy them, but apparently intent means nothing when dealing with volatile, semi-sentient magical materials that throw a tantrum at the slightest provocation.

Harry frowns, lips pressing into a thin line as he turns the smooth orb over in his palm. Aetherites. Infuriating things. Beautiful in theory, disastrous in practice. There are reasons why wixen have never managed to properly harness them—chief among them being their unholy tendency to react violently to literally everything. Too unstable, too temperamental. It’s a wonder they exist at all, honestly. But he has Death. And Death has the answers.

For all its power, the crystal is laughably fragile. One wrong move, one careless application of force, and it shatters—completely useless, utterly ruined. The worst part? When an Aetherite dies, it does so dramatically, exploding in a spectacular display of energy that is as breathtaking as it is highly inconvenient. The mining process alone is a meticulous, backbreaking ordeal that Hyperion endures far more often than he’d like to admit. Because, of course, his obsessions can never be easy.

“I suggest you cease using alchemy-based dissolutions. You’ve grown dependent on that method.” Death drawls, skeletal fingers weaving absently through his hair, as if he's some beloved pet to be soothed.

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.

“I’ve resonated with an Aetherite exactly once, and it landed me in a three-day coma. Hermione’s lecturing is not worth it.” He grunts, grabbing more tools and lowering them—gently, precisely—to the very core of his Arcforge creation.

Because, yes. The last thing he needs is another ‘incident.’

The reminder of his own mishaps is etched into his skin—scars crisscrossing his hands, the rough callouses on his fingers a testament to every stupid, brilliant, unfortunate idea he’s ever entertained. A roadmap of mistakes, really. A history lesson written in flesh.

A lesson he absolutely refuses to learn.

Harry barely flinches when lightning arcs from the Aetherite, snapping towards the open cuts like a predator scenting blood. Predictable. Annoying. Almost rude, honestly, considering all the effort he’s putting into not letting it implode spectacularly in his hands.

“Why couldn't you have stuck to your usual toys? No need to make more weapons—” Death huffs, a skeletal hand patting his head like he's some misguided child instead of a fully-grown disaster of his own making.

Harry exhales sharply, already weary of the lecture. “It must be done,” he says, resolute, because of course it must. “The wizarding world is stuck in stasis with what they currently know. Usual spellcasting can be detected and traced, despite whatever power you've blessed me with.” His lips purse. “The Arcforge makes sure that we don't get caught.”

He leaves the again unspoken.

“And the Arcforge makes you more noticeable,” Death counters, perfectly reasonable in their infuriating way. “Not many wizards own a sword like this one... what's its name?”

Harry's gaze drops to the hilt of the bladeless sword, fingers tightening around the decorated grip. The weight of it is familiar, solid, and waiting.

Fine. If Death insists on a name, he’ll give it one.

He sucks in a deep breath, magic sinking into metal before slipping into the Aetherite, curling around the volatile core with all the care of a bomb defusal expert who isn't entirely convinced they won’t lose a limb. Then, in a sharp, decisive motion, he snaps his arm forward.

The Aetherite flares. Light erupts—red, sharp, alive—and the blade hums into existence, crackling like something half-feral. Like something hungry.

“I think... I'll call you Hexreaver.”

It fits. He isn’t particularly good at names, but he is good at making things from nothing. From destruction itself.

A blade. A sword.

Oh, Ares would love it.

(Not that the bitter git deserves nice things, but still.)

The knock comes too suddenly. Too sharp. His heart lurches, and in an instant, he’s moving—hands flicking through his belongings, slipping the blade out of sight, replacing it with something far more innocent. Not that he has anything to hide, obviously.

The door flings itself open at the barest flick of his wrist.

Harry blinks. “Professor Szekeres?”

Durmstrang’s deputy headmaster stands in the doorway, momentarily surprised before his expression smooths into something blank, controlled. Always so composed. He clears his throat, stepping into Hyperion’s private space, his gaze flickering—just briefly—to the device in Harry’s hand.

“Herr Peverell,” Szekeres hums, voice as unreadable as ever. “I see you are doing well after the incident with the British Ministry. You’ve reported it to the headmistress?”

Harry nods, grinning, because they both know that’s not why Szekeres is here. None of his professors ever visit to check on his well-being. No, they come knocking when they want answers. When they want to know.

“Yes, of course.” He laughs, light, easy. Believable. “Are you here to inquire about my grades?”

“Yes, well… a bit.” Szekeres chuckles, a little dry, a little amused. But not fooled. “Let’s start with that little trinket in your hand. Academic purposes? Or something more personal?”

Harry smiles, offering up the compass with an almost careless sort of ease. Because he wants him to look. Wants him to see.

Szekeres hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the trained eye to catch—before taking the device into his hands. His gaze sharpens.

“I call it the Wizard’s Wayfinder. Personal project. Been working on it for the past month.”

Which, technically, isn’t a lie.

Not really.

The Wayfinder had been finished ages ago. But he refuses to let it be finished. He could improve it. Always. There’s always something to tweak, something to refine, something to fix. The fact that it was already a perfectly functional device was irrelevant. No one needed to know that.

“It’s a compass, obviously, but it doesn’t point north. Instead, it latches onto the strongest magical signature in the area.” He twirls his wand between his fingers before tapping the red gem at its centre, watching the glow pulse under the pressure. “But I’ve been adjusting it to track specific signatures, not just the strongest.”

The compass snaps open, the needle spinning wildly before locking onto a point.

“Gimme a minute—there! It’s now tracking Aurelia’s signature.”

He grins, watching as the needle jerks a little to the left, where presumably Aurelia is. He watches as Szekeres crosses the room, peering out the window.

A beat. A pause.

“Is she there?”

Szekeres nods, eyes still fixed on the window, expression unreadable. “Very innovative, Herr Peverell. This would be invaluable to Aurors—any law enforcement, really.”

Harry shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Eh. I mostly just use it to find my friends. The castle’s big. Tracking them down is a pain.”

He grins wider as the faintest flicker of exasperation seeps into Szekeres’s carefully schooled features.

“Never mind that,” Szekeres interrupts—far too quickly, which means he knows exactly what he’s done. Knows that Hyperion could and would go on for at least an hour about his inventions, complete with diagrams, demonstrations, and an impromptu history lesson on magical engineering.

Coward.

“I’m here to check on your project for my subject,” Szekeres continues, clearly pleased with himself. “As you know, there are fewer than a hundred seventh-year students taking Spellcraft.”

“Yes, because the other three hundred managed to disappoint you so thoroughly they dropped out when they realised making spells is hard.” Harry drawls, remembering the mass exodus of his classmates over the years. Spellcraft had been packed in his fifth year. Then students started realising that cobbling together half-formed Latin and waving a wand around wasn’t enough to create a functional spell, and by sixth year, the class had dwindled to a pitiful fraction.

“Yes, yes.” Szekeres waves a hand, as if the loss of hundreds of students is a mild inconvenience rather than a devastating failure of the education system. “At the moment, you are my best student.”

“Aw, Professor!”

“Shush.”

Szekeres rolls his eyes, entirely unimpressed. “I want a demonstration of your current spell. I know very well you’ve already crafted one. It only requires refinement.”

Harry blinks. Damn. No getting out of this, then. He clicks his tongue, sighing through his nose.

Spellcraft is exhausting. It’s finicky, demanding, and requires a level of perfectionism that borders on masochistic. Honestly, Harry finds it harder than his mechanical work, and that’s saying something, considering he routinely plays with highly volatile magical materials that have nearly killed him twice.

But Spellcraft? It’s a different kind of hell. Because magic is particular. Stubborn. Petty. If the phrasing is slightly off, if the etymology is too muddled, if the intent behind the casting isn't razor-sharp in its clarity, then poof. Useless. Or worse—disastrous.

“I’ve thought of one,” he admits. “Defensive and offensive. A rebound spell, essentially. Its function is to return any spell cast at the wielder back to its origin.” He rifles through his belongings, shoving aside spare parts and crumpled sketches before finally dragging out his notebook. Pages crinkle as he flips through them, hunting for the right notes.

“That… is rather useful. In fact, I’d call it brilliant.” Szekeres leans forward, scanning the parchment Harry has unceremoniously dumped onto the desk. The sheer volume of notes, diagrams, and frantic scribbles makes his professor pause. “But what seems to be the problem?”

Harry gestures vaguely at the organised chaos in front of them. “Wand movement and incantation. I’ve narrowed it down to two, but I can’t decide which is more efficient. There’s Contrectos, from the Latin for ‘reflect back’. And then there’s Aegis Refrenare.”

“Hm… two possible conjurations.” Szekeres taps a finger against his chin, thoughtful. “Have you tested them?”

“On myself, yeah.” He shrugs, flipping a page. “I was going to ask Aurelia to help, but she’s not in Spellcraft, and I really don’t fancy asking your other students.”

Harry carefully does not grimace.

Not that he has a problem with them, exactly. It’s just that Spellcraft students tend to be—what’s the polite term?—ravenous, desperate, thieving little bastards. He’s already had one idiot try to steal his work. He’s not about to set himself up for a repeat experience.

“I am willing to assist you in this. But aren’t you friends with Cecilia Vance? She’s also in Spellcraft.”

Harry frowns. Ah, yes, Cecilia Vance. Exceptionally bright. Talented, even. But also fifteen.

“Cecilia is still in fifth year,” he deadpans. “This is a rebound spell we’re talking about. I can’t risk any wild magic snapping back at her when I haven’t even pinned down the variations in the incantation.” Not that he doesn’t love the chaos of unpredictable spellcraft, but he doubts Cecilia would appreciate getting flung across the training grounds because he miscalculated a syllable.

“Hm… I understand.” Szekeres nods, clearly in deep consideration of all the potential liability issues. “Well then, shall we proceed to the training grounds? I doubt Atla and Friedrich will mind.”

Harry snorts. “I’m pretty sure they’d try to join. The prospect of a rebound spell would drive them mad.”

“Then endure your professors’ insanity. Professors Enevoldsen and Durchdenwald are warriors.” Szekeres sighs, long-suffering but not unfond.

“They’re former Aurors, right?” Harry tilts his head, flicking his wrist to lock his door before falling into step beside his professor. Best privilege he’s ever secured, this private space—thank Aleksia for that. Though, he’d argue it was hard-earned after excelling in all fourteen of his subjects. Not that he’s keeping score.

“Atla Enevoldsen was head Auror of her department,” Szekeres explains, leading them down the corridor. “Friedrich Durchdenwald, on the other hand, is retired.”

Harry hums, thinking back to the absolute menace that is Professor Durchdenwald. Old, yes. But terrifying. The kind of terrifying that lingers, like a spectre, watching for mistakes before ruthlessly exploiting them. Strict, sharp, and notoriously brutal with his students. He mainly teaches fifth years and above, which means Harry and Theo had been spared his particular brand of hell when they first transferred. For a few months, at least. At first, Harry and Theo had been under Professor Enevoldsen—something about ‘easing them in.’ A lie. Because after a few months of proving themselves competent (a mistake, in hindsight), they were tossed straight into Durchdenwald’s hands.

Durchdenwald had taken one look at them, deemed them worthy of his time, and immediately thrown them into the deep end.

And by deep end, Harry means directly at each other. Because obviously, the best way to train two promising students is to pit them against each other at every possible opportunity.

… Harry still isn’t sure if that was a compliment or a personal attack.

Safe to say, Harry was not going to let Durchdenwald and Enevoldsen play around with his spells ever again. But at the very least, he determined that Contrectos was a simple rebound spell. While Aegis Refrenare quite literally absorbs a spell into a shield and spits it back out like a homing beacon. It was very interesting to see Professor Enevoldsen stunning spell chase after her the moment it was spat out of the shield. 

Szekeres determined that he should submit the second one. 

Samhain is always a touchy day for them. No matter how much time passes, the weight of it lingers—heavy, suffocating. Even with Hyperion back at Durmstrang, Theo knows exactly how the other must be handling it. Or rather, not handling it. The last time he saw Harry on Samhain, the idiot had been wandering through the castle like a mindless puppet, eyes vacant, expression hollow.

Durmstrang’s student body had learned quickly: steer clear of Hyperion Peverell on this day.

Theo blinks, gaze shifting as Ron Weasley drops himself onto the bench between him and Blaise, utterly indifferent to the displeased glares of the younger Slytherins. The redhead doesn’t even acknowledge the attention, let alone care about it. Theo supposes that’s to be expected. Weasley has always been the brash sort, but with Hermione and Hyperion absent, he’s been particularly volatile.

“Did he contact you?” Ron murmurs, filling his plate at a slow, almost absent-minded pace. He sighs to himself, clicks his tongue, tilts his head. Calculating. “He’s been quieter lately.”

Of course, he has.

“With what happened here?” Theo arches a brow. “I don’t doubt he’s more stressed.”

“Who’s stressed?” Blaise leans against Ron like some lazy, overgrown cat, utterly unapologetic as he props himself up on the other’s shoulder. He’s watching Theo with far too much interest, and it takes everything in him not to sneer.

“Harry,” Ron answers, blunt as ever. “We’re worried. It’s his family’s death day.”

Blaise blinks, pulling back ever so slightly. “Right… Right. Does he usually write to you?”

“Not on the thirty-first,” Ron hums, shovelling food onto his plate with little concern. “Usually the day before or after.”

Theo clicks his tongue, exhaling sharply through his nose. The dense bastard is going to drive me up a wall one day. I swear it. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he finishes his meal quickly, ignoring Dumbledore’s incessant rambling as he pushes back from the table and strides out of the Great Hall.

He doesn’t need to think too hard about where to go. He already knows. Hyperion had been very specific about it—where to walk, what to do, which paths to avoid. Theo has the instructions memorised, imprinted in the back of his mind like a brand.

Because Hogwarts is sentient, and more importantly, it’s not private. Someone could be listening even now.

So…

As he steps seven times opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, he watches the door take form, intricate details slowly etching themselves into existence. With a hum, he slips inside, gaze flickering across the luxurious lounge waiting for him.

Perfect.

He glances down at his etheris, eyes narrowing at the pale blue hue before he sets it on the desk. The familiar list of contacts flickers to life in a projected hologram, and with a quick, practiced motion, he scrolls through, stopping at a name. A quiet hum escapes him as he taps the contact and steps back.

Time to see if she’s in a cooperative mood.

“Athena.” His voice softens, a smirk tugging at his lips as the image of the most beautiful woman he’s ever met materialises before him.

Hermione Peverell’s sharp gaze sweeps over him, scrutinising, calculating. A beat passes before she sighs, shaking her head, as if she’s already exasperated.

“Good morning, Theodore.” A pointed pause. “Do you need something? And no codenames. Had you called Hyperion, he’d have already scolded you.”

Theo laughs, the sound light but edged with something else. “I think I’ve had enough of your brother threatening me.”

“We all have.” Hermione flicks a strand of hair behind her shoulder, unimpressed. “Now… what do you need?”

“Right.” He straightens slightly. “Have you spoken to—”

“No, Theodore.” Hermione’s tone sharpens like a knife against a whetstone, slicing clean through his words. “My brother locks himself down every Samhain. Leave him be. This day is sacred to our family, even without the death of the previous Lord and Lady Potter.”

A chill runs down his spine, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like lead. Shit.

“What else, Ares?”

“You just said no codenames.” He chuckles, recovering quickly.

“You insist on being insufferable.” Hermione exhales, but there’s amusement in her gaze—one he’s learned to catch in the briefest of moments. “Get to the point, will you?”

“Don’t fret, my lady.” He grins, playing the part of a charming rogue as easily as breathing. “All is well here. Dumbledore has reacted accordingly to Hyperion’s sudden return, and the rest of the Ministry is scrambling to appease Romanova and Maxime.” He exhales, rolling a shoulder. “Grandfather says that Black and Gaunt have been slowly taking over the Ministry, and there are rumours that Gaunt plans to run for Minister.”

This new development is… concerning.

Gaunt remains an unknown variable. Even knowing the man is the resurrected Dark Lord, Theo finds himself at a disadvantage. Every move Gaunt makes is deliberate, strategic—a stark contrast to the blundering incompetence of Fudge. The fool had been easy to work with, easily manipulated by the right amount of pressure. Gaunt, though? That man would be a problem.

Ron had voiced similar concerns. Any future missions involving the Ministry would be hindered—if not outright compromised—should Gaunt gain a position of true influence.

Perhaps he should bring this up to Hy—

“Hyperion is to thank for that.”

What?

Oh… Oh, wonderful. Amazing. Theo is going to kill himself at this point. Is this what Neville feels whenever he and Hyperion run off doing who knows what? Maybe he’ll ask Neville to brew a potion that can just—give him a heart attack on command. Wouldn’t that be convenient?

“Never mind any of that. Anything else? Hogwarts-related, I mean.”

Hermione moves out of frame, and Theo startles slightly, not expecting her to leave so abruptly. He doesn’t even have a chance to respond before she returns, a box in hand. The moment she opens it, a soft, delicate melody fills the air.

Ah. That box.

The jewellery-music box combination Hyperion made for her last Yule.

Theo exhales through his nose, absently scratching the back of his head. “Same as always. Malfoy’s group are Death Eaters in training. Gryffindors like McLaggen and the rest are slowly being dragged into the Order.” He pauses, a flicker of irritation curling in his gut. It’s concerning—though most don’t seem to care. They should care, really. But no, of course not.

“The usual scheming from irresponsible adults,” Hermione huffs, snapping the box shut with a click. “Why doesn’t Hyperion just deal with it entirely?”

Theo swallows down a laugh. Right. Like Hyperion ever moves without personal interest. “Because Hyperion operates on what benefits him. These students annoy the hell out of him, so there’s no possibility of making them his priority.”

That’s just how Hyperion is. His mind is wired differently—sharp, strategic, always calculating the most efficient path forward. If it doesn’t serve his interests, it’s not a priority. Simple. What was that term again? Machiavellian. Yes. That’s it.

It’s how he took over Durmstrang in such a short time.

But… Hermione. She’s different. Always has been.

Kinder, more empathetic, philanthropic in a way her brother isn’t.

For the greater good—the Peverells move with those words embedded deep in their souls, but the way they interpret them? Completely different.

It’s baffling. Terrifying, even.

“I might just start my own missions for that.”

Hermione clicks her tongue, irritation flashing across her face. She’s obviously frustrated with her brother’s avarice—his insatiable, self-fulfilling motives that guide every move he makes.

“You’d have to go through Hyperion to get approval for any of that.”

She huffs again, fingers threading through her curls before she pauses, tilting her head just slightly. Then she leans forward, pressing her cheek against her palm, watching him.

Ah. That look. Theo recognises it instantly—the sharp glint of interest, that poised patience, waiting for him to react. It’s never a good sign. Never.

And yet… the attention is thrilling. It’s intoxicating, the way she focuses on him, like he’s something worth dissecting, worth charming. Her smile is radiant—and cruel.

God. He’s going to dig his own grave if she keeps looking at him like that. Because Theo knows—knows—that smile spells trouble. If he falls for it, he’ll get one hell of a tongue-lashing from Hyperion.

“Ares… Theo.” Hermione’s voice is silk and steel, a gentle pull wrapped in something dangerous. She smiles sweetly. “Won’t you help me?”

Oh, fuck. Theo forces a laugh, light and smooth, but his instincts are already screaming at him. “Whatever do you mean, my lady?”

“This won’t interfere with dear brother’s operations,” she assures him, that sweetly venomous smile lingering. “I just need you to stop Dumbledore from making more child soldiers.”

The words are deceptively soft. But her meaning? It’s sharp as a knife. It’s only then that the realisation clicks in his mind.

Hermione, Ron, and Hyperion—Dumbledore’s original little soldiers.

And yet, here she is. Stopping it from happening again.

A matter of reaction. Of choice.

Hermione looks back at the past and ensures it will never repeat.

Hyperion ran from it, tore open his own future, and built something entirely his own.

And Ron Weasley? Where does he stand?

Theo exhales, a slow, measured breath. He’ll ask later.

“I’ll think about it.”

Hermione chuckles, low and knowing. “Very good. You have until midnight.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What am I, that cinders lady from your Muggle fairy tales?”

“Perhaps.” She hums, ever amused. “And it’s Cinderella, Theodore. I’ll have to make sure my darling brother doesn’t play fairy godmother for you.”

Theo isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. He’ll just have to give an answer at the right time…Maybe he’ll get a reward out of it.

(Back in Durmstrang, Hyperion Peverell is slaving away when he suddenly feels the universe mocking him. Damn it, was Theo messing with Hermione again?)

