Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Harry emerged from the Pensieve containing Snape’s memories, he stood silently before the innocuous-looking basin, as though it hadn’t just upended everything he thought he knew about his life.

Rubbing his face, he winced at the sting of shallow cuts and scratches—wounds he hadn’t even noticed amid the fury of battle.

Like a pig to the slaughter. That’s what Snape had said.
Harry couldn’t bring himself to fully grasp the weight of what he had seen, not yet. His emotions churned, unprocessed and raw.

He gave a hollow laugh as he adjusted his glasses, muttering a quick Reparo to mend them. They were worse off than he’d realized, and as his vision cleared, so too did a cold certainty begin to settle in his chest.
It was simple. It was absolute.
Harry Potter must die.

He nodded to himself. Only through his death could Voldemort be destroyed. Only then could his friends, his allies, the people he loved, truly live.
Turning toward the door, he grabbed his invisibility cloak. He didn’t want to be seen—didn’t want to speak to anyone.
Fate, however, had other plans.

Just as he stepped out of the Headmaster’s office, he ran straight into someone he hadn’t expected.

“Luna?” Harry blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in the Great Hall.”
As soon as he said it, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. He wasn’t in the Great Hall either.

“I have come with a request and a piece of advice, Harry Potter,” Luna said dreamily, in her usual lilting tone—but her eyes, which so often wandered to some unseen world, were locked intently on his.

“I’m sort of in the middle of something, Luna… but, of course. If I can help, I will,” he replied after a pause, unable to deny her. Luna had always stood by him—strange and brilliant in equal measure.

“When you reach the train,” she said, her voice suddenly distant and firm, “board the second carriage. That is my advice.”

“As for my request, I ask only this: when you awaken, cast the Vegvísir spell. It will show you the path you must walk.”

“Right… I can do that,” Harry said dully. He didn’t plan on waking up—certainly not to board any train.
“Is there anything else, Luna?”

What she did next was perhaps the strangest thing Harry had ever seen her do—and that, considering Luna Lovegood, was saying a lot.

She dropped to one knee, pressed her closed right fist against her heart, and bowed her head.

“I, Luna Cassiopeia Lovegood, heir of the Noble House of Lovegood, vow that neither I nor mine shall ever raise a wand in harm against Hadrian James Potter. I swear that we shall aid and guide him to the best of our ability. So I proclaim. So mote it be.”

Something stirred in Harry then, something ancient and deep.
The words came unbidden, pouring from his lips like a long-forgotten incantation:

“I, Hadrian James Potter, accept the vow of the Noble House of Lovegood, and its heir, Luna Cassiopeia Lovegood. So I proclaim. So mote it be.”

As the vow left his mouth, he felt it—a bond.
A tether between him and Luna, yes, but also something larger, older. He could sense the power of House Lovegood pulsing through it.

Shaken, he gasped and clutched at his chest, as if he could physically feel the invisible thread binding them together.
“Luna… what did you just do?” he whispered.

Luna stood without looking at him, brushing invisible dust from her knee as she turned to go.

“I did what needed to be done, Harry Potter. Farewell.”
And before he could form another word, she was gone, drifting like a ghost toward the Great Hall.

“Well… that was something,” Harry muttered, still rubbing the place over his heart.
At least I won’t be around to deal with whatever that was, he thought wryly as he pulled his cloak over his shoulders.

Later—after an equally disturbing and revealing conversation with Dumbledore (who was, inconveniently, dead—though apparently, so was Harry)—he stood before a train that looked eerily like the Hogwarts Express.

Luna’s words echoed in his mind. And really, what did he have left to lose?
Choosing to trust her, as he so often had, he walked past the first carriage and boarded the second.

It was empty. The compartments had no doors, and there wasn’t a single soul aboard.
“Not many passengers today,” he muttered. He couldn’t decide whether that was comforting or terrifying.
Still, in this strange limbo, perhaps being alone was exactly what he needed.

The moment he sat down, the train lurched forward—and in the next instant, Harry Potter lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

Harry groaned miserably as he regained consciousness. Every inch of his body ached, but one pain stood out—sharp and dreadful—on the left side of his chest, just above his heart. He had no idea why it hurt so intensely, nor why that thought felt so important.

As scattered memories from before and after his death (after death—what a bizarre concept) slowly returned, he remained completely still, reaching out with his magic to scan his surroundings for any sign of enemies, allies—or, honestly, any magical life at all.

He relaxed only when the magical feedback came back blank.
It wasn’t common for someone to sense their environment like this, but after everything he’d been through, it had never felt like a particularly important detail to share. He’d never even told his friends about it.

Cautiously opening his eyes, he blinked against the dappled sunlight filtering through green leaves overhead. They shifted slightly in the breeze.
He shivered when a fresh spike of pain lanced through his chest. Looking down, he gasped softly.