(Neville Longbottom is no Seer. He has no talent for divination, no ability to glimpse the future in tea leaves or star charts. But when Harry Potter arrives at his doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back, Neville knows.

Something is wrong. Something is going to happen.

It’s Harry. The same Harry who is—was—supposedly his godbrother. But the moment they sit down, the moment Gran leaves the room, a feeling of wrongness slithers into Neville’s chest, tight and suffocating.

What was happening? Why does it feel like this?

Harry smiles. Painfully bright. Too bright. His green eyes fix on Neville, wide and unblinking, like he’s looking at something holy, like some god from the old myths has descended and wrapped him in their embrace.

Neville swallows, throat dry. His fingers curl into his robes.

“Harry?” His voice barely comes out. “Are you okay? I heard… I heard about what happened to your family.”

Dementors. Slaughter. Gone.

Harry only hums, swinging his feet, sipping his tea—like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just lost everything. But Neville knows what grief looks like. He’s seen it. Felt it. The way it lingers like cold hands around your ribs, squeezing when you least expect it.

But Harry? There’s nothing. Not even a shadow.

Maybe… maybe the Dementors did something to him. Maybe they took too much.

But no—no, that doesn’t make sense. Harry knows the Patronus Charm. He knows how to drive them away.

Unless—unless the Dark Lord got to him first.

Neville reaches forward, hesitant. “Harry—”

Snap. His breath catches. He barely registers the pain at first—Harry’s fingers are iron, clamped around his wrist, tight, too tight.

Neville jolts, eyes widening. This—this isn’t right. Harry has held his wrist before, in duels, in defence, in reassurance. But this? This is something else.

He barely recognises the boy sitting across from him.

Harry? Harry?

“Neville…” Harry tilts his head. The smile remains. Unwavering. Unnatural. Wrong. “Do you know what it’s like… to see destruction?”

His voice is soft. Gentle.

But there is something in it—something else.

Neville cannot breathe. Harry’s grip tightens, pulling him closer.

The green in his eyes is not green at all. It is—void. A spiralling, endless void.

“Do you know what it’s like to be chosen by a god?”

Neville’s stomach plummets. His pulse pounds. What?

What—what is he saying?

Harry smiles. “Because I do.”

And in that moment, Neville understands—whatever Harry is talking about, whatever has touched him—

It is not something human.

Harry… Oh, Harry…

Was it really a god that spoke to you?)

“You do know,” Neville sighs, dragging a hand through his hair as he eyes the projected screen, “that the others aren’t going to contact you today of all days. They’re far too considerate of your delicate feelings.”

“Thankfully, you are not,” Hyperion says, smiling at him through the mirror. The projection is tinted blue, but—of course—his bloody eyes still shine through, bright green and unsettling as ever.

“Amazing, right?” Neville snorts.

Samhain is supposed to be Hyperion’s one day of peace, courtesy of their overly sentimental friends. Not that they’re bad or anything, but Hyperion gets so w rapped up in them that he forgets to do normal things. Like sleep. Or eat. Or, you know, not obsess over his latest scheme. So, yes, Neville is absolutely looking forward to the chaos that will ensue when everyone realises Hyperion hasn’t been having some tragic mourning period all these years.

No, Hyperion has been doing something else entirely.

Samhain just… messes with him. He gets weird. Weirder than usual, at least. He talks to the air, mutters in ancient languages like he’s rehearsing for some doomed summoning ritual—Greek, Latin, Egyptian… Neville is fairly sure he caught some Akkadian once, which, honestly, is just excessive at this point.

People like to whisper that he’s haunted. That his parents’ spirits cling to him, whispering about vengeance and prosperity like some tragic, poetic prophecy.

Neville? He’s skeptical.

Because Hyperion isn’t just haunted by ghosts.

No, Neville is pretty damn sure there’s something else lurking around him.

Something much worse.

Something that called itself a god.

“What exactly have you been up to this time?” Neville sighs, arms crossed as he leans against the desk, already bracing for whatever smug answer is coming. “Ron says Gaunt’s planning to run for Minister, and I highly doubt you don’t have a hand in that. Which, by the way, is fucking stupid.”

Hyperion grins from the other end of the call, all easy amusement. “I merely entertained an idea. Not my fault Gaunt took my words seriously.”

Neville scoffs, unimpressed. “Everyone takes your word seriously. They really shouldn’t.”

It’s exhausting, really. Hyperion barely has to try, and people still trip over themselves to follow his lead—even people like Gaunt, who should really know better. Then again, considering the two of them are supposedly some prophesied equals, it makes sense they’d have that weird, unnatural influence on each other. The only difference is, Hyperion doesn’t give a shit about Gaunt. Not unless the man becomes useful to him.

“Praise be the Fates for giving me such an intolerant godbrother,” Hyperion says with a mock sigh. “Well, brother and sister.”

“But you prefer me, yes?” Neville deadpans.

“Neville, darling, how could I ever betray my dear sister like that? She is the light of my life, my only blood relative—”

Neville narrows his eyes. “Only because you made Hermione a Peverell. If you hadn’t come up with that brilliant little scheme to keep the Peverell line alive, would you really covet her so much? Somehow, I doubt it.”

His fingers twitch the moment the words leave his mouth, and Neville doesn’t need to look at Hyperion to feel the shift in the air. Instead, he turns on his heel, putting his back to the projection under the guise of tending to his plants. Cowardly? Maybe. But no one—not Theo, not Hermione, and certainly not Neville—is stupid enough to meet Hyperion’s gaze after calling him out.

Not that he regrets it. If anything, Neville likes dragging Hyperion down a peg when he gets too high and mighty. Someone has to. But knowing how bitter and petty Hyperion is?

Yeah. He’s probably just made his own life a lot more difficult.

His grip tightens on the leaves in front of him, willing his hands not to shake. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s just…

He’s acknowledged something now—one of those paths Hyperion refused to take, rejected outright. And what the hell is Neville supposed to do with that? When Hyperion is perfectly willing to burn those paths to the ground just to build his own?

“Neville.”

“I’m just—just saying that Hermione might be your sister, but she thinks she’s your equal and—and we both know she isn’t.” His heart hammers against his ribs, climbing up his throat like it’s trying to choke him. His hands move on their own, frantically rearranging his pots. Alphabetical order? By plant type? He can’t remember. He just—he just needs to do something.

“Neville.”

“She’s too sentimental sometimes, and she—she goes against you a lot. I—I bet she’s talking to Theo right now, planning something at Hogwarts, something that—you know, something that interferes with your operations, and—and she doesn’t even check with you first.”

“Neville.”

“Hermione has too much power, and you—you didn’t even give it to her. She just—she acts like you did because she’s your sister now, because she’s a Peverell.”

“Neville…”

“It’s not fucking fair, alright!” Neville whirls around, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like he’s drowning—and then he sees those eyes. He flinches hard, gaze snapping away as quickly as it lands.

Shit.

“It’s—It’s not right that she gets to be your sister when I was the first one you came to when all of this happened. You—”

“ Look at me. ”

His entire body locks up. His head jerks forward before he can even think to stop himself.

And Hyperion is looking at him. Too sharp. Too piercing. Hyperion isn’t just looking at him—he’s analysing him, breaking him down into tiny, manageable pieces so he can put Neville back together however he wants. As if the sheer force of his gaze alone can rip apart the panic clawing at Neville’s chest and fix it.

Peeling Neville apart like he’s searching for something, for the source of this mess, for whatever piece of Neville’s mind is making him malfunction. He’s going to—he’s going to fix it, isn’t he? Like Neville’s some broken thing to be reset and rewired until he’s working properly again.

The lump in his throat surges back up, and his pulse pounds so hard it makes his vision tilt.

He has to—has to remember—Hyperion isn’t here. He’s not in Castelobruxo. He’s back in Europe, buried somewhere in Durmstrang, trapped in the mountains, confined behind its stone walls. He has to remind himself—this isn’t Harry. This isn’t his godbrother. This is Hyperion.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice wrecked and shaking. He stares at the glowing projection, because if he looks away—if he dares—

“I know.” Hyperion hums, like he’s already dismissed it, like none of this even matters to him. “Get some rest, Neville. You’re sleep-deprived.”

“Yeah… yeah.” His voice barely holds together. He watches as the Etheris dims, fading into nothing.

And then—like a puppet with its strings cut—he collapses.

His knees hit the ground. His breath shatters. His hands claw at his hair as he gulps down air like he’s just been dragged up from underwater.

He’s in Durmstrang.

“I’m okay,” he whispers.

He’s okay.

The thought circles back, over and over, clawing its way in—until it sticks.

(Death’s hands are cold. Gentle, even.

Hyperion watches the glow of the Etheris, its pulsing light almost mocking. Every fibre of his being urges him to crush it. To hurl it against the wall, let it shatter into a thousand useless pieces, revoke every single person outside Durmstrang from ever reaching him again. No distractions. No interference. No more prying eyes.

But he doesn’t.

No.

Instead, he sets it down. Carefully. Deliberately.  As if he hadn’t wanted to break it. As if the desire hadn’t coiled inside him, pressing sharp against his ribs. He presses his fingers against the desk, feels the grain of the wood beneath his touch, sinks his hands into the shadows pooling there… and the darkness welcomes him like an old friend.

Behind him, Death hums. 

It’s a soft, knowing sound, one that rumbles through the space as it watches him pull a box from the darkness. Hyperion does not need to turn to see the way he watches him, the way he always watches him. Like a thing worthy of attention. Like a thing worth keeping.

“They fear you,” Death chuckles.

Of course they do.

“I know.”

The revenant timers continue their slow, measured ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Steady. Unwavering.

All nine clocks still work.

Everyone is still alive.

And they will stay that way. )

Chapter Text

Let your will be done.

There exist myths, rumours—legends—of such peculiarities in the world. Conspiracies that ensnare the feeble-minded, urging them to chase illusions they can never hope to substantiate. Fools are abundant, as are the falsehoods they so eagerly pursue.

One such myth lingers on the edge of the known world—a group that emerged over a year ago. Their members remain unseen, yet their presence is undeniable.

Some whisper the name “Olympians,” for three of their number have claimed monikers drawn from the deities of Greek myth. Others refer to them as the “Pantheon,” uncertain whether their ranks extend beyond Olympus. Yet to dismiss them as fabrications would be folly, for how can one claim falsehood when blood has already been spilled in their name?

Marvolo has spent months unearthing what little there is to know of them. He elects to call them the Pantheon, an appellation marginally more tolerable than their self-aggrandising claim to divinity. The notion that mere mortals would dare liken themselves to the gods enthroned upon Olympus is an affront—an exercise in arrogance bordering on the delusional. At best, they are a faction. At worst, terrorists emboldened by their own theatrics.

The latest report detailing the havoc in America warrants concern. MACUSA has already extended its trembling hand to its allies, desperate to control the narrative. Politicians are being struck down in public. Their sins and scandals are not merely whispered in corridors but flayed open, projected onto the streets by phantasmal light. And then, by the following day, they are found with arrows buried deep—one in each eye, another lodged in the throat.

He sifts through the files spread before him, gaze narrowing at the conclusion Barty and Antonin have reached.

Apollo.  Artemis.

The names scrawl jagged across the parchment. A theory, naturally—one drawn from the assassin’s apparent preference for archery. Among the Olympians, it is Apollo and Artemis who wield the bow, the twin deities of sun and moon striking down their prey without mercy.

Barty, ever the rabid hound, has included a further conjecture—that this is yet another ploy of the one who calls themselves Ares.

Regardless of the particulars, the conclusion is clear. This time, the Olympians have turned their gaze upon America.

The knock at his door is expected, a mere formality. “Enter.”

Barty and Severus step inside, their greetings quiet, postures stiff with tension as they bow before him.

“Nothing yet?”

“No, not a single word about the assassin, my lord.” Barty exhales sharply. “But there are already rallies—Americans demanding that their Ministry cease its pursuit of the assassin.”

“Revolutionists?”

“People wronged by the dead,” Severus corrects, shaking his head. “President Vanderholt is under siege. The Olympians have made their targets clear—those who present a polished façade while bleeding their own dry. Their punishments are precise, methodical. Vanderholt may soon find herself among them.”

“She has no skeletons in her closet,” Barty sneers, the very suggestion an insult. “She’s clean.”

“If she is, she does not seem to think so.” Severus scoffs, narrowing his gaze at Barty. “Lucius has already noted her unease—troubled enough to consider herself a possible target. If not her, then someone in her family. The effect on her would be much the same.”

Marvolo clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “And what course of action has been taken? Lucius remains in America, does he not? Surely, he has gleaned some insight into their intended movements.” His fingers press against his temples, the faintest pulse of irritation settling beneath his skin. “The Pantheon—a fledgling assembly, woefully inexperienced, mere infants compared to us—yet they have eluded our grasp for this long? That is intolerable.”

Barty shifts, restless. He has been this way ever since Marvolo spared him from certain death—fidgety, sensitive, teetering on the edge of instability. But he is useful, the most relentless among them, his predatory instinct making him a formidable hunter. A hound to be unleashed when needed. Dutiful. Loyal. The best, regardless of his flaws.

“My lord,” Barty’s voice is measured, wary. “Perhaps… you should oversee America yourself.”

Marvolo’s gaze snaps to him. Barty flinches, panic flashing across his face.

“’Course not, my lord! No offense meant—none at all! It’s just, well, Lucius is reliable, yeah, but you? You’re far better suited for the task. Makes sense, don’t it? You’d get to assess the situation firsthand, see what’s what in the US, and confirm whether the intel’s legitimate.” Barty’s words tumble out in a frantic rush, his complexion paling, as if he has misspoken. But he has not. He has simply grown too jittery, too paranoid, especially after earning that scar across his face.

“All is well, Bartemius. I merely contemplate the prudence of such actions.” Marvolo drawls, dismissing him with a slow wave of his hand.

Marvolo’s mind sharpens upon the possibilities. The prospect of overseeing matters in America himself is not without appeal, but a competent envoy would suffice. Lucius is already stationed there, awaiting orders—he is the logical choice. Barty is unsuitable, not with the likelihood of Ares lurking in the vicinity. Severus is indispensable at Hogwarts. Black is far too preoccupied, clinging to his godson at Durmstrang like a mongrel guarding its last scrap of meat.

It must be Lucius, then.

“There are no events that require my attendance, yes?”

“None that I have heard.” Severus murmurs. “America has not been able to hold any galas or gatherings as of late.”

Barty snorts, earning a withering glare from Severus. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong, Sevy.”

Severus stiffens, his sneer one of thinly veiled disgust. Marvolo vaguely sympathises—there is little more grating than having one’s given name reduced to a mockery.

“America is hosting one event this year, scheduled for the first week of December. All Ministries have been extended an invitation—ours included. Typically, it is representatives who attend rather than the Ministers themselves.”

“Our Lord does not have the time to wait for December.” Severus scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Aside from that year-end gathering, there is nothing.”

“I find myself in agreement with Severus.” Marvolo exhales, gaze narrowing. “By week’s end, I shall require a valid pretext for my presence in America. Severus, confer with Antonin regarding any representatives soon to be dispatched. My name must be among them.”

He leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling. “Ensure that it is done. The Pantheon must be brought to light with haste. Whether they prove to be foe or ally, their strength is undeniable—even in the infancy of their formation.”

“As you wish, my lord.” They bow their heads once more, silent dismissal understood without the need for further words.

Severus departs first, followed by Barty, who wordlessly hands over yet another file.

The growing pile upon his desk is a sight he abhors. Yet, when one studies the Pantheon’s movements, it becomes evident—they are no mere vigilantes, no self-styled heroes wielding terror as their blade. No, there is precision in their selection of prey, an unmistakable deliberation in their methods.

From Deveraux’s assassination to the bloodbath between two warring families in Russia—every act has been orchestrated with a singular intent: to carve permanent scars into the very structure of society. A warning. A declaration. An assertion of power so absolute that none may dismiss it.

Like rabid beasts, they tear through the foundation of their enemies, rending the system apart with ease. And yet—no, they are too methodical for mindless carnage. There is control in their destruction, a deliberation that speaks of something far more insidious.

For now, Marvolo identifies four possible members.

Athena—a master of strategy, meticulous in execution. This one does not kill with their own hand but orchestrates accidents, eliminating targets with an almost poetic detachment. The most level-headed of the group, rarely interacting with others, and yet—those few encounters always conclude with the offering of gifts. Talismans. Trinkets. Apparent gestures of protection. Whether these gifts serve as wards or marks, he has yet to determine.

Ares—brutality incarnate. A harbinger of strife, yet curiously reluctant to spill blood himself. Instead, he incites. Manipulates. Turns factions against one another, orchestrating carnage from the shadows. The destruction left in his wake is vast, indiscriminate. Entire battlegrounds fashioned from the ruin of his interference.

Demeter—elusive, insidious. A dealer, a supplier, a silent hand in the black market. This one is a contradiction, a dual force both nurturing and lethal. Their trade fluctuates between the creation of healing elixirs and the manufacture of poisons so potent that death is an inevitability. What compels such variance in their work remains uncertain.

And lastly, the archer—possibly named after one of the Olympian twins. An assassin with a particular flourish, ensuring the cause of their victim’s death is laid bare before the deed is done. An executioner who ensures that the world watches.

The roster is unbalanced—a spectrum ranging from bloodthirsty madness to cold, calculated precision.

Four members of the Pantheon uncovered, and yet none appear to be their leader.

Marvolo has devised several theories regarding their leader’s moniker. If he could identify the name they had chosen, he could predict the framework of their command. There are patterns in myth, after all, and those who willingly assume the mantle of legend do not do so lightly.

He has narrowed it down to three—Poseidon, Hades, and Zeus. The three brothers of the original six.

There is too little information to make a definitive conclusion, but one fact remains immutable.

Names hold power.

And the Pantheon operates within the constraints of the names they wield.

All four identified monikers are formidable in their own right, but their leader—the unseen hand behind them—holds the most dangerous name of all.

The possibilities are endless. Almost sickening, if he must admit.

The Pantheon was… a puzzle. One that he couldn't help but want to tear into and solve even when his fingers started to bleed and his mind fogged. He needed to solve this riddle… 

“The Pantheon first made its presence known with the emergence of Demeter in the black market, March 1996.” Marvolo murmurs, the scratch of his quill against parchment precise, methodical. He marks the date, committing it to both ink and memory. “Athena surfaced a month later—though confirmation only arrived then. No concrete record exists of when she truly began operating. The prior deaths of politicians… whether they were her handiwork or mere coincidence remains undetermined.”

April 19, 1996—he inscribes it beneath the first, the movement fluid yet controlled. His eyes darken as he traces the ink, mind already constructing patterns, calculating probabilities.

“Thereafter, Ares emerged.” His voice remains level, though his grip on the quill tightens. “Ivaylo Yarovik, driven to hysteria, raving about a man named Ares—accusing him of coercion, of engineering the deaths of the House Daskalov heirs. A single act, and the feud erupted into slaughter, both successors perishing in the ensuing chaos.”

Another mark. Another date. The pattern solidifies.

Apollo/Artemis. Appearance confirmed— November 17, 1997. 

His quill glides over the parchment, his script sharp, deliberate. 

First victim: Geoffrey Sloane. Following victims: Adelaide Laveau, Tristan Gadsden, Maximus Winthorp. Preferred method—arrows. Execution always preceded by public exposure of the victim’s scandals and secrets.

He leans back slightly, gaze sweeping over the compiled records. It is all aligning. Slowly, yes—but inevitably.

His notes will bear fruit. Of this, he is certain.

Now, all that remains is the current god wreaking havoc in America.

“Roan, Lena.” Hyperion sighs, sinking further into the luxurious warmth of his tub—his tub, might he add, a well-earned indulgence after single-handedly securing Durmstrang’s duelling victories three years in a row. Some might argue he didn’t need such a lavish setup, but honestly, why deny himself life’s finer pleasures? He lifts a hand from the water, wrist loose, fingers expectant. A moment later, something cold lands in his palm.

“Good, Roan.” His lips curl, the corners of his eyes crinkling in lazy amusement. “Both you and Lena will be dispatched to assist Apollo with that delightful catastrophe in America.”

“As my lord wishes.” Roan’s voice is smooth, his touch retreating as quickly as it arrived. Efficient. Hyperion appreciates that.

“And you, Lena?” He doesn’t bother turning his head, but he can already picture the way she’s positively beaming.

“I am to assist Apollo in luring targets into view.” The cheerfulness in her tone is almost saccharine. It would be endearing if it weren’t so utterly fabricated. “As you command, my lord.”

“Splendid!” Hyperion flashes a grin, all bright teeth and easy satisfaction. “Stand by in my room for now. Oh, and do be darlings and open the door—I rather suspect Aurelia is moments away from blowing it off its hinges.”

“As our lord commands.” They bow in unison, exiting with a quiet, well-mannered click.

That peace lasts all of three seconds before heavy boots thunder against the floorboards, and his door slams open with a force that rattles the bloody hinges.

“Hyperion!” Aurelia bellows, her utter lack of decorum appalling yet not remotely surprising. She doesn't even have the decency to acknowledge that he is—gasp—naked.

Ah, but how could she, when his grand, wonderful, near-palatial tub demands all the attention? The rose petals floating on the surface, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow—it is, frankly, an experience. One that he enjoys immensely, even as Aurelia glares daggers into the back of his head.

“Hello to you too, darling,” he drawls, waving a languid hand. He doesn’t need to look to know she’s standing there, arms crossed, exuding the simmering rage of someone about to launch into a tirade.

“What the hell is Apollo doing?” she snaps. “I wasn't informed of you handing out orders.”

“I didn't need to.” Hyperion huffs, running elegant fingers through his wet hair. “Apollo knows when to act without being ordered. She’s efficient like that.”

He sinks deeper into the tub, arms draped over the edges as steam curls around him, thick and heavy in the air. For a long, indulgent moment, he simply stares at it—because really, steam is quite fascinating, isn’t it? How it dances and swirls, fleeting and insubstantial. Unlike Aurelia, who is still very much here, very much frowning, and looking as though she’s contemplating homicide.

Hyperion tilts his head back just enough to catch sight of her, blinking lazily. Yep. That was a face full of murderous intent.

“Why are you even so bothered?” he scoffs, eye twitching ever so slightly at the sheer audacity of her anger. “Apollo is all the way back in America, and you’re here. So what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Go burn in the Phlegethon.” Aurelia hisses, all fire and brimstone, as expected. “And for your information, people are saying Artemis is the one doing the killing. Why in the ever-loving fuck do you think I’m annoyed? I’m the one getting the brunt of the blame!”

Ah. So that was the problem.

Hyperion yawns, dragging a hand through the water just to watch the ripples spread. “It’s not so bad. Apollo is doing quite well. Are you upset that your darling twin is outshining you? Jealous?”

“Why the fuck would I be jealous of Luna?” she snaps, scowl deepening. “She’s doing her job. It’s me getting the credit that pisses me off!”

Aurelia stands rooted to the spot, her nails digging into her palms as she flicks a glance at him. Ah, there it is. The momentary flare of indignation, smothered by something far less useful—hesitation. She shuffles back, trying to put some distance between them, but he can’t have that. No, no. That simply won’t do.

He extends a hand, expectant, patient. Understanding.

Aurelia falters for only a second before taking it. She’s trembling, just a little, but that’s to be expected. Nerves, perhaps. She always did let them get the best of her. Hyperion sighs, indulgent, drawing her hand to his lips. A gentle press against the back of her hand, then her palm—featherlight, reassuring. He squeezes, just a bit, just enough.

“I’m sorry,” Aurelia whispers, a frown tugging at her lips. She sounds genuinely regretful, as she should.

“No need.” He insists, tone airy. “You’re just stressed, that’s all. Unearned credit is irritating—everyone gets annoyed over it. But don’t dwell on it too much. I’ve already sent Roan and Lena for clean-up.”

Her body goes rigid, just slightly. There it is again—that nervous little tell of hers. This time, her gaze shifts past him, towards the open door. Roan and Lena stand there, arms crossed in that way of theirs—one behind their back, the other in front. They’re nothing if not consistent.

“Hyperion… is it really safe to rely on your puppets?”

His grip tightens. Just for a moment. Barely a squeeze. Hardly worth reacting to.

Aurelia winces. She’s jittery today, that’s all.

“Automatons,” he corrects, all warmth and kindness. “And yes. They are automatons of my own making, so of course they’re reliable. Do you know any other wizard capable of making them?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t look at him, though—her attention is on Roan’s flawlessly carved obsidian, its smooth, expressionless face, the segmented joints reminiscent of a mannequin. Then to Lena, its marble form pristine, its masks interchangeable, the delicate ball joints at the wrists and neck giving it an almost… lifelike fluidity. The material is too smooth, too perfect to be flesh.

Aurelia knows that. So why does she look so unnerved?

“Okay, okay. Just… just make sure people aren’t saying Artemis is the one doing all that,” Aurelia murmurs, rubbing at her temples like Hyperion has personally given her a migraine. “It’s not a good look on me, Rion. Especially when I haven’t even gone public like the others.”

“Yes, yes. I will have this rectified soon.” He waves a hand, dismissive, before finally deciding that being submerged in water like some tragic, brooding prince is getting him nowhere. He rises, slow and deliberate, letting the water cascade off him in a way that would probably be dramatic if there were an audience to appreciate it. “Be a dear and hand me that towel.”

Aurelia rolls her eyes. “Arse.” She scoffs but tosses him the towel anyway before standing and patting herself down like she’s the one who’s had a long, relaxing soak.

“Are you sure only Helen and Charon are required?” she asks, back to business, though she still looks vaguely displeased. “Wouldn’t Cassandra be a good match for her?”

Hyperion snorts, wrapping the towel around his waist. “What use does Apollo have for a predictive model when she can do it herself?” Honestly, the redundancy is laughable. “I’d say she’d have more use with Lux or Rae. Maybe Ada, if she needs an escape.”

“I will never get over you calling your puppets by those damn nicknames,” Aurelia mutters, gaze flickering towards the door like she expects something unnatural to skitter out of the shadows.

Hyperion grins. “Fine. I trust your judgement,” she adds, tone reluctant. “Just… just don’t send any of them on my missions unless I ask. I can’t get over Icarus just popping up.”

“Russ is perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“Sure, sure.” She waves him off, already turning for the door. “I’ll be off now and—get a shirt on.”

Hyperion sighs, long-suffering. “I’m not the one who barged into an innocent man’s bathroom knowing full well he was bathing.” He drawls, already pushing her towards the exit before she can see the two figures bowing so deeply their bodies are practically folded in half.

“Go now. Just brief Genevieve on this whilst I sort out Apollo’s issues. She won’t be happy with others meddling without her approval.”

“Since when did we need Apollo’s approval to interfere?”

“Since I said so.” Hyperion scoffs, shoving her gently out of the bathroom and into his dorm. “Don’t want anyone messing with things that are already going perfectly according to plan.”

Aurelia barely has time to open her mouth before he’s patting her on the back and pushing her the rest of the way out.

“That’s all? Perfect!”

“What—”

He shuts the door in her face before she can finish.

With that taken care of, Hyperion huffs, stretching lazily as magic weaves through the air, his clothes slipping onto his body like they belong there. It’s all very efficient, very effortless—an art, really. The best part? No tedious fumbling with buttons.

He flops onto his bed, nuzzling into his pillows, fully prepared to enjoy a moment of well-earned relaxation… until he remembers Roan and Lena still standing by the door.

Stock still. Waiting.

Their forms are flawless, of course—obsidian and marble, standing there like statues in some grand cathedral. Faceless. Until he decides otherwise.

Hyperion watches them for a moment, considering. Should he change their appearances now or later? They are going to America, after all. Adjustments must be made.

With a lazy stretch, he beckons Roan forward. The automaton obeys immediately, movements crisp, hands tucked behind its back like a soldier awaiting orders.

Hyperion places his hands atop its head, gazing into the smooth, white orbs that mimic eyes.

“Charon, nauta crepusculi et ossium,
Obsidianeus factus, marmore consutus.
Vela ferrum, induito cutem,
Sinito hominem vitam videre ubi nulla fuit.” ^[1]

Magic crackles at his fingertips. Slowly, Roan shifts, morphing from obsidian and marble to something warm, something human. Skin and bone. Flesh.

Satisfied, Hyperion discards the newly disguised automaton and moves to Lena. Her form is different—more intricate. More deliberate.

Roan is meant to blend. Lena is meant to shine.

His hands cup her smooth, sculpted cheeks, tracing the fine lines of her flawless construction. Unlike Roan, whose features are plain—dark-haired, dark-skinned, light-eyed—Lena requires something exquisite. Something desirable.

He exhales, voice a quiet murmur.

“Helen, pulchritudo in saxo sculpta,
Marmore osculata et crystallo creta.
Mollis est tuus vultus, calida tua cutis,
Sinito omnes qui spectant allici intus.” ^[2]

Magic hums through the air, and Lena transforms.

Strawberry blonde hair. Soft, delicate features. Blue eyes, just a shade too striking, akin to the depths of the sea. Skin as pale and flawless as fresh cream.

Perfect.

(“Why do you do all this?”

Aurelia’s voice rang with the kind of naive curiosity that made Hyperion wonder why he had chosen her of all people. She wasn’t from the last timeline—hadn’t been part of the carefully laid-out patterns he had once followed. No, she was new. An anomaly. A variable introduced when he decided to start changing things.

Not that it mattered. Everything could be accounted for, even unexpected pieces on the board.

“Because the world is never good,” he hummed, rolling a piece of obsidian between his fingers, watching how the dim candlelight gleamed against its surface.

Before him lay a table covered in potential—adamantine, obsidian, steel. His first choices. The materials that had created his first success. But repetition was stagnation, and he had no interest in stagnation. The next would be better.

“Because this world is doomed, and I want to stop it.”

His fingers curled around the obsidian, but then—something else. A shift in thought. His hand moved, trailing over the array of materials as he considered, carefully, deliberately. Liquid mercury pooled in a vial, thick and silver. He plucked it up.

And then—bronze. Simple. Humble. Weak—unless reinforced. Unless given something more.

Yes. That would do.

“What are you making?”

Aurelia’s curiosity remained blissfully intact, unaware, unshaped. Untouched. A temporary state, really.

Hyperion finally looked at her, and for a moment—just a moment—he considered. Then he laughed, soft and almost warm, though the amusement didn’t quite reach his thoughts.

“You know me,” he said, unfurling the scroll in his hands, letting her see the lines, the structure, the concept. “I create things I like.”

Aurelia’s reaction was irrelevant, but it was amusing nonetheless.

“My faith in humanity is fickle at best. Not after everything I’ve seen.”

Aurelia hugged herself, gaze flickering between him and the diagram as if trying to piece something together. As if she could.

“Is… is that why you’re trying to build this?” she murmured, her voice quieter now. Uncertain.

Hyperion almost pitied her. Almost.

“It’s dangerous, Hyperion,” she warned. Soft. Strange. She was usually louder. More insistent.

He hummed, trailing his fingers along the edge of the obsidian once more, letting the cool, glass-like surface ground him in something real.

“Sometimes,” he mused, “I don’t enjoy the company of humans. And yet, I want company.”

A solution, then. A compromise. A masterpiece.

“This, Aurelia,” he murmured, gaze alight with something she would never quite understand, “is my magnum opus.”

Charon had been the first. Forged from adamantine, obsidian, and steel. A creation not of companionship but utility. A servant meant to clear away the carrion. And he had been perfect.

Now, perfection must be matched.

He exhaled, eyes sweeping over his work, the pieces laid before him like fate itself had arranged them. Then, softly—

“Hello, Pandora.”)

Marvolo’s passage to America is disconcertingly smooth, so much so that it unsettles him—if only for a moment. Luck is not something he places much faith in. Fate is a far more useful concept, but even fate rarely offers such ease without expectation of repayment. Nevertheless, he shall accept what has been given.

Fudge, ever the bumbling opportunist, had been almost desperate to send him as Britain’s representative, eager to parade him before the Americans like some well-bred showpiece. He had practically thrust the position upon him, all the while awaiting some favourable result, no doubt hoping to bask in reflected glory should Marvolo succeed.

He will not disappoint. Not because of any desire to meet Fudge’s expectations, but because he has no interest in failure. Especially not when the Minister is so painfully dependent on those around him.

“Just run for Minister. It’s easier to deal with the problem that way.”

The words echo in his mind, as crisp as the day they were first uttered. Hyperion Peverell. A name that lingers, a presence that refuses to fade. That strange young man—so unnervingly perceptive, so endlessly curious.

It is almost irritating how often Peverell drifts to the forefront of his thoughts. Almost. The man’s reach extends far beyond Britain’s borders, his influence woven into places he should not yet have touched. And so Marvolo wonders—if he steps into an unfamiliar city, will he find Peverell waiting for him? Will the enigma materialise from the shadows purely for his amusement?

The notion is… pleasing. Yes.

He has yet to meet another so fascinating. So singularly compelling.

“Lord Gaunt.”

Lucius’s voice cuts through his musings as the man approaches, ever proper, ever composed. Marvolo acknowledges him with a glance, falling into step beside him as they move through the grand halls of the Congress.

“President Vanderholt is expecting you,” Lucius continues, his tone cool, professional. “She has been troubled as of late, considering one of the victims was discovered to be a former member of our Ministry.”

Marvolo barely inclines his head. “Which one?”

“Maximus Winthorp, third son of House Winthorp—Lady Winthorp’s youngest brother.”

A minor name, but not insignificant. Marvolo listens as Lucius leads him toward the President’s office, while the rest of their delegation is redirected toward their respective MACUSA officials.

“Our involvement stems from the treaty between MACUSA and our Ministry,” Lucius explains smoothly, always thorough, always prepared. “It obliges us to render aid when a citizen—particularly a current or former member of our Ministry—is implicated. Under ordinary circumstances, a smaller delegation would have sufficed. However, the revelation of Winthorp’s true identity has placed Vanderholt in a most precarious position.” A pause. A brief shake of the head. “And, of course, there are already whispers—people claiming the Olympians are responsible.”

Ah. So that is where the matter turns interesting.

“Bartemius has relayed that the Pantheon’s existence will soon become a formal ICW concern,” Marvolo murmurs, his gaze drifting, taking in every detail of the Congress’s architecture, the way the lamplight glows against polished marble. “Any association with them will fall under scrutiny. It has taken the ICW an entire year to assess the threat they pose—utterly laughable, if I may say so. Particularly when one considers that the Pantheon has already butchered members of four European houses and holds considerable sway over the black market.”

His eyes flicker back to Lucius, watching him from the corner of his vision. “The emergence of a fourth member suggests that the Pantheon is now willing to step into the light—if only marginally.”

Lucius exhales, contemplative. “Would it not be better for them to remain hidden?”

Marvolo hums, low and thoughtful. “Not when their ambitions are so vast. Whatever they may be…”

And therein lies the true intrigue. The why.

A hidden blade remains hidden until the moment of the strike. A force like the Pantheon does not reveal itself without purpose.

Which means, whatever they seek, they believe they are ready to take it.

Lucius clears his throat, a subtle prelude to their approach. His movements are precise, composed—an exercise in effortless charm as he guides Marvolo toward the woman awaiting them.

She is younger than Fudge, though not inexperienced. Prim and proper, her every motion tailored to present control, and yet… there. The faintest tremor in her stance, the almost imperceptible tightness around her eyes. A quiet sort of frantic energy, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of authority. Most would not notice. Marvolo does.

“President Vanderholt.” Lucius’s voice is warm, bordering on jovial—flattery worn like a second skin, polished and insincere. A deft redirection of her attention, smooth and practiced.

“I would like you to meet Lord Marvolo Gaunt, the man whom I have been speaking of.”

She blinks, her expression shifting—a brief hesitation before her features brighten by some marginal degree. Ah. The name has meaning to her, then. Dark hair braided back, robes expensive yet modest. A cultivated image. Meticulous.

So unlike Fudge. So perfectly unlike Fudge.

“Lord Gaunt! It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Honoria Vanderholt, and I have heard much about you—great things, if I may say so.” She chuckles, extending a hand. He takes it with careful precision, smiling in that measured way that elicits trust. A light squeeze, a fraction of a second longer than necessary, before she releases him.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, President Vanderholt. As you are doubtless aware, I am Marvolo Gaunt.” His words are smooth, practiced—each syllable placed with deliberate intent. “It is an honour to meet you, though the circumstances leave much to be desired. Nevertheless, I am prepared to extend my aid—particularly now that the fabled Pantheon… the so-called Olympians have seen fit to infiltrate your nation.”

Or they were already here in the first place.

It is a reasonable conclusion. Likely, even. A network of such reach, of such efficiency, does not build itself in the span of a year. No, the Pantheon has long since embedded itself in the fabric of global affairs. If he were to hazard a guess… Athena, perhaps, from France. Ares? Northern Europe, possibly. But speculation holds no value without confirmation.

Barty will look into it.

“Thank you kindly, Lord Gaunt. It’s been a rough few days for us all with the deaths of Adelaide Laveau and Maximus Winthorp.”

Vanderholt sighs, and for the briefest moment, the mask slips. Tired. She is tired.

“Was there not a fourth victim? Gadsden was killed before Winthorp.”

“Yes, that is correct, but his death remains under investigation, as Tristan Gadsden was killed at a firing range while practising archery. The usual motif employed by this Olympian is absent—arrows to both eyes and the neck.” Vanderholt frowns, lost in thought. “He's still under speculation since he might not have been a victim.”

“Was there not a public declaration concerning him prior to his demise? Apollo appears to take pleasure in broadcasting the transgressions of his victims—Tristan Gadsden being among them.”

“Which is precisely why his case remains inconclusive. Our Head Auror suspects that the revelation of Gadsden’s scandals may have been orchestrated by someone outside the Olympians.”

She crosses her arms, an amused smile curling at the edges of her lips.

Ah. Clever.

Marvolo exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. Not many perceive when they are being questioned. Fewer still respond with amusement.

Honoria Vanderholt… may yet prove worthy of his regard.

“I daresay I shall rather enjoy working alongside you, President Vanderholt.”

“Call me Honoria.”

“Very well then, Honoria.”

(Deep in the cusps of a castle, moonlit eyes gaze through glass and see red. The thread is thin—an unbreakable thing…)

Chapter Text

From one, learn all.

Hyperion is busy yet again. His obsessive nature, so singular in its focus, has rendered him an enigma—seen only in brief glimpses between classes, if at all. The students of Durmstrang have long since learned to tread carefully around Hyperion Peverell when he is consumed by his pursuits. To disrupt him when he is in such a state is to invite an unwelcome reaction.

So, as ever, Genevieve assumes the role of regulator.

It is not a demanding task, merely necessary. The school’s hierarchy requires careful attention, its systems monitored with a delicate hand. The younger students, in particular, must be shielded from certain… harmful ideologies. Durmstrang has long been steeped in them, and while such things do not concern her personally, they are a source of endless frustration for Hyperion. He dislikes inefficiency. He abhors stupidity. It is best, then, to ensure such sentiments are curbed before they take root. The older students have learned not to speak so carelessly within the castle walls.

Not unless they wish for Hyperion to hear—and for the inevitable consequences that follow.

But for now, her attention is required elsewhere. Another first-year. Another British student, cast from Hogwarts’ embrace. Well… not cast out, precisely. But the effect remains the same.

“Miss Selwyn.” Genevieve smiles, extending a hand as she regards the girl before her. A delicate thing, all nervous energy and downcast eyes. Ah. This one reminds her of Theseus. Similar in her hesitance, though more… stable, perhaps. Yes. That is the word for it. “My name is Genevieve Morganach, your senior in seventh year. You may call me Genevieve.”

A small kindness, this offer of familiarity. It is important, necessary, to put the girl at ease.

“Hello,” Marianne whispers, barely above a breath. “I’m… I’m Marianne Selwyn—but you knew that!” A nervous chuckle. The way she bites her lip, the subtle shift of her hands as she wipes them against the fabric of her skirt—telltale signs of discomfort. The girl refuses to meet her gaze, her shoulders tight with apprehension.

Genevieve’s smile softens. Poor thing. A personal summons would unsettle anyone, let alone a girl so new to these halls. Especially when it meant being plucked from the fragile social group she had only just begun to settle into.

“No need to be nervous, sweetheart.” Her tone is warm, honeyed. One hand lifts, smoothing out the girl’s hair with practiced ease. A simple touch—gentle, reassuring.

She lowers herself then, crouching to Marianne’s height. A subtle tilt of her head, an open expression. Approachable. The girl is small. Far too small, in fact, for someone of her age. That is… concerning.

“I’m just here for a preliminary check-up,” she soothes, watching as the girl tenses—then slowly, slowly begins to relax. “You’ve been in Durmstrang for… three months, yes?”

A nod. Hesitant, but engaged. Good.

“Good, good. I remember when I first came here. It was nerve-wracking!” She exhales softly, a gentle sigh—just enough to humanise the sentiment. A shared experience, woven seamlessly into the conversation. “So I often approach newer British students to see if they are faring well.” A pause, perfectly measured. “What about you, Marianne? Are you faring well?”

“Our culture? Our system?”

A soft, lilting smile curves Genevieve’s lips, a touch of amusement woven into her expression. Ah, such earnestness. “Not everyone sees Dark and Light magic the same way, darling. I’m sure you’ve learned this in your Principles of Magic class.”

A simple reminder, delivered with a gentle cadence. It is not a reprimand, merely… guidance.

Marianne’s face flushes the faintest shade of pink, her head bobbing up and down in frantic understanding. Oh, how sweet.

“If you have more questions on that, just look for Hyperion, alright?”

A perfectly reasonable suggestion. But Genevieve already anticipates the reaction before it arrives—the way the girl stiffens, the colour draining as if she’s just been condemned to something far worse than academic discourse. Marianne stammers, grasping at some polite refusal.

Genevieve recognises fear easily. She has long since learned to read its subtleties, to trace the lines of discomfort etched into another’s expression. And Hyperion? Well, people learn to fear him the moment they step foot into Durmstrang. But really, this is all quite unnecessary.

“Sweetie.” A soft murmur, the syllables light, careful. Genevieve reaches forward, smoothing a loose strand of hair back into place. A motherly touch—tender, reassuring. “Hyperion isn’t as scary as everyone says he is. It’s just that people envy him.”

A simple truth, spoken as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t worry, darling.” The words come like a lull, slow and easy, as she tilts her head just so, ensuring Marianne remains caught within her gaze. “Rion is quite soft on those who are passionate about magic. You must simply show him that you truly wish to learn, and he will answer your questions. And you might just get some candy out of it.”

The tension unspools. Marianne softens. Her shoulders, once drawn so tight, relax into something looser, something more willing.

Genevieve hums, pleased.

It is her duty, after all, to ensure that newer students do not fall prey to the cruelty of their peers. Marianne is vulnerable—one of the very few who requires careful tending. Genevieve had been much the same, once. Swept along by the tide of arrogance and bigotry that festered within these halls. Children raised to believe they were better, that superiority was their birthright.

She had allowed herself to be pulled beneath the current.

Until Hyperion—brilliant, commanding, his presence a force impossible to deny—had dragged her from the waters and into the light. His ideals, his ambitions, the sheer magnitude of what he could be had burned so vividly that she had not been able to look away.

Genevieve may not be as openly ambitious as Aurelia, but she possesses will. And will, when wielded correctly, is a powerful thing.

“Run along now, darling.” She keeps her voice warm and gentle, a quiet promise etched into the syllables. “Keep your friends close. And if anyone bothers you… perhaps even calls you unsavoury things, you come to me, alright?”

Marianne lingers—dazed.

“Yes, Genevieve.”

She nods—still a little lost in the wake of her words—before turning back to her little circle of friends. The reaction is instantaneous. Curious glances. Quickened whispers. The frantic press of questions.

Genevieve smiles. She has done her duty.

Marianne Selwyn is valuable enough to keep safe.

She wonders if Aurelia will come to agree. After all, who wouldn’t want another potions prodigy as a devoted little follower?

“Vivi.”

A familiar voice. A touch of exasperation woven into its cadence. Genevieve blinks, her gaze shifting toward Aurelia, who lounges against the wall with her arms crossed, mouth curled into a faint frown.

Irritated, then. But not quite angry.

“Lia?” Genevieve tilts her head, her tone light, inviting. “Where have you been?”

“Picking a fight with Rion.” Aurelia exhales, a sharp little sigh that betrays her frustration. “But he doesn’t seem troubled by everything going on.”

“Indeed… Why would he be?” Genevieve muses, the words lilting with something close to amusement. Predictable, really. “You know that Luna is much more capable than she seems.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I still see her as that frail girl Hyperion introduced to us.” Aurelia huffs, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. A deeply ingrained first impression—flawed, but persistent. “She looked like the wind could blow her away.”

Aurelia has always been blunt in her assessments, though this particular bias is… understandable. Luna had appeared fragile at first glance. A misleading image, one that Hyperion had known would serve its purpose well.

“Have you heard from the others?”

“Not… quite…” Genevieve sighs, soft, almost mournful. A carefully placed note of wistfulness. “Though I’ve heard bits and snippets from the twins.”

Aurelia shudders, lips twisting. “I still can’t believe Hyperion is friends with such maniacs.” A pause, then a sharper, incredulous, “Sponsoring them too.”

Genevieve giggles—light, effortless. “It’s quite nice. They’re an innovative pair. Of course Hyperion would sponsor them.”

Aurelia has always been wary of those she cannot fully predict, and the twins are erratic, volatile. But there is brilliance in their madness. Hyperion sees it. Genevieve sees it. Aurelia, stubborn as she is, will come to see it too, in time.

“And that sponsoring ends up with us being cooped up here.”

Genevieve hums, a note of gentle amusement laced within her tone. “You’re simply envious that they may wander freely while we remain confined to our studies.” A quiet reminder—level, factual, the sort of tone Hyperion himself often adopts when indulging the frustrations of his peers. “They are three years our senior, darling—it is only natural that they enjoy a touch more freedom than we do.”

She watches as Aurelia exhales, still bristling, still coiling frustration within herself like a tightened spring. She dislikes being told she cannot do something. An old trait, one that lingers despite all her discipline.

“Are you truly upset over Luna?” Genevieve asks, voice laced with something softer, almost coaxing. “She’s merely fulfilling her duty, my dear.”

Aurelia groans, fingers tangling in her own hair before a pout—subtle, fleeting—tugs at her lips. “Obviously. Hyperion gets all pissy the second we try to meddle with Luna.”

“He trusts her enough to handle things on her own. But us? Even his own sister?” Aurelia’s expression shifts, her gaze sharpening, questioning. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—Hyperion’s wary of everyone, even Hermione, and she’s his closest confidant.”

Genevieve allows a small pause, a moment of thoughtful silence.

“It is simply the nature of all brilliant leaders,” she murmurs, measured, careful. “Hyperion has endured a great deal of betrayal. No matter how unwavering our loyalty may be, he cannot help but harbour such doubts.” 

Her gaze lingers, sharp yet unassuming, watching for the telltale signs of deflection. “Be patient, Lia. Even you hesitated to trust any of us in the beginning.”

Aurelia, predictably, looks away.

“Come now, let us speak of America’s troubles elsewhere.” Genevieve shifts the conversation with practiced ease, ensuring the previous subject is left to simmer rather than boil over. “What has Rion said?”

“The puppets are being deployed.”

“Ah… and what is he doing now?”

“Cooped up in his room.”

Genevieve sighs, slow, measured.

Wonderful.

More work for her.

Cecilia Vance loves her mothers dearly. She loves her stepmother almost more than her own mother. And why wouldn’t she? Mary McDonald had once been her mother’s patient, a fact that often drew disapproving glances—unethical, they murmured, for a healer to fall in love with an amnesiac.

Cecilia was only seven when she first met Hazy Mary. A striking woman, all coiled hair and flawless dark skin, her presence immediately captivated Cecilia. But it wasn’t her skin, or her presence, or even the wondrous texture of her curls that fascinates her most.

It was her eyes.

They were strange—glazed over like frosted glass, unfocused yet perceptive in a way Cecilia does not understand. As if someone had placed an invisible barrier between her and the rest of the world, and no one had ever thought to remove it.

Emmeline Vance brought Miss Hazy home one evening, inviting her to share dinner with her and Cecilia. The moment Mary stepped inside, Cecilia saw it—the tension in her frame, the way her fingers twitch slightly, uncertain. The quiet war waged within her own body, as though she exists in a space unfamiliar to her.

Or perhaps, Cecilia thought back then, it is not her body that is foreign, but her very sense of self.

(Years later, she will see this same unsettling dissonance in the way Hyperion once clawed at his own skin, desperate, furious—lost.)

Her mother told her, in gentle, steady tones, that Hazy Mary is a victim of self-Obliviation. A person who could not bear the weight of the present and so had erased the past.

For Cecilia, the revelation settles deep within her, solidifying into something unshakable.

Obliviate should have been classified as a curse, not a charm. It strips a person of themselves, leaving them adrift in an unfamiliar existence. It takes away the pain, yes, but at what cost? Everything else.

Cecilia Vance is not the most moral person in Durmstrang, despite aspiring to be a healer. She understands cruelty, has witnessed vengeance, has stood amidst carnage and blood. There are moments when she wishes she could forge a spell to numb herself completely. But that thought always leads her back to the memory charm—the curse.

She knows that following Hyperion is the least moral path a person could take. He is cruel, unfeeling in ways that should frighten her, driven by an ambition so vast it threatens to crush them all beneath it. But he endures. How could she not be inspired by that?

He carries his pain without seeking to erase it. He bears his scars openly, each one a silent vow that he will never forget. His pride ensures that every wound remains—a testament, a reminder. An anchor.

That had been years ago.

Her mother has done what she can—carefully, patiently unweaving the curse that once gripped Mary so tightly. It is not a perfect restoration; some pieces of her past remain lost, slipping just beyond reach. But she has reclaimed fragments of her school years, the memories of Hogwarts slowly slotting back into place.

And best of all—for Cecilia, at least—is that Mary remembers the first time she met Emmeline Vance.

Not Healer Vance.

Just Emmeline.

It is her mother’s quiet resilience that first plants the seed within Cecilia. The way she moves, her hands steady and sure as they tend to wounds, her voice a soft reassurance to those in pain. It is the kindness in her mother’s eyes that sparks something deep within Cecilia, the certainty that healing is not just a skill but an act of devotion. And so, she follows in her footsteps, drawn to those who suffer, compelled to mend what is broken.

And it is that same devotion that ties her to the cruelest man she has ever known. Because despite Hyperion’s cruelty, he is still capable of being loved. He is still human. He still bleeds.

Some would call her naïve. They would tell her she is foolish to believe there is anything good in him. Perhaps she is. Perhaps she is deluding herself. But she knows—feels—that there is something buried beneath the frost of his soul. He does not care for all, nor does he strive to be noble, but there is something in him that reaches, even if it is faint. A hand, half-clenched, poised between holding on and letting go.

People call him a monster. A beast.

But her mother has told her time and time again: Monsters are made, not born.

If Hyperion Peverell is a monster, then someone has made him so. And Cecilia will offer him her love, her care, her unwavering loyalty—not to redeem him, but to prove that the world is not solely deserving of the fire he wields. If he has forgotten what it means to be human, then someone must remind him.

She will not let him lose himself. She refuses to let him slip away.

“Cia?”

Theseus slips into the dimly lit study, clutching his book bag, gaze skittering away from hers. She does not take offense. She has learned how to move carefully around him, how to respect the space he needs without making him feel isolated.

“Thes,” she says, offering a gentle smile. “Are you all right?”

“Erm… y-yeah… yeah. All good here, Cia. I—I just wanted to… uhm…” He sucks in a breath, his shoulders tight, his fingers clenching around the strap of his bag. “I… I wanted to ask if you’ve… if you’ve made any progress on that regulating plan… for me. I—I’m not pressuring you or anything! Just… Rion—he just… ah, never mind.”

“Thes—there’s no need to be so nervous. You can talk to me. I’m not like Lia—I won’t bite.” She giggles softly, tilting her head toward the chair across from her. A silent invitation.

As expected, he hesitates. His wariness is instinctive, the tension in his body something she has grown accustomed to. His gaze flickers—wall, bookshelf, chair. Still uncertain.

She watches, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

A slow inhale, fingers twitching. He closes his eyes for a moment, grounding himself. She remembers, so vividly, the first time she had learned of his condition. It had seemed like a gift then, something extraordinary. But she knows better now. She has seen what it does to him. The weight of it. The pain.

“Uhm… You know… Dem—uh—Neville’s status? He’s a healer… like you.” Theseus chews at his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth, his nails picking at the skin of his fingers. When his eyes finally meet hers, she is careful—so careful—to blink at a steady, measured pace. A small comfort.

Then his fingers move again, tracing invisible runes against his skin. Shapes that do not exist.

“Erm…” His throat works as he struggles for the words. Then, through clenched teeth, a quiet, frustrated breath. “Hyperion wants Neville t’ formulate a potion for me. To… t’ regulate my TOS. And… and Neville contacted me last night ‘bout it. He’s thinkin’ he might… might start a research paper on it too.”

She studies him. “And you’re not too pleased about that.”

“H-How could I be? It’s like… like takin’ the easy way out after… after everything I’ve been through for years. H-Hyperion was the first person to not pity me for havin’ TOS and… a-and I thought he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t care… so… so why?”

Cecilia exhales softly, thoughtful. “Because he does care. He has a strange way of showing it, but… Do you remember when we were still at Hogwarts? When Hyperion found out about Hermione’s arrest?”

Theseus nods, silent.

“He had me take you to the lake, Thes. He knew you’d be affected by his magic. You looked exhausted—no offense. But your eyebags are dark enough that it’s obvious you haven’t been sleeping well. You’re tired… dizzy… Hyperion sees this.” She presses her lips together. I see it too, she thinks, though she does not say it aloud.

“Whatever potion Neville is making, it’s for you. It’s so you can finally rest. So the world won’t feel like needles against your skin anymore.” She takes a slow breath. “Hyperion wants you to be able to look at him without pain.”

“I can… I…”

“Sensum Thaumaturgia isn’t a disease, Thes. It isn’t a flaw. It doesn’t make you any less. It’s simply a part of you, something interwoven with your magic. That doesn’t mean you’re broken.” She shakes her head, a soft smile gracing her lips. “If you don’t want the potion and would rather continue with the regulatory schedule, then we’ll do that.”

“I… I’m worried, Cia… If I take that potion… w-will… will I lose my ability to f-feel magic?” His voice is so small, his fear woven into every syllable. “H-How many times have I heard Hyperion talk about magic like it’s… like it’s a limb? How beautiful it is… cursed an’ blessed. W-What if I can’t feel it anymore? W-What if I lose mine?”

Her smile turns wistful, touched with something almost sorrowful. “Hyperion cares too much to let you.”

“Sensum Thaumaturgia.” Neville skims through the files Hyperion sent over, eyes narrowing as he chews absently on a piece of candy. Some rare magical disorder that makes people so bloody sensitive to magic they lose their minds. Fantastic. Because what the world really needs is more unpredictable nutters running about.

Not that anyone gives a toss about it, apparently. The lack of research is staggering—or maybe just willful ignorance. Not exactly surprising. He’s dug through enough archives to know when something’s been swept under the proverbial rug. Either way, this one’s a proper magical mystery. And of course, Hyperion has managed to dig up another stray with it. Theseus Rowle. Just another anomaly to add to his growing collection of bizarre projects.

Thaumic Overload Syndrome. Sounds fancy, but in reality? It basically turns Theseus into a walking, talking, glowing magic detector. Which, of course, makes him Hyperion’s personal holy grail. Just what the bloke needs—more things to obsess over. Not that Neville is particularly shocked. The man’s first so-called magnum opus was the Etheris, after all. A magical communication system powered by Aetherites and leyline manipulation. Because why stop at just a simple owl when you can bend reality to make phone calls?

Neville still remembers the first time Harry handed him one of these weird, flat crystal-like devices two years ago. Hadn’t had the foggiest idea what to do with it. Still barely understands the bloody thing, if he’s honest.

Right on cue, the Etheris starts blaring blue. He sighs, sets down the papers, and picks it up, tapping the edge to accept the call.

Luna’s voice filters through. 

“Hey, Luns,” he grumbles, still chewing.

“Marvolo Gaunt is here.”

Neville freezes. Blinks.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

Luna’s fingers dance over the cool glass, tracing unseen constellations on its surface. Reflections ripple, bending and warping as though whispering secrets only she can hear. Beyond the barrier, President Vanderholt leads Gaunt through the congress’s grand halls, their steps weaving patterns into the fabric of fate.

It is… well… rather amusing. A snake in a den of foxes, though only one of them realises it. She does not laugh, but the thought twirls like a ribbon in her mind.

“Miss Lovegood.”

A voice like silver, smooth and polished, with the weight of old things behind it. Luna tilts her head, blinking up at the figure before her. Some would mistake him for a woman—too beautiful, too sharp, like the fae, like a siren, like a veela spun from moonlight and secrets. But it is the wisdom in his eyes that makes her pause. Just for a second. Just enough.

It reminds her of Hyperion’s words, the ones he hums like an old tune.

Time devours all.

A signature, an omen. A truth carved into the bones of the universe.

“Headmaster Crowe.” Luna smiles, pinching the edges of her skirt as she dips into a graceful curtsy. “I thank you for indulging in my whims. Few would allow a student such a spectacle.”

Crowe tilts his head, birdlike, his gaze keen. “I would not indulge many of my students… and yet you are different, Miss Lovegood.”

“Is that so?”

“Not many perceive my condition, little one. You see what others choose to ignore.” Crowe chuckles, shaking his head as Luna leans against the glass. Gaunt moves below, smooth and sinuous—a serpent tracing the edges of a trap its prey has not yet noticed.

Fitting.

“Well… Some would say I’m mad for the things I see.” Luna’s smile is soft, her head tilting like a curious owl. “One might call me this era’s Cassandra.”

“You are named for the moon, child, not the cursed prophetess.” Crowe hums, clicking his tongue. “Many will believe you. Cassandra’s burden is not yours to bear.”

Crowe hums, “But our time is up, little one. I would not think it proper to steal my students away for too long. Come, let us return.”

Luna lingers. The echoes of words slip between her fingers like mist.

She smiles.

“Are you quite sure, Headmaster? I would be rather useful to the investigation.” A grin now, bright as a Cheshire cat’s spreads across her face. She is not ignorant of herself, of the weight of her knowing. Hyperion keeps her close for a reason.

“I would not dare exploit you, little one. Let us depart.”

“Headmaster…”

“You may greet the Snake on our way out.” Crowe rolls his eyes, beckoning her forward.

Luna grins again, tucking her hands behind her back as she skips to his side. Once more, she is reminded why she does not regret transferring.

She is not one to call herself the favoured student of her school. No, Nathaniel Crowe favours different students… those with edges smoother, thoughts quieter, steps less prone to dancing upon paths unseen. But he knows her worth, just as Hyperion does. There is no shame in admitting that some cannot be ignored.

Luna is simply one of the few that people shouldn’t ignore… lest they find themselves at the mercy of the universe’s laughter. But that is not her burden to carry. The ignorance of others is not Luna’s fault—Hyperion has whispered this time and time again, ensuring she does not let doubt burrow into her bones. A kind gesture, rare from their illustrious inventor, like a single star winking knowingly in the abyss.

They weave through the crowd, a current parting for a river’s will. Many bow their heads, voices murmuring greetings to Crowe. For someone who is pushing fifty, he wears time strangely, as if it has forgotten to sink its claws into him. Thirty at most, ethereal at worst. He does not seem to notice the lingering gazes, or if he does, he simply does not care. A creature unbothered by its own legend.

Luna grins, teeth like crescent moons.

Moments drift like leaves in a lazy stream, carrying her to the British embassy. Ah, and there he is—Lucius Malfoy, polished and poised, at the head of his delegation. A white chess piece among black, standing in line with the President of MACUSA herself. Gaunt moves beside her, steps measured, presence effortless, like a shadow slipping into the embrace of twilight. He wears power as if it is his birthright, and perhaps it is.

(Tragic, really. Power is a fickle thing. Luna knows. She has seen the threads unravel, watched kings and queens crumble under crowns too heavy to bear.)

Honoria Vanderholt notices them first, her eyes glinting like a polished coin flipping mid-air. Recognition flickers, memory reshapes the present, and for a moment, she is a student again, before the mask of presidency settles back into place. Everyone halts, a ripple effect of authority.

“Headmaster!”

“Honoria—ah… President Vanderholt.” Crowe adjusts with a smile, soft as parchment aged with care.

Vanderholt blinks. There it is—that awkward stiffness, the clash between memory and status, between who they were and who they are now. Fascinating. Luna tilts her head, curious as a cat watching a bird that does not flee.

“You may still call me Honoria, Headmaster. I have told you this many times.”

“Ah… forgive me, dear girl. I merely wished to offer you the proper formalities… especially in front of distinguished guests… and my student.” Crowe gestures, a sweeping motion from the British embassy to Luna, who waves eagerly, fingers fluttering like wings. “Miss Lovegood here is actually from Britain. Quite the coincidence that you all arrived just as I brought her here.”

Vanderholt’s gaze lingers, weighty, assessing. Then, a shift—a smile, stiffening just slightly. “Pray, why have you brought her here, Headmaster? Is it not a weekday?”

“It is. But Luna was recently scouted by your Body for the Protection of Magical Species. Her aptitude in Care of Magical Creatures has piqued their interest.” Crowe’s voice drapes over the conversation like silk, smooth and unhurried. “However, she is from Britain. Though she holds American citizenship, we wished to ensure that would not hinder the possibility of her working here in the future.”

She pauses, then nods. “I see.” Vanderholt’s expression softens, turning to Luna with something like pride flickering in her eyes. “It is good to know that this generation holds such brilliant minds that even my ministry has taken an interest in you. I shall await great things from you, Miss Lovegood.”

Luna hums, rocking on her heels. “Dear me, don’t say such things, Madam President. I feel pressured now.”

She laughs—genuine, warm. Vanderholt visibly appreciates the levity, tension slipping from her shoulders. “Then I shan’t. Oh…” The woman turns to her guestd. “Might I introduce you to Nathaniel Crowe—our current Headmaster of Ilvermorny. He was my Sidereal Arts professor many years ago.”

Gaunt’s gaze flickers to Crowe, a nod of acknowledgement before curiosity takes root. “Sidereal Arts? Apologies, but I am unfamiliar with such a subject.”

Before Crowe or Vanderholt can speak, Luna claps her hands together, eyes bright as a supernova. “It is akin to the astronomy we learn at Hogwarts. However, Sidereal Arts delve into how celestial bodies and their placements, along with cosmic phenomena, influence magic—spellwork, ambient energy, even fate.” She pauses, smiling like she holds the universe’s secrets between her teeth. “Think of it as a blend of astronomy, divination, and magical theory.”

Gaunt appraises her, a flicker of amusement curving his lips. A rare thing. He inclines his head. “My thanks for the explanation, Miss Lovegood. I find great difficulty in admitting ignorance… but I appreciate your efforts, regardless.”

Oh, Luna muses, Marvolo Gaunt does so hate being ignorant.

(There is a hush beneath the sea, where darkness unfurls like ink spilt upon a celestial map. The water hums secrets only the deep can know, and her fingers wade through its fabric—brushing against constellations submerged in the abyss. Starlight bends here, refracted through liquid silence, painting her skin in ghosts of futures yet to be.

She is not omniscient. Fate demands obedience, draping a gauzy veil over her sight, a translucent blindfold tied with the silken threads of inevitability. She cannot lift it, not truly. Not without consequence. But even so… she sees.

And what she sees is Hyperion.

Inventing. Forging. Creating.

A grand symphony of brilliance and ruin, a craftsman sculpting wonders from the marrow of the cosmos. It is magnificent. Splendid, even.

If not for the way his hands—ones she has clasped before, fingers curling around his palms in fleeting moments of warmth—are now stripped to the bone, flesh sloughing away like autumn leaves in a winter gale.)

(A flicker—green eyes, bright as spring’s first bloom.

A shift—red, burning like the embers of a world yet to collapse.)

Chapter Text

A calm mind in the midst of difficulties.

His latest masterpiece—well, let’s call it a work-in-progress—lies cold and still on the table. Unfinished, but promising. A proper little magnum opus in the making.

This one is particularly necessary. Not in the way air is necessary, or water, or food, because let’s be honest—he can go a concerning amount of time without those things. No, this is something more pressing. A solution to a rather irritating problem. See, he has a habit of getting himself into trouble. The sort that leaves scars. The sort that makes people mutter about contingency plans and exit strategies. But he doesn’t trust anyone to pick up the pieces if things go south. Never has.

So, naturally, the best course of action? Build something that ensures he won’t be dying anytime soon. For longevity and yield, of course.

“Why the fuck are you staring at that emerald like you’re gonna eat it?”

Ah. There it is. The sound of an oncoming migraine. Hyperion sighs, side-eyeing Neville, who is currently draped against the doorframe like a particularly judgmental housecat. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother protesting. He’s long since accepted that Neville Longbottom is immune to shame and even more immune to subtlety.

The emerald gleams under the light, utterly unbothered by the interruption. He sets it down beside the automaton’s head and flashes Neville a bright, very charming smile, gesturing him inside. House rules dictate nobody enters the lab uninvited. Not even his dear herbologist, who seems to find new and inventive ways to exasperate him daily.

“You’re making another one?” Neville’s eyes skim over the skeletal frame on the table. He looks like he’s assessing a particularly troublesome weed. “You already have seven.”

“And they’re all for the cause.” Hyperion grins.

Neville’s eyes narrow, flicking to the two automatons standing sentinel by the walls. “Charon, Pandora, Cassandra, Icarus, Daedalus, Helen, and Atalanta,” he lists, tone impressively dry. “Why are Cas and Delus here?”

“Monitoring, of course.” Hyperion grins, fingers absently trailing over the automaton’s unfinished form. “This one—” He cradles the automaton’s head with the reverence of a sculptor admiring his latest creation. “—is very important to me, Nev. Not combat. Predictive. This one isn’t for us.” His grin sharpens. “It’s for me.”

“What are you naming it?” Neville asks immediately, waving at Cassandra, who dips into a polite bow. Delus doesn’t react, its bright blue optics fixed on the newest addition to the family.

“Something practical.”

Neville hums, “Another legend?”

“Nope.” Hyperion pops the ‘p’ for emphasis.

Neville raises an eyebrow. “Her?”

“Obviously.” Hyperion rolls his eyes, already sorting through the chosen materials—adamantine (a staple, naturally), gold infusion, quartz, synthetic dermaplating. “She needs to look as human as possible, even before the enchantments.”

Neville exhales. “What, making artificial humans now?”

“Automatons are automatons, Neville.” His voice is light, almost amused, as he fingers a length of enchanted wiring. “They aren’t people.”

Neville’s hand hovers over the automaton’s arm.

Hyperion notices.

He does not like it.

“Touch my creation, and I’ll burn your hand off.” The words are sweet, the kind of casual promise that makes people second-guess whether he’s joking.

Neville, wisely, withdraws his hand.

Good.

Hyperion doesn’t tolerate interference, and Neville, for all his aggravating tendencies, knows when to be obedient. A trait he appreciates. Meddling, after all, is the fastest way to an unfortunate accident.

“Right…” Neville clears his throat, valiantly changing the subject. “Did you invite Ron?”

Delus moves—quick, efficient, lifting the automaton’s structured frame with seamless precision. Neville sidesteps without effort, well-versed in dodging Hyperion’s mechanical children. The preservation chamber hums, welcoming the construct into its silvery depths. Hyperion watches as the incomplete body is lowered into the silvery stasis draught. She’s stiff—like all his creations at first—but the liquid works quickly, loosening the joints, letting her limbs go slack. Marination is key. Forty-eight hours. No more, no less.

Delus doesn’t need prompting. Its chest plate glows, displaying the countdown.

“Thank you, Delus,” Hyperion murmurs, then turns back to Neville. “And yes. Ron’s invited. The twins are picking him up soon.”

Neville hesitates. “But not Ginny?”

Hyperion’s smile is sharp. “No.”

Neville frowns. “Vance and Rowle are here, though. They’re her age.”

“She hasn’t been inaugurated into our operations,” Hyperion says simply. “I wouldn’t dare bring her here when she doesn’t even understand what we’re doing.”

Neville exhales through his nose. Then, as if sensing he needs to phrase it like a strategy and not an appeal to sentiment, “Ron could introduce her. Gauge her reaction. See if she’s cut out for it.”

A fair point. Hyperion hums, considering. Ginny is… talented. Particularly in combat. With the right training, she could even rival Theo.

“I’ll think about it.” He waves a hand, already losing interest. “Good eye, Nev.”

Neville sighs, relieved. Hyperion doesn’t acknowledge it. No need to reward him for barely passing a test he should’ve aced in the first place.

“At the moment, I want you to concern yourself with the fact Theseus refuses to take potions for his ailment.”

Neville tilts his head, all concerned and terribly noble as usual. “Why? I mean… if I figure out how it works, I could make a potion to lessen the effects.” He huffs, running a hand through his hair like he’s in some sort of wizarding romance drama. “You gotta talk to him about it. Last I heard from him, his stutter’s gotten worse.”

“Thes thinks it's taking the easy way out.” Harry shrugs, because of course he does. “Such a thought process is absurd, in my opinion. Why not take the easy way out?”

Neville snorts—uncultured noise, really. “Ironic, coming from the bastard that likes things complicated.”

Harry grins, sharp and unapologetic. Complicated does tend to mean fun, doesn’t it? Naturally, he chose the route with the most gears and sharp edges. Servants would’ve sufficed, true, but where's the artistry in that? Automatons were better. Cleaner. Less annoying. Didn’t talk back—most of the time. Besides, trusting people? Laughable concept. He had himself, and that was more than enough.

He rather liked to imagine himself as a modern-day Hephaestus, minus the limp and emotional baggage. Tucked away in his own divine little forge, surrounded by machines that didn’t judge him. Much preferred that to the chaos of people and their pesky feelings.

“But we shouldn’t force him,” Harry hums, in what might generously be described as a thoughtful tone. “Theseus is still quite anxious. After two years, my progress with him has been sluggish.”

Sluggish, indeed. And that alone should’ve set every internal alarm bell ringing. Nothing in his life stayed sluggish. Automatons? Quick work. Month and a half, two if he felt lazy. Three if he wanted to be dramatic. But Theseus Rowle? Two years. Two bloody years, and the boy still flinched like a spooked kitten. Hyperion was beginning to suspect that maybe —just maybe—this was a lost cause.

Neville says nothing. Which, of course, is worse than if he'd launched into one of his famous moral tirades. Silence from Neville usually means he’s thinking. Dangerous.

“Harry…”

“Yes?”

Neville steps in closer, shoulder-to-shoulder now. The physical distance minimal, the emotional gulf—a bleeding chasm. Naturally.

“Why won’t you cut him loose?”

Harry stills. Sharp inhale. Mouth snaps shut. Oh, that question. The one that pokes right where it stings a bit. He asks himself the same thing on particularly irritating days. What was the point , really, of keeping a boy so catastrophically damaged? Not useless , per se—he’d never keep someone useless—but painfully underwhelming.

No excuse. No decent one, anyway.

“Where am I supposed to find someone with Sensum Thaumaturgia ?”

And there it was—the justification that danced around morality with the grace of a drunk pixie. Rare condition, that one. Delightfully complicated. He’d had his theories (he always had theories), and dear old Death had tossed him a few breadcrumbs. The working hypothesis? Some form of magical core misalignment. Not “defective”—heavens, no. That word made people twitchy. “Misconfigured” sounded much more academic.

“Theseus’ case is rare, Neville. I won’t be able to examine any other person with such an illness in this lifetime.” Harry turns back to his notes, as if the matter’s settled. Already scribbling out what features to slap onto his latest project.

“So you’re going to experiment on him?” Neville’s face does that little furrow thing, like he’s actually surprised.

Harry scoffs. “That’s an awful way of putting it, darling. Theseus’ case will crop up again. Loads of people suffer from the same overload. He and I are simply studying the condition. For science. For the greater good. For future victims of TOS.”

Neville shakes his head, because of course he does. Still clinging to his sad little moral compass. Tragic, really.

“Whatever you say.” He huffs. “The others are waiting. Finish up. They want you down for dinner.”

“I’d never miss it for the world.”

(He would. Happily. If something even mildly more interesting presented itself.)

“Rion,” Luna tilts her head like a curious owl, smile soft as moonlight. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, not too much, just enough to show mischief beneath the serenity. “Will you come to America with me?”

There’s a pause. Hyperion turns, gaze inquisitive in that way that means the gears are whirring behind the curtain. The others hush, as they often do when the air grows charged with something unsaid. Dinner, for all its pomp and clink, always quiets when something... intriguing lands on the table like a riddle with teeth. Well, they’re like throwing a waltzing Nargle into a tea party.

At the head of the table, Hyperion perches like a content cat. His throne, naturally. Hermione rests to his right—sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued—and Neville anchors the left. Luna has claimed the seat next to Neville, and the pattern spirals from there: Theodore, the twins, Aurelia. Opposite, Hermione is flanked by Ron, Genevieve, Cecilia, and then—like a shadow in soft clothing—Theseus.

The twins stop their tormenting of poor Ron. Hermione and Genevieve fall quiet, their gazes turning hawk-like. Aurelia, ever the sceptic, follows, eyes narrowing like window shutters in a storm.

“What for?” Hyperion asks, voice cool, but she sees the flicker—interest pricking at his edges.

“Headmaster Crowe is throwing a soirée, quite the clinking-glass affair, hosted by House Picquery. The American kind.” Her voice lilts with purpose. “Headmistress Romanova will be there too.” She smiles wider, knowing full well that mentioning their oh-so-generous benefactor would rattle his cage a bit. “President Vanderholt is attending, and the Scamanders. Weren’t you hoping for a chat with one of them?”

“Hm… I was.” He hums, already shifting into that calculating stillness. “Rolf Scamander is set to inherit his father’s seat in a few years, right?”

His eyes flick to the four still posted in Britain. Theo, capable but not exactly the pulse-reader of Light families. Ron, observant of tides but not necessarily of names.

“Rolf? He was in our year, wasn’t he?” Fred asks George, head tilted like a pair of synchronised sunflowers. A nod from George confirms.

“Ravenclaw, if I remember right,” George says, tone pensive. “But he got on well with the Puffs. Bones, Diggory. That lot.” Then he stiffens, all at once, as if a ghost brushed his spine.

Fred jumps in, breezy. “Scamander was bloody brilliant at COMC. Not a shocker, really. Name like his. We weren’t close, but word was he went Stateside every summer. To visit his gran.”

“Tina Scamander,” Luna offers, tone delicate like a floating feather. “Used to teach at Ilvermorny. Defence Against the Dark Arts, naturally.”

Harry hums in that thoughtful way of his, the one that sounds like stormclouds deciding if it’s worth the rain. “It’d be good to attend.”

Hermione, sharp as a pen’s nib, cuts in swiftly. “And risky. If Aleksia’s attending, she won’t like seeing you there. If you’re only after Scamander, then all this theatre is a waste. Someone else should go with Luna.”

“Hermione,” Ron grimaces, voice edged but thoughtful. “I get it, but Scamander’s not the only one there. Vanderholt, Crowe—it’s worth Harry going. Politically smart.”

Hermione doesn’t blink, but her eyes narrow like slits of drawn curtains.

Ron, poor underestimated Ron—people forget the quiet ones sometimes know how to play the game best. His seat in the group was spy, but the boy had the mind of a strategist if he wasn’t panicking. Harry made sure of that. Clever, clever Harry.

Hermione, however, does not enjoy the itch of someone else's foresight brushing too close to her pride. She hides it well, but Luna hears the scratch.

“Ron has a point,” Neville chimes in, ever the earthy voice of reason. “Why not let Harry go?”

Aurelia snorts, arms folding like crossbows. “Aside from the fact that we don’t know who else might be there, it’s reckless to have him out in the open.” Her nose twitches, as though the thought itself smells foul. “I vote no.”

“Voting?” Cecilia murmurs beside Theseus, dreamy, but grounded. “That would be plausible.”

Luna nods solemnly, as if blessing an ancient rite. “Then let us vote. Hyperion?”

Hyperion sighs, like a dragon tired of hoarding jewels. He pushes his plate aside, crosses his arms. Leans back, eyes assessing. “It’d be best if I do not participate.”

“Alright,” Luna smiles. “Raise your hand if you approve of Hyperion going to America with me.”

She raises her hand first, of course—light as gossamer. Ron and Neville follow without fuss. The twins, ever the chaos duo, shoot their hands up next. Genevieve joins. Six.

“Those not in favour?”

Hermione, Aurelia, Cecilia, and dear Theseus all lift their hands. Predictable as clockwork, some of them.

“Theodore?” Luna turns to the boy beside her, smile still soft, though her eyes flicker with stars.

He hesitates. Lips purse, gaze lowers. She notices, of course, the way his eyes flick to Hermione—quick, nervous.

How curious. Will Theo follow the thread of his own thoughts? Or knot himself around hers?

Eventually, he sighs. “I’m in favour of Hyperion going. It would be beneficial.”

Luna beams. Starlight trapped in a face. “Wonderful! So… My lord ?”

Hyperion pauses. Still, like a cat deciding whether to pounce or nap. Then he chuckles and tips his head. “What colour will you be wearing?”

Hermione scoffs. Loud, unimpressed, and not bothering to hide it as she returns to her meal.

“Would red and purple suffice?” Luna grins, all twinkling grace, nodding her head with an air of quiet triumph.

Later… Ah, yes… the hush-hush hushes of arguing—like wind through cursed reeds, muffled and mean. Luna hears them before she sees them, their words like wriggling Dirigible Plums caught in an electric storm. Magic veils most of it, though emotion always bleeds through, stubborn and soaked in static. A quarrel, crackling between two ends of a fraying cord. The others scatter like Nargles from a broken ward. Nobody lingers long when Hermione and Neville spar. Nobody, of course, except for Hyperion. He lingers like prophecy—inevitable.

She ghosts into the room, unnoticed, unseen, unbothered. As easily as the moon slides behind cloud. Hyperion is already by the window, drink in hand—something red and treacherous, like spilled war or cherry cordial left too long in the dark.

Meanwhile—

“It’s unsafe for him to just go running around like a bloody peacock!” Hermione’s voice spits fire, all flint and fury. “He’s attracted enough attention by revealing to Hogwarts where he went, we can’t just expose Hyperion to more British delegates!”

Neville flares. Not loudly, but like embers that know how to burn slow. “Which is why he has to go! If Hyperion stays silent, someone’s bound to spin a tale, aren’t they? Dumbledore’s practically a bard with a vendetta. What happens when he decides to recast Hyperion as some enchanted fool? Whispered away by shadows?”

“What makes you think Dumbledore would—”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Luna offers, gently. A ripple on still water. Her voice trails soft, but her meaning cuts clean. “Albus Dumbledore is not a man who watches quietly. He’s the sort of story that rewrites itself, again and again. Hyperion’s return is a lodestone. Shifts everything. And once, not too long ago, he wore the crown of the light.”

Hermione bites her cheek—nervous habit, like gnawing on unspoken spells. She doesn’t answer straightaway. A wise move. Arguing with a Seer is like shouting at the tide: it hears you, yes, but it doesn’t stop coming.

Luna watches the doubt flicker behind her eyes. Hermione, with her maps and her logic, her cleverness sharpened to a fine edge. But even the sharpest blade avoids slicing at Time. And Time, curious thing that it is, dances often in Hyperion’s shadow. Hermione knows better than to test it.

“But still…” she says at last, words heavy, stitched together with caution. “Isn’t it counterproductive to just… make Harry visible again? He already has a reputation beyond Britain. Europe watches. Why stir the ghosts we’ve tried so hard to keep sleeping?”

“When did we exclude them?”

A subtle shift. Her voice catches.

“What?”

Hyperion huffs, the sound warm and disdainful all at once. Like a king annoyed with the obvious. “Might I remind you, sister, the Weasleys are still there. Fred and George—do you think I’d let them keep shop in Britain if I didn’t intend something?”

Hermione tries again, “But—”

“Much as it disgusts me, I do not tell you everything , dearest,” Hyperion murmurs. His smile is soft as silk and just as binding. He rises, closes the space between them with the ease of a well-practised dance. He touches her hair. Then her cheek.

“Sister… why are you really against this?”

Hermione stiffens, all steel and resistance. But Luna sees it. The telltale flicker. The breath she forgets to take.

Even Neville seems to sense it, his stance shifting. Guarded now, like a knight watching an unfamiliar move in a familiar game.

“I—”

“Are you angry with me?” Hyperion’s voice turns quieter still. “Displeased? Say it, plainly. I don’t want to walk blindly into your silence.”

Foreheads press—an old magic, a comfort. Luna knows the ritual. The intimacy of it. The stillness before truth.

“Promise me you won’t fight this until you’re honest…”

Hermione doesn’t flee. She leans in. Her body softens. Vulnerability dressed in logic’s robes.

“I’m worried about you,” she whispers. “You could be in danger. Gaunt might be there, if Luna’s prediction holds. He’s been whispering with Vanderholt… got cosy just last month.”

“You ought to lead with that sort of thing,” Hyperion hums. A kiss to her brow, soft as candle smoke. “I’m grateful, ‘Mione. Truly. But I can’t be a ghost forever. Can you trust me?”

Luna’s gaze shifts. She finds Neville. Oh… that look. So very green, and not the kind from envy alone. There’s something old in it. A tangled history. Fire, perhaps. Or grief with a name.

He clicks his tongue and looks away.

Family, Luna thinks, is never just hearth and harmony. It’s thorny. Ancient. Like the Labours of Heracles, only bloodier.

A moment later, Hermione nods. She caves, not like stone but like water that finally finds the crack. Hyperion smiles. Ah… there’s the illusion of relief. Just enough to be believed. She pinches his arm, and they return to their rhythm. Brother. Sister. Knife. Sheath.

Well then. All’s well that ends in a ball. She really ought to pick her dress now. Something divine. Maybe with starlight stitched into the hem.

Luna swings her legs, rhythmic and quiet, as she perches herself upon the table’s edge—a curious sort of throne. The air smells faintly of copper and ink, like old tomes left too close to candlelight. Hyperion hasn’t gone to sleep, of course. He rarely does when the moon hangs like a scythe in the sky. Everyone else has already drifted off, cocooned in their warm little dreams, all except for the king of shadows himself. It’s three in the morning—or two days before Yule, if one prefers to think in feasts rather than clocks.

Soon, the rest will return home, like migrating birds, all instinct and timing. This supper had only ever been a formality. A gathering of players between acts. Luna too will be departing soon. Back to her father, back to the echoing comfort of conspiracy and candlelit philosophy. Likely the day before Yule, if the tides align.

Her gaze shifts—not lazily, but deliberately—to the chamber across the room. There, nestled in artificial sleep, lies a doll. Pale as frost, joints bald and bulbous like marbles jammed into a child’s toy. Porcelain, yes. But somehow… breathing. At least in spirit.

“What is this one for?” she asks, voice as gentle as snowfall. Her fingers drift to one of Hyperion’s notebooks. It’s heavier than it looks—like a book with too many secrets—and she leafs through its pages with careful, almost reverent fingers. The ink swirls like spiderwebs, diagrams complex enough to snare thought. Her brow furrows, just slightly.

“Rion?”

“It’s for me,” comes Hyperion’s voice. Flat. Final. Like a stone falling down a well.

And then—tick, tick, tick—the soft stirrings of Daedelus. The automaton rises like a marionette from a sleeping spell, the timer set in its chest blinking like a watchful eye. Without ceremony, it begins to clean the lab, arms twitching with precision.

“Delus,” Hyperion commands, more mechanism than man.

“My lord?” The puppet replies instantly, voice smooth and devoid of hesitation. Its limbs move with eerie grace, fingers already reconfiguring themselves into tools—spanners, tweezers, scalpels. No nerves. Only purpose.

“Pandora needs tending,” Hyperion continues. “Ensure everything is locked in her room and remind me to shift the house again. I don’t want her location static.”

His tone is like oil—clean and polished, but impossible to wash off.

Luna hums, low in her throat, threading her fingers together as she closes her eyes for a moment. A whisper of thought, like wind brushing the library shelves. “You know, I’ve always found it rather strange… that you gave an automaton the same name as my mother. I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate, but still…”

“I have a puppet named after your mother. Yes,” Hyperion replies, ever unflinching. He wipes at a tool with a white cloth, slow and methodical. “And no, Luna. I won’t show you Pandora.”

She pouts—genuinely. Everyone else knows how many of these eerie little creatures Hyperion’s built. But Pandora… he guards her like the Minotaur’s maze. Walled off and labyrinthine. Only Luna knows of Hyperion actively hiding the puppet. A secret between Seer and Sorcerer.

“Will you hide this one too?” she asks, hopping lightly on the table so her bare toes press into the wood. She turns toward the puppet in the chamber, placing her hand upon the glass. It’s cold. Not unkind, but firm. Her eyes settle on the twin emeralds embedded in its face—eyes, or they will be, when it wakes. If it wakes.

“I have no intention of that,” Hyperion chuckles, though it’s the sort of sound that might live behind a locked door. “She’s meant to be a caretaker. For me. Only me. I don’t keep house elves, darling, and Hermione’s perfectly capable of managing herself. But you may have noticed—I haven’t exactly been… well.”

“And rather than consult a healer, or brew yourself a proper potion, you’ve chosen instead to build a puppet to play nursemaid?” Luna tilts her head. There’s no venom in her voice—just observation, brittle and bright.

“Harsh, but true.”

Her frown deepens, lips pressing together like closing petals. This puppet… it won’t be like the others. The others wore mythology like costumes. This one is myth—born from sketches he’s drawn in sleep, in obsession, in sickness. There’s something in its stillness that whispers of Prometheus and his fire. Or worse.

“I hope you don’t regret your choice, Rion.”

“I won’t.”

The certainty in his voice is unsettling. Not because he believes it—but because she knows he knows he’s lying.

Chapter Text

I seek not a name, but merit.

Luna remembered the first time she encountered him—not Harry, no, but Hyperion. Names are rather like spells, aren’t they? Each one meant to contain something greater than itself. And his… his was not the one the world knew. Fate, she had always been told, was a woven thing—neatly stitched by those above with some semblance of order. But the loom had trembled that day. Quite unlike the predictable clack of threads in motion.

Her mother—wise and wild and wonderfully strange—once whispered to her about their blood. What it meant. Seers. Seers, they were—branded and blessed. Or cursed, depending on whether one favoured Prometheus or Cassandra. Seers, like Cassandra and Tiresias and others the world never remembered, peering into rippling waters not to see their reflections, but what lay beneath. The stream of Time usually whispered secrets gently. A soft gurgle, a glint under the surface, the hush of centuries sliding past. To see through the ripples—now, that had always felt gentle. A slow, spiralling dance of water and time. But something had shifted. But—

Two years ago, that current snarled. Not a ripple, no. It was as though a stone had been flung in by the Fates themselves—no ceremony, no warning. The migraine that followed was dreadful. Stars behind her eyes. Teeth chattering despite the summer heat. Her skull, too tight a space for such visions. Like Athena springing from Zeus, but with less grace and far more nausea.

The first thing she saw was a monster. All bone and blood, looking directly at her. That gaze—it rooted her to the classroom floor, her heartbeat out of rhythm like a skipping record. She nearly fainted halfway through Professor Flitwick’s lecture on charm theory. Sleep was a distant friend after that, traded for dreams that reeked of iron and transformation. The monster evolved with each vision—closer and closer to human, draped in flesh like a borrowed robe, but still, unmistakably... wrong.

The first thing she saw was a monster—tall, skeletal, and dripping with the suggestion of something ancient and angry. Its limbs were too long, strung with sinew that twitched as if remembering pain. The skin—or what passed for it—was stretched thin over bone, mottled with grey and red as though it had been flayed and reassembled. Its mouth, lipless and wide, was filled with rows of needle-like teeth, and its eyes—if they could be called that—glowed faintly from hollow sockets, fixed on her with unnerving clarity. That gaze—it rooted her to the classroom floor, her heartbeat out of rhythm like a skipping record. 

August, 1995. The second week. She had dreamt of the creature once more. This time, it smiled. That made it worse. Human. Familiar. A face that wore the name Harry Potter, though the eyes belonged to something else entirely. He introduced himself, as though in a play, with all the poise of a noble from a Shakespearean tragedy. Hyperion Peverell, he said. His eyes gleamed emerald. His smile was honey laced with hemlock.

The very next day, she had gone to Exeter with her father. The library was quite nice—quiet, in the way sacred places should be. And that’s where she saw him. Harry—or so he was still called—appeared when she turned down an aisle of dusty folios and forgotten spell books. But he was not the Harry from the Triwizard Tournament. No, this Harry looked eerily like the creature that haunted her dreams. Too familiar. Too exact.

“Luna Lovegood,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach the corners of his eyes.

They were strangers then. Names shared, but no more.

Luna rarely understood fear the way others did. But in his presence? Oh, it tasted like metal. Her spine trembled as she clutched the books to her chest like a talisman.

“Harry Potter,” she replied, biting her tongue before she betrayed the future with a name not yet given.

He tilted his head, like a cat playing with a bird. That smile again, wide and too white.

“You know my name… Good.”

Her mouth almost moved to say it—to address him as My Lord. A slip from the visions. Such words belonged to futures not yet written. She stepped away—distance as defence. But he moved forward, predictably, inexorably. Step by step until her breath caught and she stood before him. Her shoulders drew in, shrinking beneath that gaze, and she inhaled slowly, not daring to take in too much of the magic coiling off him like smoke.

She folded inwards, drawing breath through her nose, trying not to inhale the magic that clung to him like perfume. It was too much. It always was.

“Herald of Fate,” he hummed, a title not given lightly. “He calls you that.”

She knew who he meant, though she wished she didn’t. Her eyes drifted to the shadow behind him, massive and still, wrong in the way ancient things are wrong.

Mistake.

“Ah, so you can see him,” he said, and his grin sharpened. “I found the right person then.”

He extended his hand. It was not an invitation. It was a test.

Luna hesitated, then took it—of course she did. Her fingers barely brushed his and already the chill bloomed up her arm. The kiss he placed on her knuckles made her flinch, her skin crawling as though she’d brushed against nettles. He held fast, pleased. Too pleased.

“Miss Lovegood… Won’t you join me in creating a new world?”

She’d been terrified, then. The audacity of such a thing—a new world? It sounded like something out of Milton or madness.

And yet… here she was. Still chasing the sliver of paradise the Fates had shown her, working to shape the dream she’d once feared.

The Arcforge is expanding—growing, mutating, an eldritch little dream of Hyperion’s made almost manifest. And like any good creator, he takes pride in presentation. He clasps a pendant round Luna’s neck, not delicately, but with the air of someone placing a crown. Then a cuff bracelet on her wrist, gleaming softly with enchantments. Experimental shield charms, more art than science at this stage. They hum with an echo of the rebound spell he'd built a while back—a curious hybrid of Contrectos layered with modified resonance runes. Certainly not the brute strength of Aegis Refrenare. But finesse was so much more elegant, wasn’t it?

The spells are prototypes. They will probably fail. He doesn’t mention that part aloud.

Luna arrives in a purple dress, a shade so deep it borders on bruised plum. Crimson ribbon at the waist, rubies winking at the collar like bloodstains trying to be elegant. She has a flare for the theatrical—Hyperion approves. She understands presentation. Meanwhile, he’s in red, robes tailored sharp with amethyst accents laced into the sleeves and collar. His ensemble glints in the light like a dare. He likes to imagine he looks like royalty. Or a curse, dressed in crimson silk.

“Where’s your professor?” he asks the moment their feet touch stone. The portkey drop-off is a sea of robes and wandering eyes. They’re met by a witch in black robes—tight-lipped, meticulous, the kind who probably alphabetised her curses.

She gestures them through and they move, slipping past the crowd into a room dressed in gold leaf and guilt. A ballroom, predictably opulent. Charmed chandeliers hang like crystalline parasites, casting glamour-laced shadows along polished floors.

Luna tightens her arm around his, eyes flickering across the crowd like she’s reading omens. “Hm… Headmaster said he would arrive early…” Her voice is quiet, teeth tight around the words. There’s tension in her posture—Hyperion recognises it. Not fear exactly, more… wariness. A bird that’s learned not to trust open skies.

The crowd parts around them in cautious waves. Some come to greet Luna—classmates, mostly, drawn by curiosity or familiarity. Others approach Hyperion with polite smiles and twitching hands. Parents. Peers. The occasionally overeager sycophant who doesn’t yet realise how much he despises attention.

“I’ve found him. Oh dear…”

Luna’s smile falters just a hair, and Hyperion’s gaze follows hers to the corner.

Crowe. Of course. And standing beside him—how utterly delightful—Aleksia Romanova.

He sighs internally. The sort of sigh that usually precedes arson.

Aleksia turns like a sentient turret the moment she senses him. Their eyes lock, and something ancient and cold brushes the back of his neck. Hyperion doesn’t flinch. Except he might have. No witnesses. Probably.

“Fuck…” he mutters, lips barely moving. Her look is a summons carved in granite.

“Let’s go before the old hag gets angry.” His voice is breezy, but the grip he has on Luna’s hand tightens. They weave toward the pair like condemned aristocrats heading to a gala.

Crowe’s grin widens at their approach, all courtly charm and carefully engineered warmth. The kind of smile that promises everything and delivers paperwork.

“Добрый вечер, директриса…(Good evening, headmistress…)” Hyperion purrs, giving a bow that’s just mocking enough to pass for politeness.

Aleksia arches an eyebrow. “Я не ожидал вашего присутствия.(I was not expecting your attendance.)”

Crowe interjects before verbal blood is drawn. “Now, now… Aleksia,” he says smoothly, “Let’s not be too stiff. I invited Miss Lovegood myself. Naturally, the young Lord Peverell is her escort—she’s underage, after all.”

“Yet he did not think to inform me of his attendance.” Aleksia’s voice is sharper than her wand.

“My apologies,” Hyperion says with a grin dipped in honey and cyanide. “Had I known you'd grace us with your presence, I’d have sent a singing owl.”

“Tsk… Arrogant boy.”

Hyperion’s smile twitches. Just slightly. A muscle in his jaw goes rigid, trying not to be a little infuriated with his benefactor and former temporary guardian when he first left Britain. 

“Lovegood,” Aleksia turns, eyes narrowing just a touch as she studies Luna like one might a suspiciously twitchy teacup. Possibly poisoned.

Hyperion feels Luna’s grip on his arm tighten—quite unnecessarily, might he add—as her fingers burrow into the fabric of his sleeve like they’re digging for treasure. He gives her a small nudge, the sort that says “please compose yourself before you embarrass us both.” Luna blinks, catches on quickly enough, and flashes a smile so bright and sweet it could rot teeth. If she’d batted her lashes any harder, she’d cause a breeze.

“Headmistress, a pleasure to see you again,” she offers, dipping into a polite little curtsey with the precision of someone trying not to fall over.

Aleksia, apparently satisfied that the girl isn’t about to start levitating things out of nerves, gives a regal nod. “I expect you to keep Hyperion over here away from any trouble. By Baba Yaga’s bones, he’ll smooth talk another poor politician into sending their unfortunate child into the den of wolves.”

Ah, such fond words. It’s practically affection. Crowe, predictably amused, chuckles.

“Are you calling your own institute a wolf’s den, my dear?”

Aleksia rolls her eyes like a bored aristocrat at a Muggle theatre show. “Durmstrang is for creatures with teeth, birdie. You and your fragile-looking face wouldn’t have survived.”

“Are you calling me pretty, my dear?”

Hyperion and Luna, quite unconsciously, start inching away in perfect sync. The last thing he needs is to get caught in the middle of whatever Cold War that exchange hinted at. Honestly, if this was what passed for flirting among professors, he’d rather take a vow of celibacy. Preferably one that came with earplugs.

“Well that was…” Luna begins.

“Interesting,” Hyperion finishes sharply, his grin a little too tight. “Must they always bicker like an old married couple?”

“I think they were married. Crowe mentioned a divorce at some point.”

“Then thank Hecate they didn’t have a child. Can you imagine?” he mutters, feigning a shudder. Two years under Aleksia’s roof and not a single framed photograph or passive-aggressive reminder of matrimony. A small mercy in a world otherwise devoid of them. The woman did love her hexes more than hugs.

He surveys the room with mild interest—or perhaps mild disdain. It’s hard to tell. A few of his classmates catch his eye, promptly looking away like they’ve spotted a dementor in the wallpaper. One even starts sweating. Glorious. He allows himself a small, satisfied smile. It’s good to know that his presence still inspires a healthy amount of dread. Like a good ghost story, but better dressed.

There’s a tug at his arm. He looks down to find Luna trying (and failing) to stand taller. Even in heels, she barely reaches his shoulder. Adorable. She leans in, all wide eyes and syrupy whispers.

“Rolf Scamander just arrived… Vanderholt and Gaunt will arrive a few minutes after him.”

Hyperion hums, swiping a flute of champagne from a passing tray. His gaze drifts lazily across the room until it lands on a nervous-looking young man with unfortunate hair and a face full of freckles, wrapped in a suit that looked like it had been chosen by a colourblind great-aunt. Said aunt, or perhaps someone worse, promptly drags him forward with all the grace of a prison escort. Trailing behind is a man whose expression screams “I’d rather be anywhere else”—possibly even Azkaban.

“Tina Goldstein-Scamander,” Luna murmurs, tugging his sleeve like a child pointing out a rare creature at the zoo. He turns back to her, waiting.

“I’ll go speak to Scamander… You’ll go to Gaunt later, right?”

“I’ll go to Aleksia first. Vanderholt’ll head straight for Crowe if your predictions are correct, and those two will be glued to each other all night like enchanted bookends,” he replies with a lazy chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, zaychik.” He presses a kiss to her forehead with mock solemnity, all the world’s drama distilled into one affectionate, slightly smug gesture.

Luna still looks unconvinced, but she lets go anyway. Brave girl.

“Don’t attempt murder.”

“In public? How crass, darling.”

Aleksia doesn’t even snarl when he slips in beside her—remarkably civil of her, really. By her usual standards, that was practically a warm welcome. She barely glances his way, but Crowe, bless his absurdly excitable soul, beams like Hyperion’s arrival is the second coming. The man thrusts a drink into his hand with the enthusiasm of someone hosting a garden party instead of a diplomatic minefield.

“Nice of you to join us again, young lord,” Crowe says, puffing up as he steers Hyperion subtly into a more ‘strategic’ conversational pocket. 

Aleksia grunts, all grace and disapproval in one monosyllable. Charming.

“I don’t think Headmistress Aleksia agrees with you,” Hyperion drawls, inspecting the suspiciously cheerful liquid in his glass. A sniff, a sip—ah, no sedatives this time. Always a bonus. Just something sweet enough to rot teeth. “Truly, my lady, I had no idea you’d be gracing us tonight. I’d have dragged my sister along as a buffer.”

Aleksia rolls her eyes.

“Oh, don’t mind the batty woman,” Crowe waves her off, the picture of diplomatic tact. He presses another drink into her hand as though this will soothe her, which—frankly—never works. “She goes on about you constantly. Absolute nightmare, honestly. You’d think she’s your press agent.”

“Nathaniel…” Aleksia’s tone could curdle blood. A delightful little hiss.

Crowe, unfazed and clearly over-invested in being a menace, simply huffs. “Oh, do behave. You’ve called him the pride of Durmstrang more than once. The alumni can’t stand it. They twitch like cursed portraits whenever he’s mentioned.” He turns to Hyperion, eyes glittering. “You transferred in, didn’t you?”

Hyperion nods, wearing that harmless little smile he keeps on hand for people who say too much in public. Deep down, his inner voice is offering Crowe a round of applause for casually tossing that bit of gossip into the open like confetti.

Honestly, he doesn’t mind. Aleksia’s always treated him like a particularly sharp knife—useful, dangerous, and not to be left unattended. Cold, too, in that uniquely Romanova way. He’d always appreciated her consistency. Besides, whatever twisted history she and Crowe shared was a mystery he had no intention of solving. Observation’s safer. Less mess.

“Pride of Durmstrang?” he echoes, snickering. Aleksia shoots him a glare hot enough to strip paint. Shame it’s been rendered completely ineffective by overuse. Two years and she still thinks she can scare him with that? How quaint.

“Cease such arrogant thoughts,” she snaps. “The damn bird is spouting nonsense—as usual.”

(Hyperion doesn’t mention the twitch at the corner of her mouth. That would be undignified. But really, she should try harder to hide it next time.)

“Ah! Honoria,” Crowe exclaims, voice taking on that breathless edge that means something important just walked in. Hyperion turns just in time to see President Honoria Vanderholt make her entrance—graceful, polished, and armed to the teeth with charisma. As expected. At her side, Britain’s favourite polished snake: Lord Gaunt.

Hyperion downs the rest of his drink. Whatever it was, it did the job. He sets the glass down beside Aleksia’s like he’s returning a wand after a duel. She doesn’t say anything, just gives him a look—part irritation, part expectation. The usual.

And because he has a terrible habit of obliging people whose opinions actually matter, he doesn’t make her wait.

“Будь настороже…(Be on your guard.)” she mutters, low and clipped. Be on your guard.

She straightens subtly, adjusting her posture the way one might adjust armour. Pretending to be amicable. Gods, how it must pain her. But even Aleksia Romanova knows when to play nice. Political suicide isn’t her preferred cause of death.

Hyperion just chuckles. She still thinks he needs a warning.

Adorable.

He stands closely to Aleksia while Crowe opts for a calmer demeanor. He supposed that was appropriate for a headmaster speaking to an alumnus of his institute. 

Honoria Vanderholt was… stunning—to say the least. He’s never met her, and she’s never met him. 

But her eyes are quick to lock on him once her conversation with Crowe ends. Curious. Wary. 

“Who might this be?” She chuckles, tilting her glass to him as he bows his head a bit.

“I see you’ve taken interest in our young lord here. Hyperion Peverell. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, Honoria.” Crowe chuckles in reply, tone sly compared to the mischief he had moments ago.

Aleksia sends Hyperion another glance, exasperated and a little miffed. 

Hyperion smiles, “It’s an honor to meet you, President Vanderholt.” 

She takes his hand without much hesitation, wearing a stunning smile expected from a politician. “Likewise, Lord Peverell…” She glances towards Gaunt, “I suppose you and Lord Gaunt over here know each other.”

“We met a while ago.” Hyperion grins, boyish and friendly. “Nice to see you again, Lord Slytherin.”

“Lord Potter.” Gaunt replies, cordial and polite. Hyperion saw the glint of amusement in his eyes—an interesting yet pleasing reaction. 

“I wasn’t expecting you. Is Miss Peverell accompanying you?”

“I’m here as Luna Lovegood’s partner. She’s… somewhere.” Hyperion smiles, tilting his head slightly. 

Gaunt shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “Miss Lovegood? Is she not that brilliant young miss that studies… Siderial Arts, was it?” 

“You are correct, Lord Gaunt.” Crowe hums, “Our dear Miss Lovegood is the best at the subject I once taught. I must say, it is befitting of her since she is named Luna. Don’t you agree, Aleksia?”

“Indeed… Apologies for introducing myself so late… I am Aleksia Romanova. Tis a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Gaunt… Roksana praises you so.”

“Roksana Solovyova? I am glad to know she thinks highly of me.” Gaunt hums thoughtfully, quietly assessing Aleksia as they shook hands. 

“Ah! I have forgotten!” Crowe turns towards Hyperion, pulling him a little closer. “Lord Peverell here is quite the bright student. The Pride of Durmstrang.”

Hyperion swallows a laugh, glancing at Aleksia who was glaring venomously at Crowe. The joke was… well… maybe it wasn’t a joke. Still, it was a little amusing to see his benefactor react so sourly. 

“Most brilliant of them all, our dear Aleksia here says.” Crowe pats his shoulder, “I’m quite surprised you’ve never attended any of the competitions the young lord took part in.”

“I’m afraid I never got the chance.” Vanderholt looks at him with curiosity again. Like she was trying to rate his usefulness. 

“Not surprising. Most of the competitions Hyperion took part in were in Northern Europe and some other countries in Asia.” Aleksia clarified, flicking her wrist for emphasis. Hyperion took note of it and swiftly removed himself from Crowe’s hold, returning to his spot beside his headmistress. “He’s bright… Like his name… It would seem that my student and Miss Lovegood have something in common when it comes to their names.” 

Honoria raises her glass again, wearing a coy little smile like it’s her favourite accessory. “Bright names for bright minds… sounds like poetic destiny, don’t it? Luna for a Siderial Arts prodigy and Hyperion for the pride of Durmstrang himself.”

Hyperion lets out a quiet chuckle. The polite kind that says absolutely nothing. “If only names were enough to shape our futures.” They were. Names had power for a reason. And Hyperion had been the one to choose his name.

Gaunt tips his head, oh-so-amused. Of course he is. The man understood the value of a name more than anyone else. His old alias having been a literal omen of his fate—not like Hyperion was going to tell the man being named flight from death made sure death kept chasing. “Ah, but they do carry weight, Lord Peverell. Especially when they’re tied to legacies older than the stones beneath Hogwarts.”

“Yes, yes, ancient blood and all that,” Hyperion says, voice light and amused. “Though I’ve found actions tend to leave the deeper marks.”

“Oho,” Vanderholt lifts a brow. Quite inquisitive she is—almost insufferable. “Spoken like someone who’s had to earn the right to their name.”

“I’d say I’m still earning it, Madam President,” he replies, every inch the polished young lord. Hands behind his back. Perfect posture. Perfect lie. “But I imagine we all are, in our own ways.”

“Well said,” Aleksia murmurs beside him. Her voice like a freshly iced blade. Encouragement, apparently.

“Legacies are less crowns, more chains,” Crowe offers wistfully. He’s always had a flair for the melodramatic. “Though with the right sort of magic, one could forge a throne from either.”

“Careful,” Gaunt says, smiling that careful politician’s smile. The kind with teeth. “That line of thinking’s bred a dark lord or two.”

“And ministers,” Vanderholt says, dry as old parchment. “Sometimes I’m not sure which is worse.”

That earns them a pause—deliberate, measured. The sort of silence that buzzes with too many thoughts and too few honest ones. All of them calculating. All of them pretending they aren’t.

Hyperion breaks it, of course. Someone has to—and being the one to do so gives an advantage. “Well, if I’m the pride of Durmstrang, I suppose I’ll have to act the part. Can’t have Headmistress Romanova quietly seething through the whole night.”

“You already do,” Aleksia says flatly. A heartbeat later, the corner of her mouth twitches. Barely there. Practically affectionate. In her own vaguely threatening way.

Crowe laughs, far too delighted. “She adores him, truly. That’s just Russian affection. Cold, sharp, and slightly homicidal.”

“I wouldn’t speak of Russians like they aren’t in earshot, Nathaniel,” Aleksia says sweetly. Which is, of course, worse than shouting.

“My deepest apologies,” he smirks, utterly unapologetic. “You know how we Americans are. Brash. Honest. No filter to speak of.”

“Hm.” Gaunt swirls his drink with the slow menace of a man who writes laws just to watch people squirm. “That’s certainly… one description.”

“I prefer ‘entertaining’,” Honoria grins, pleased with herself. “Though I suppose that depends on the audience.”

“Then let’s hope tonight remains entertaining,” Hyperion says, raising his glass ever so slightly. Just enough to count as polite. Not enough to mean it. There’s a glint in his eyes that says far more than his mouth ever would.

“And may it not end in duels or diplomatic disasters,” Crowe adds, clearly only half-kidding.

“Speak for yourself,” Aleksia murmurs, and there’s that twitch of a smirk again.

Vanderholt laughs, loud and sharp. “Now that’s the spirit.”

Hyperion finds himself outside, draped across a balcony like a bored aristocrat with nowhere better to be. He hums—lightly, tunelessly—and lets the moonlight do what it does best: illuminate things that ought to stay hidden. The party drones on behind him, all champagne and sycophancy, but his thoughts are already elsewhere. Namely, Luna. Hopefully not dead. Or worse—caught. Either outcome would be inconvenient. They weren’t exactly in the business of free time and leisurely mistakes.

“Hyperion.”

Not a greeting. Not even a summons, really. More like someone testing how his name tastes. Gaunt always did like the sound of power.

He doesn’t turn. Just lets the glass of wine hover on the stone balustrade beside him. Red. Deeply, unnecessarily red. Almost theatrical. He hopes, absurdly, that it’s pomegranate. It’s not. The disappointment stings more than it ought to.

“You look disappointed.”

“Do I?”

He finally glances over, taking in Gaunt’s irritatingly symmetrical face. The man looks like he was carved to cause problems—his cheekbones alone could spark international incidents. That voice, that posture… it’s all very polished apocalypse. No wonder politicians eat from his hand.

“I wasn’t expecting our reunion to be like this,” Gaunt hums, “Did you know I’d be here?”

Hyperion snorts. “Heavens, no. Luna’s the magnet tonight. Crowe likes her, she likes me. I’m here as the tragic escort to the underage. Honestly, it’s all very noble.”

He sips again, magic buzzing faintly along his fingertips—restless, nosey stuff. Annoying.

“Really now? No guardians available?” Gaunt sips his wine, wearing his family’s colours like a threat—green and silver stitched into smug.

“Her father’s… not suited to parties. Or people. Or clothing with buttons.” Hyperion watches the wine bubble as if it might reveal something worthwhile. The next sip is sweeter. Pomegranate. Finally.

“You’re oddly curious tonight. I wasn’t expecting you either. Shouldn’t you be babysitting the Ministry? I shudder to think of Fudge making decisions unsupervised.”

Gaunt gives him a look. Not quite a smile—more of a shrug with teeth. “Some things can’t be helped. And I’d rather not let Fudge anywhere near our problems here.”

“Ah. So this is about the murders, then?”

Gaunt’s eyes narrow. “You know about that?”

Hyperion snorts. “Of course I do. Anyone with decent connections knows. Just like we all know Hogwarts and the Ministry are getting awfully cosy. Which is strange, isn’t it? I was under the impression Hogwarts was independent.”

“Well, aren’t you informed.” Gaunt swirls his drink. “Do you know anything about the… what do they call themselves now? Olympians? Pantheon? Fanatics, the lot of them.”

“Can’t call them fanatics if you don’t know what they want.” Hyperion shrugs, as if the conversation bores him. It doesn’t. “They’re messy, sure. But everyone’s messy when they think they’re right.”

“Oh? I didn’t realise you were personally affected by their antics. Did you know one of the Russian heirs? The one Ares got to?”

His expression sharpens. “Somewhat. One of them owed me.”

Gaunt leans in, ever the predator. “Which one?”

“Nadezhda Daskalov,” Hyperion says, tilting his head. “A year above me. Asked for a favour. Never paid it back.” He sighs as though the girl’s murder was merely an unpaid invoice. Theo’s fault, probably.

“And you, Minister?” he grins, leaning forward like it’s all very amusing. Gaunt flinches back slightly, eyes narrowing. Yes, Hyperion notices. Of course he does. He doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not Minister, Lord Peverell.” Gaunt corrects smoothly, voice drenched in amusement. “But I suppose that will change soon. And yes, the group intrigues me. Ambitious lot. We haven’t had a truly international nuisance since Grindelwald.”

Hyperion tilts his head again, dredging up memories of history lessons. Grindelwald—the warm-up act to Voldemort’s theatrical finale. Though now that he thinks about it, perhaps the opening act had more substance.

“Yes, him. The original. Actually managed to unsettle the world. Voldemort barely got past Britain. A bit embarrassing, really.”

Gaunt’s fingers tighten around his wine glass. Just slightly. His eyes flicker red for half a second—oh, subtle. Very subtle. Hyperion’s amused, truly. So easy to rattle. Honestly now, Hyperion was a little amused by this man's temper. So famous and yet so… reckless. In a way. Not that Gaunt was reckless. No. Voldemort was reckless and foolish. Marvolo Gaunt was ambitious—rightfully so.

“I prefer you, to be honest. Voldemort was a bit… twitchy. You wear ambition better.” He lifts his glass lazily and clinks it against Gaunt’s. “Here’s to you, Lord Slytherin.”

It would be such a shame if all that ambition fizzled out like a damp firework. Gaunt’s interesting, after all. Fragile things usually are.

Gaunt goes quiet. Finishes his wine. Places the glass down like it didn’t just almost crack in his grip. Then—slowly, deliberately—he takes Hyperion’s hand. Kisses the glove, not the skin. That would be too familiar.

“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” he murmurs.

Hyperion watches him. Studies him like one might a dangerous painting.

“Hopefully, you don’t.”

Chapter Text

With the stars as guide

What happens when a boy meets Death?

Hyperion isn’t quite sure, considering he is that boy. Perhaps it’s a descent into madness. Or maybe just a subtle rerouting of fate. Who’s to say? But one thing he is sure of… Death is rather like a wake-up call—the abrupt jolt that drags a drowning artist to the surface. A muse. A slightly overbearing, skeletal muse. Death—both the event and the being — has been Hyperion’s favourite for quite some time. How could they not be?

“You’re making another spell.”

Trust Death to ruin the mood before it’s even had a chance to stretch its legs. The perfect muse, yes, but also an unbearable busybody when he’s in the middle of something. They hover over him now—looming, lingering, the sort of stare you’d get from a stone angel in a church. Would have been poetic if Death actually had wings. No, the truth is far less glamorous—more a formless shadow with the occasional suggestion of bones.

“What’s the latest concoction, menace child?”

Cold, skeletal hands clamp onto his shoulders — and grip, properly grip, with nails digging in through cloth and skin.

“Something,” Hyperion mutters, giving the quill a spin between his fingers as he eyes the open pages of the little leather-bound journal in front of him. His own grimoire—personal, private, and utterly unreadable to anyone else. “No idea if it’ll work…”

Death tilts their head in that unsettling, birdlike way. Hedwig can do that. Hedwig is less disturbing.

“‘Hematorrhex’,” the entity reads aloud, voice curling around the syllables. “Blood magic is fickle.”

“Yes, I know. But the label ‘blood magic’ is really just bureaucracy—anything that needs blood to work. Usually sacrificial nonsense. This is more… vascular than purely bloody.” He taps his quill against the desk, blotting the wood with little splatters of ink. “I’ve always wondered what would happen if you could rupture blood vessels on command.”

Death slinks forward, bone-hands planting on the desk before their whole form twists into something feline. Shadowy, watchful, taking up space on the desk like they own the place.

“You’ve yet to finish your Arcane Studies paper,” Death reminds him, voice rattling through the air like a draught through stone. “Write. I like that one most.”

Hyperion scoffs. “Liar. You liked my Principles of Magic paper better.”

Death doesn’t dignify that with a reply. They simply begin to shove papers about in the lazy, destructive manner of an actual cat. Behind him, Hedwig hoots—the sort of sound that smacks of morbid amusement. He’s fairly certain she can actually see the blasted thing.

“Write,” Death says again, now pushing a stack of parchment towards him with what could be a tail.

His eyes drift from the grimoire to the mess that passes for his Arcane Studies draft. His dissertation, if one wanted to be grand about it. The professors certainly were—a rare breed who actually seemed eager to see how his work ended. He might even publish it if the response was suitably flattering. Though, it wouldn’t be material for the sort of fragile minds that prefer their magic safe and dull. Most of his papers have the sort of topics that start fights in polite company.

He exhales sharply, snapping the grimoire shut—the wards and runes sealing it against prying eyes—and shoves it into a drawer. With the other hand, he drags the dissertation over. Death, naturally, looks far too pleased with this turn of events.

The title glares up at him:

Necromancy—the glamorous, catastrophic branch of magic that half the world condemns and the other half secretly toys with. Hyperion’s read enough accounts to know necromancers who aren’t blessed by Death’s touch tend to rot like old fruit once they cross the line between life and death. His family is blessed by Death's touch; they do not deteriorate when they use necromancy. A blessing, maybe. Of sorts. He doesn’t bother poking too hard at truths that don’t want to be seen.

Death leans forward, emitting a sound that Hyperion has learnt means satisfaction. He ignores them, flicking through the draft, eyes scanning for errors. This paper has attracted more than its share of scrutiny. Even Durmstrang, hardly the model of moral restraint, treats necromancy like a caged tiger.

Zolotov, his professor, has been particularly insistent on regular updates. Miss one meeting and the whole thing’s cancelled—which, frankly, sounds more like a threat than a policy. So far, Zolotov’s been pleased, mostly because Hyperion’s work has relied heavily on archival records rather than actual hands-on experimentation. Pity.

The real nuisance is citation. Not as though he can just slap a quote into the parchment and credit it to: Death, 1996.

“A shame they won’t approve any of the interesting necromantic studies,” Death hums, one shadowy paw pressing against the introduction. “I’d have let you dabble in summoning ancient ghosts.”

A shame, yes. Hyperion’s own plans had been far more… spirited. Unfortunately, he’s not idiotic enough to think they’d ever get approval. So, this dissertation is polite. Theoretical models, manifestations, and ways to stave off the decay. Like a printed warning sign for idiots tempted to poke their heads into Death’s domain.

Necromantic magic remains one of the most controversial and hazardous disciplines within the arcane sciences…

He eyes the opening line, then skips the rest of the introduction entirely. The interesting part lies further in — the detailed accounts of the “trifecta”, the slow unravelling of body, mind, and soul. There’s one particular symptom he finds delightful in its absurdity — the sudden conviction that one’s limbs aren’t attached to the rest of one’s body. Disturbing for most. Endlessly curious to him.

A low hum begins. Then the desk vibrates. He twirls his quill, ignoring Hedwig’s glare and Death’s displeasure.

“It’s noisy, child. Answer,” Death hisses, fading away—leaving only a very irate owl glaring him down.

With a sharp click of his tongue, Hyperion rummages through the mess on his desk until his fingers find the etheris. It pulses blue—again, again—Hermione’s name flashing like an impatient heartbeat.

“Sister, dear.”

“Luna is having trouble.”

That earns his attention. Hedwig hops closer, wings smacking him in the face for good measure. She perches on his shoulder like some feathery herald of doom, hooting loudly so Hermione gets the full experience.

“Hi, Hedwig.”

Hedwig hoots again—smugly, if such a thing is possible.

“About Luna… what happened? Last I recall she was fine after the party.” Hyperion tosses the etheris onto the desk, eyes flicking to the calendar—nearly two weeks since America. “Do I need to send someone? And why isn’t she reporting to me herself?”

“It’s because of the problem that she can’t.” Hermione’s voice strains, taut with the weight of whatever she’s holding back. “Were you aware that Marvolo Gaunt’s been in America a lot? Luna says he’s been inside Ilvermorny more times than she can count…”

“And he’s been hovering so much she can’t use her etheris?”

She sighs, loud and strained. “It’s because Gaunt spends time with Vanderholt. Vanderholt listens to Crowe… and Crowe seems to like keeping Luna close.” Noise seeps through from her end—laughter, light conversation—probably that metamorphmagus she tolerates. 

Hyperion’s jaw ticks. The idea of Gaunt orbiting Vanderholt irritates him more than he cares to admit. Not vital to his plans, perhaps, but still useful. Britain is a wild card. And he does so hate surprises.

“Mia, what are you doing?” another girl calls, the sound of a door creaking open.

“It’s nothing. Just recording a message for my brother,” Hermione shouts back, before lowering her voice. “Go to bed, René.”

Hyperion snorts quietly, eyes drifting back to his papers.

In contrast, non-affine necromancers—those lacking this natural compatibility—are subject to severe physiological, cognitive, and metaphysical consequences. Their interaction with necromantic forces initiates a degenerative process exceeding the limits of conventional magical exhaustion (Bletchley, 1986).

“Now, where was I?” Hermione cuts in.

“Luna.”

“Right… Luna’s problem now is that she’s had another vision. It involves Ron and Theo.”

Hyperion’s brows draw together. “By Ron and Theo, you mean Hogwarts.”

“Discretion, brother.”

“Bold of you to assume anyone could spy on my etheris,” he says flatly. “The Aether system answers only to me. If anything, you should worry about me listening to your calls.”

Her breath hitches—loud, sharp, and telling.

He hums, amused. “Don’t worry,” he drawls. “I’m not interested in spying on you lot. I’ve no desire to overhear Theo’s pitiful attempts at wooing you.”

“Oh, for goodness—”

“Shhh. I wouldn’t listen to his tragic flirting. I’d dismantle the entire Aether system first. The trauma, Mione, the trauma.” His voice dips to mock horror, one hand clutching his chest for effect.

Lie.

“But I beg you not to spy on us through the Aether system. It’s our only private way to talk… it wouldn’t be good if the others caught you doing it.”

Hyperion smiles as if she’s just suggested he take up knitting. “As I said… don’t worry.” Honestly, what a waste of breath. Spying on them would be redundant when he already knew what they were up to. Hermione had been selected to be his sister, yet somehow still hadn’t grasped that he wasn’t blind. He didn’t need to rip through his own leylines just to hear her carefully nudge Theo into tweaking the plan so it suited her bleeding conscience.

Her voice dips softer. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

The words dry on his tongue, brittle and insincere. Before she can get sentimental—or worse, moral—he ends the call. The Etheris’ blue pulse fades to a dull, lifeless glow.

Hedwig hoots, head swivelling at an angle that unsettles most people. He’s always admired how owls can manage that little touch of menace without even trying. But Hedwig in particular was an unnerving and uncanny sort. Perhaps it was because she was his companion, his familiar—his. Not many snowy owls turned their golden hues into something green to reflect their owners, sometimes something else. 

“Shh… You want to go out?” He lets her step onto his arm, feeling talons catch on fabric and just brush skin. She presses harder but not enough to draw blood. She could but wouldn't—too loyal of a companion 

Hedwig gives a satisfied chirp.

Oftentimes Hyperion finds irony in his own companionship with Hedwig. Was it not Athena who was represented by owls? But of course, Hermione was too loyal to dear Crookshanks to get herself an owl. 

The moment he opens the window, the cold night air rolls in—sharp, unpleasant, and exactly what he needs. White wings unfurl and she launches herself into the dark, vanishing into the clouds as if swallowed whole. She’ll be back tomorrow. Even Hedwig can’t stand staying cooped up for too long, no matter how large the room.

After all… Harry wasn’t the only one who learned to hate Privet Drive.

Returning to America was not part of the plan—yet deviation from a plan is not always loss. Sometimes, it is revelation. Ilvermorny stands before him, impressive in its own right, though its grandeur echoes of Hogwarts. Perhaps that is inevitable, given its founding bloodline. 

“How has your stay been?” Crowe asks, cautious, testing the waters of conversation. The man himself is a curious specimen: strange tastes, stranger habits, yet Vanderholt entrusts him above all others. That alone gives Marvolo pause. A fool does not rise to such a position, not in this world.

Wise, yes—though in a peculiar way. Sidereal Arts… he has gathered enough to see the discipline for what it truly is: divination, though refined into something sharper. Prophecy tethered to theory. A rare fusion. That Crowe himself once lectured upon the subject before ascending to Headmaster speaks volumes. He knows both the currents of magic and the undercurrents of fate. In Britain, credentials such as his would demand respect, even from Marvolo. He would—grudgingly—seek such counsel.

“It’s been… pleasing. Your institute would be considered a sister school to Hogwarts, considering its origins and the housing system.” His voice hums lightly, though his eyes are elsewhere, fixed on the statues that cast judgement on a student’s soul. “My ancestor was the founder of your school.”

“I am well aware.” Crowe chuckles, a dry sound. “House Slytherin has done us a great deal. Are you familiar with how Ilvermorny was made?”

“Not quite…”

Crowe’s smile curls into something morbid, almost mocking. “Well, it’s quite an ironic tale, considering the… beliefs of some Slytherins back in Britain.”

The expression sends a shiver down Marvolo’s spine, teeth pressing together. Blood purity. The wordless spectre haunts every conversation, every history. He has read enough—researched enough—to see truth beneath the dogma. Too many purebloods, too closely tied, produce only weakness: squibs, sickness, frailty. A line inbred into decay. Even he cannot deny it.

Together they stand overlooking the castle grounds, students scattering like insects below—no, not insects. Children, their laughter carrying, their energy spilling freely. Such vitality always inspires; youth breaking boundaries their elders sought to impose.

“Isolt Sayre—her father was a descendant of Morrigan, an Irish witch famously known for her animagus abilities. Meanwhile, her mother was a Gaunt.” Crowe gave him a pointed look, “Isolt Sayre grew up in a little cottage with her family and early in her life, her parents were killed and the cottage was burned with her family. The cottage's name was Ilvermorny. Her family was murdered by her own aunt—Gormlaith Gaunt. She despised the compassion her kin dared to show Muggles.”

Marvolo hums, though the sound tastes bitter on his tongue. Always the same stain in the bloodline. Supremacy rotting the core of a house until it devours its own.

“Isolt was stolen away, raised by that same aunt. A child of noble blood, abused by her own kin for no crime beyond her parents’ kindness. And when she came of age, eleven years old—the age that decides our kind’s fate—she was denied Hogwarts. That right was stolen from her.”

Marvolo swallows, the bitterness spreading deeper. Hogwarts—salvation, sanctuary, birthright. To be denied it… there lies true cruelty. In that moment, across centuries, he finds a kindred shadow. His own blood once knew humiliation, degradation. A Gaunt who might have understood.

“This sounds like quite the long story.” He forces a wry smile.

Crowe laughs, sharp and sudden. “Indeed. But to the point: despite agony and betrayal, Gormlaith failed. Isolt married a no-maj. And together, they built this school. The House of Pukwudgie honours James Steward, the Muggle who helped found Ilvermorny.”

The words freeze him. A Muggle. Building a magical school. He had read this absurdity, dismissed it as legend—but hearing it spoken aloud brands it onto his mind. And the wife of that Muggle… a daughter of Slytherin’s bloodline. The thought is obscene.

“Did they have any children?” The question leaves him quietly, though urgency coils beneath it. If they did, then perhaps—

“Yes. Unfortunately, one was a squib. The other refused to continue your line.”

His body stiffens. Two. They had two. One a hollow echo, magicless. The other, a traitor to lineage. His throat tightens, but he swallows hard, forcing only a faint hum of acknowledgement. No further heirs, no living Slytherin blood to rival him. A pity, perhaps.

Yet not ignorance. He knows parseltongue is not his alone, not Slytherin’s alone. Creatures share the tongue of serpents. But from Salazar’s bloodline? That distinction, that mark—it belongs to him.

To him alone.

Though… not entirely. Hyperion Peverell lurks at the edge of thought, a shadow he refuses to grant legitimacy. Yet he knows, bitterly, that Salazar himself would have welcomed the Peverell. Delighted even, if one must consider just how ambitious Hyperion Peverell truly was. 

“Did Honoria not join you today?” Crowe peers about, scanning the hall as though the President of MACUSA might materialise from the stone itself. She is usually a fixture of these visits, her absence all the more conspicuous because of it.

“Unfortunately, no. She has quite a few things to deal with.”

“I assume this involves the case of the Pantheon.”

“Indeed… I heard she has been coming to you for consultation. Scrying.” Marvolo narrows his eyes, his words deliberate, pointed. “Have you found anything as of late? Surely, someone with your mastery of divining is capable of getting a clue.”

Crowe exhales, heavy and weary. “I wish I did. But the only thing I’ve learned is that whoever is on the side of the Olympians, they know divination well. Which has led me to theorise that the one who has been striking down members of MACUSA uses ‘Apollo’ as their moniker.”

“Because of the evident ability to block you,” Marvolo clarifies, tone cold, clipped. Crowe nods in response. “Then the name is taken into account not merely for the bow and arrow. The Olympians have an actual master of Divination at their disposal.”

“Possibly a true-born Seer by the looks of it. Which begs the question—just how serious is their cause?”

His fists clench before he can stop himself. If the Pantheon shelters a true Seer, then their hand is guided by knowledge of what is yet to come. Either they labour to prevent a future event… or they move to ensure its inevitability. Which it is, remains the question.

“What happens if you try to scry?”

Crowe’s expression twists into something unsettling—an irritation half-masked by a smile. His head shakes slowly. “Best I show you instead.” He gestures with his hand and strides forward, expecting Marvolo to follow.

The Headmaster’s office is unlike Dumbledore’s tower, which breathes secrets into the shadows. Ilvermorny’s office displays lineage and legacy openly, its walls a shrine to heritage. Appropriate—predictable—for a school born of Slytherin’s blood.

“For most of the time, I’ve been using a scrying pool. It is the most potent tool one may employ. Water is, naturally, the clearest medium for Divination—it reflects. And scrying itself is a craft of reflection.” Crowe indicates a basin, suspended in the air, eerily reminiscent of a Pensieve. “If I were to scry on Honoria right now…”

He wastes no time. Magic spills from him, his eyes faintly glowing as the water stirs. Ripples twist into waves of light until the pool resolves into an image of Honoria Vanderholt. She sits hunched at her desk, drowning in papers, face drawn with strain. Dishevelled, yes—but hardly unexpected, given her burdens.

“I no longer require any object of hers,” Crowe explains. “Our connection is stable enough. Normally, scrying demands a belonging of the subject—or a strong grasp of their magical signature.” He flicks his wand. A heartbeat later, an arrow streaks through the air and halts above the pool. “This belongs to the Olympian.”

“Did Honoria give that to you?”

“Yes. She asked me to detect any magical signature upon it. But I found only the residue of those it killed.”

Marvolo’s frown deepens. To erase one’s magical signature so thoroughly… it is a feat both impressive and troubling.

Crowe falls silent, pressing the tip of his wand to the basin’s rim. The water quivers violently, shivering as if recoiling. In his other hand, the arrow floats, its head glinting coldly in the light. At first, only their reflections stare back. Then the ripples shudder, and shapes emerge. Something pale—distorted—lurks beneath the surface. He leans forward, straining for clarity, but Crowe seizes him suddenly, yanking him back with startling swiftness.

The basin erupts, water lashing upward. Wherever it lands—floor, wall, desk—it freezes instantly into jagged sheets of ice. The spark of magic leaks out of the ice—dangerous and hostile. For a moment, the water left in the basin kept moving. It morphed into something serpentine before splashing down to the floor, turning itself into ice. 

“I almost lost my arm the first time it happened,” Crowe huffs, setting the arrow down, eyes fixed upon the frost now creeping across his office. “Apollo must be one powerful wix.”

Marvolo’s frown hardens. “If it was Apollo.”

Crowe mirrors the expression. “Who else would it be?”

“The name Olympians was coined by the public. No member has ever declared such allegiance. The press merely fastened upon their monikers. If we adhere to the Olympian theme, then their leader would claim the mantle of Zeus. Or Poseidon. Perhaps Hades. But if they style themselves the Pantheon…” His eyes linger on the frozen wall, wary, calculating. “…then possibilities expand. Perhaps even a Titan.”

“Regardless,” Crowe sighs, resigned, “this confirms they are powerful enough to obscure themselves from divination. And the possibility that they harbour a Seer… is concerning.”

Yes. Names mean little. Power and secrecy—that is the true danger. These figures cloak themselves more effectively than even his own Death Eaters.

(Neither Crowe nor Gaunt saw the eyes looking at them through the water. It ripples again—and for a moment there is another image. Distorted as it may be. The figure looks, watches, and simply grins at the mere prospect someone thinks they can peak.)

The Sidereal Arts hall looms vast, just as it did upon his first entrance. It is no astronomy tower of Hogwarts, nor is it the suffocating attic that served Divination—though his memory of that chamber is mercifully faint.

The air itself feels charged, the hush before a storm, thick with expectation. Above, an immense dome stretches endless and black, constellations drifting as if alive. Stars burn with delicate fire, planets slide in silent procession, and now and again a silver comet lances across the vault, severing the dark. Enchantments stir and shift, making the heavens writhe as though the cosmos themselves lean close to listen.

The chamber curves in a half-circle, its tiers precise, lined with desks of polished oak whose brass inlays pulse faintly in rhythm with the sky above. At the centre hovers the Orrery of Aether, grand and elaborate, a solar system of brass and living starlight. Its jewel-planets revolve in poised harmony, threads of luminous magic binding them together, tugging visibly with the unseen gravity of spellcraft.

Tapestries ripple around the chamber, animated with unnerving subtlety: crimson moons overseeing battles drenched in blood, constellations tearing themselves apart only to knit into runes long forgotten, stars plunging like tears into dark seas. One side of the hall gives way to a balcony where telescopes gleam, poised and waiting. He imagines students clustered there, tracing the pull of Jupiter upon transfiguration, charting the moon’s slow sabotage of charms.

“Lord Slytherin!”

His gaze snaps towards the voice. A woman in dark robes stands, her eyes unfocused, clouded with a mist that does not belong to this world. She does not strike him as unkind, but neither does she radiate anything he might consider… ordinary. Perhaps all who steep themselves in divination acquire such disquieting distance.

“Professor Prescott,” he says smoothly, allowing a thin smile. Clementine Prescott. Less outwardly Fae than Crowe, but not less dangerous. She carries her own peculiar aura, one that makes him watchful.

“Call me Clem.” Her tone leaves no room for argument—icy insistence beneath a mask of calm.

“Clem,” he repeats, testing the sound of it.

Only then does she incline her head, faintly satisfied. A hum escapes her as she studies him. “This is the third time you’ve visited my classroom.”

“How could I not return?” Marvolo’s chuckle is quiet, deliberate, as his eyes drift once more to the hall’s ethereal magnificence. “Divination appears to be Ilvermorny’s strength.”

“Quite so. One might think Beauxbatons, or Castelobruxo, but no—it is Ilvermorny. Tragic, really, given the state of this wretched country.”

“Muggle or Magical?”

“Both.” The reply is sharp, blunt, her eyes flat upon him as though testing his reaction. Her robes flare as she moves, long strides echoing drama—he cannot help but think of Severus Snape, and his penchant for theatrics in the corridors of Hogwarts.

“Would it be a bother if I sit in? I would observe more of this subject. It was never properly taught at Hogwarts.”

“Were you not homeschooled? The papers say so.”

He only hums, evasive. “I was taught the Hogwarts curriculum.”

“Ah. Understandable. Sit at the back, then. Little discussion from me today—my screaming calendar informed me my students will be presenting instead.”

“And their topics?”

“Planetary influence on Magic. Moon phases and Spellcasting. Celestial Conjunctions and Prophecy.” Clem drawls, voice languid as her wand flicks. “Leviosa.” A chair rises at once in the highest row, set deliberately apart, the backmost vantage point.

“The hall is woven with runes to amplify voices. Presentations, lectures—you’ll hear all from there.” She exhales softly, her eyes catching his before a sardonic smile twists her mouth. “Do be wary of being unobservant, Lord Slytherin.”

The words run cold against his spine. Another reminder—another warning. Once more, he feels the encroaching unease that clings to all branches of magicks that involves time.

Students begin to file into the hall, their movements betraying the fractures in their composure. Some stride in, brimming with enthusiasm; others stumble as though weighed down by dread, hands trembling around scrolls and diagrams. A few clutch crystal balls to their chests—tools, no doubt, for projections or illusions. The preparedness is almost excessive, yet unsurprising. If divination is truly as pivotal as its devotees insist, then precision is not luxury but necessity. One miscalculation and the future slips from their grasp.

A quiet presence lingers by his side. He turns, sharp, to find Lovegood standing there. She looks faintly pleased with herself, arms wrapped around a scroll and a gleaming crystal ball.

“Lord Slytherin, I wasn’t expecting to see you here again.” Her chuckle is light, too casual. She takes the seat nearest to him, uninvited. Bold thing she is. “What brought you to the Sidereal Hall again?”

“Curiosity. As a former Hogwarts student yourself, you should know this branch of magic was never taught to us.” His voice remains even, though irritation stirs beneath the surface. He restrains the scowl that threatens, but suspects his expression reveals displeasure regardless. “One is compelled to learn more.”

“You sound like someone from my house.”

“Ravenclaw, yes?” She inclines her head, confirming. He studies her briefly. “What house are you now?”

“I was chosen by both Thunderbird and Horned Serpent, though I evidently ended up with the scholarly choice.” Her grin is wide, almost the careless sort. “Seems like I’ve gone from Eagle to Serpent.”

“Welcome, then.” He smirks, eyes dropping to the insignia pinned to her brooch, the serpent sigil glinting faintly. His gaze lingers on her equipment—scroll, ball, each tool meticulously chosen—before he speaks again. “Pres—”

“Clem.” she interjects sharply, without hesitation. “Professor Clem doesn’t like her full name used. Such is the way of many divination teachers.”

“Clem—” He nearly rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness. It must be some ritualised superstition among these seers: Clem in place of Clementine, Nate for Nathaniel. Trifling affectations disguised as tradition. “—informed me students were given three categories to discuss. Which did you choose?”

Lovegood slyly tilts her head. “Now, where would be the fun in telling? But I will say it’s a mixture of two.”

“Oh? Quite ambitious.”

“Tis expected of someone who is good friends with Hyperion Peverell.”

The name strikes like a blade. Marvolo stiffens, muscles taut, though he forces his features to remain still. Hyperion Peverell. Again. Always, that name intrudes.

“I see…” The words slip out, flat, as Lovegood turns away.

Prescott’s voice carries through the chamber, clipped and unyielding. Her instructions are precise, her criteria sharp enough to carve obedience into every student. At once, they sit straighter, as rigid as boards awaiting inspection.

“This will not be done alphabetically,” Prescott announces, summoning a witch’s hat that appears bottomless when tilted, scrolls tumbling inside like trapped fates. “All of your names are here. In divination, all must be left to Fate. So…” Her hand disappears into the hat, pawing through unseen depths before withdrawing one roll of parchment.

“Mercer, Bernard.”

Someone's cursing is amplified by the magic.

“Language!” Prescott snaps, pointing one finger like a blade. “Down here, now. Your presentation had better be good if you wish to avoid detention for crude speech.”

The boy groans his protest, but obeys, dragging himself from the fourth row with a crude model of Mercury clutched under one arm.

One after another, students are summoned to present. Their efforts vary in substance, but even the most polished are dismantled beneath Prescott’s scrutiny. She extracts errors with surgical precision, her rebukes so cutting they leave more than one trembling, eyes wet with humiliation.

“Precision is a necessity for this art. Do not think I will go easy on you just because you are still sixth years. If you want to go out into the world as proper diviners, then I will not be blamed for your incompetence that may cost lives.” Her words lash across the chamber when a boy stumbles over facts, his slip breeding misinformation about some constellation related facts. She spits the reprimand as though the falsehood itself were poison—it was.

Time grinds forward and Prescott returns to the front, her pale fingers riffling through the enchanted hat. A scroll slips between them, for the briefest instant, her eyes gleam with expectation before she looks up.

“Lovegood, Luna.”

So close to him, the girl rises without much noise. She descends the steps with a serenity that unsettles him—neither jittering with nerves, nor strutting with arrogance, but poised in a manner almost unnatural. Too composed. She was like Crowe in that way, Fae-like—not as human as she was supposed to be.

“Good afternoon, professor.” She bows with crisp respect before arranging her crystal ball upon the table. Her wand taps the surface; at once, the heavens bloom forth, stars and planets igniting in midair.

“For my presentation today, I chose a combination of Planetary Influences on Magic and the Celestial Conjunctions.” Her tone is level, her manner unassuming. She circles the table, wand twirling idly, though her focus remains fixed.

“Planetary conjunction and its influence on prophecy. We know that Celestial Conjunction—when stars align—aid in determining prophecy. But what of the planets? I do not mean when all planets align—that is a rarity. I mean when at least two overlap.”

Prescott inclines her head, considering. Around them, the students fidget, restless, yet Marvolo keeps his gaze trained on the girl, dissecting her every word, every motion.

“When planets align, it is like when two notes are struck together. They can be harmonious, or discordant. In divinatory magicks, such alignments may sharpen clarity… or render all hopelessly obscured.” Her wand taps again. The projections whirl, blurred into chaos, until at last two bodies emerge—Jupiter and Saturn, locked together.

“This is what we call the Great Conjunction—Jupiter and Saturn. Historians say one like it came just before Camelot fell. They think it sharpened people’s visions back then, filling the world with prophecies about kingdoms rising… and tumbling. Whether the prophecies made the events happen, or the events made the prophecies… well, that’s still a bit of a mystery.”

She delivers this without flourish, her voice steady, her facts presented like stone tablets. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, nothing more.

“This one—Mercury and Neptune—is different. It twists things. Seers say their visions blur, sometimes contradict themselves. In the 1700s, one prophecy got terribly misread by the Ministry, and an entire battalion of Aurors ended up marching into a battle that never even happened. They call that resonance interference now.”

Marvolo leans forward before he realises it, the faintest thrill tightening his chest. The notion that such unseen forces—dismissed by most—might quietly shape history… it gnaws at the mind. Wizards do not routinely chart the heavens with such precision. Even those who dabble in divination lack the means. Planetary trackers exist, yes, but always delayed, always imperfect.

Lovegood’s gaze sweeps across the room. Not seeking approval, not basking in attention—merely measuring. Her words fall like inevitabilities.

“In practice, conjunctions can be both an opportunity and a hazard. Amplification brings sharper prophecy, but distortion yields calamity. To ignore them is to mistake noise for truth. To understand them is to know when to trust the heavens, and when silence must prevail.”

The orrery resumes its slow, ponderous motion. She gestures to its lagging gears. “As we can see, Venus and Neptune are aligned. This has been reported as the Dreamer’s Conjunction, for it strengthens visions received in dreams. Anyone attempting dream-walking for foresight has chosen their moment well.”

Her presentation spans barely fifteen minutes, yet it commands the hall for twice as long. The remainder is filled with questions—students and professor alike pressing her with inquiries, each one met with precise replies. Her composure never falters.

Marvolo’s intrigue sharpens, his mind already pulling at threads. Planetary conjunction… it governs not prophecy alone, but magic itself.

So then—what power lies in the Dreamer’s Conjunction?

(There were vultures around him. Bone. Blood. Death. Bony hands smeared—stained in red. There’s a metallic taste in his tongue that he barely registers. Not really. It’s a familiar taste, one he’s gotten used to.)

(Fate has flipped her coin. And now Death’s little champion is a monster.)