Just left of center, his shirt was completely torn—shredded like it had been through a lawnmower, chewed by a werewolf, and struck by lightning. Beneath the fabric, his skin bore a web of raw, bleeding wounds radiating from just above his heart—like the scars of someone struck by lightning, but open and still fresh.

With great effort, he managed to sit up. Looking around, he realized he wasn’t in the Forbidden Forest—or any forest he recognized.

Apparating in his current condition would be a terrible idea, but he needed to find somewhere safe to recover. Returning from the dead had clearly drained him beyond measure.

Suddenly, Luna’s words echoed in his mind—a request and a piece of advice.
Right. What was that spell again?

Gripping his wand, he focused. He’d never cast this spell before—he was improvising entirely. But bleeding out in the middle of a strange forest had a way of making Luna seem oddly trustworthy.

“Vegvísir.”

As the word left his lips, a golden ribbon of light emerged from the tip of his wand. It circled around him a few times, then extended outward, pointing steadily through the trees—still tethered to his wand like a guiding thread.

Harry looked between his wand and the clear path of light. With a resigned nod, he struggled to his feet, nearly collapsing from the dizzying wave that followed. Half-walking, half-dragging himself, he began to follow the light.

What felt like hours—but was likely only minutes—passed before he stopped abruptly.
There was someone ahead.
He couldn’t yet make out who, but the figure was undeniably human—and radiating powerful magic.

Harry instinctively fell into a defensive stance, despite the agony flaring through his body. Stars danced in his vision. Somehow, he still had his glasses on—and only now realized they were cracked.

The figure was approaching quickly through the trees. As soon as it stepped into his blurry line of sight, Harry raised his wand, preparing for a fight.
Adrenaline surged.

“Whoa, easy there. And who might you be?” the stranger called out.
Harry didn’t recognize the voice, though there was something vaguely familiar about it.

“And why, exactly, are you casting a spell that leads directly to my front door?” the man continued.
This has to be a joke, Harry thought. Luna is probably laughing her head off right now.

“Look, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Harry snapped, a bit sharper than intended. “I’ll be on my way. You can pretend you never saw me.”
He figured his tone was justified—he had died, after all. Possibly twice.

The man, now close enough to make out some detail, seemed older—and unbothered by Harry’s aggressive stance.
He was walking faster now, likely having seen the blood and judging Harry to be no real threat.

“Listen, kid. Why don’t you come to my house so we can take care of those wounds? They don’t look good. Bloody hell, are you bleeding?”
He raised his hands slightly, perhaps trying to appear nonthreatening. It worked, somewhat. Harry couldn’t see a wand on him.

“It’s polite to introduce yourself before inviting someone into your home,” Harry replied coolly, still watching for any sign of danger.
He wasn’t about to make the rookie mistake of trusting someone just because they seemed unarmed.
Constant vigilance, he thought grimly.
He imagined Mad-Eye Moody agreeing with him in the afterlife.

“Fair enough. You’re right—sorry, kid,” the man said.
Now close enough for Harry to see his face clearly, the man had tousled black hair, was tall, and wore—bizarrely—Muggle pajama pants, a silk shirt, and a deep red wizard’s cloak.

“I’m Lord James Potter, Head of the House of Potter. I promise, I just want to help. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Harry froze.
That was not something he had ever expected to hear.
His father was dead. Thoroughly, absolutely dead.

A surge of anger flared through him. Someone had the nerve to impersonate his dead father?
But then a chill ran down his spine—as if cold fingers had brushed along his back—and a whisper on the wind urged him to let the stranger prove himself.

This man is obviously not my father, Harry thought. But strange magic had been happening to him since age eleven, and he had learned to at least listen when the universe whispered.

“Prove it. What’s your Animagus name and form, then… James?”
His voice dripped with sarcasm. Who could blame him?

“What? How the bloody hell do you know I’m an Animagus!?” the stranger shouted, clearly caught off guard.

“If you’re going to pretend to be someone,” Harry growled, “you should at least recognize the son of the real James Potter. Now stop lying, tell me exactly where I am, and maybe I won’t blow you up for impersonating my dead father.”
He channeled his anger into the glare, letting magic bleed into it. His friends had once said that when he was furious, his eyes glowed dangerously—nearly the color of an Avada Kedavra.

“What do you mean—dead? Your father? And… blow me up?” the man stammered.
“Alright, alright, let’s all calm down. I’ll answer your question. Prongs—that’s my Animagus name. I turn into a stag. Happy now, boy-who-hasn’t-introduced-himself?”

He started off yelling, but took a breath, trying for diplomacy.
Coward, Harry thought. He was just about ready for a fight—it required less thinking than talking.

Still, the answer stopped him cold.
Those details were correct.
And the man hadn’t recognized him.

Which was strange.
Being The Chosen One came with the curse of never being forgotten, even when he wanted to be.

“…Harry Potter,” he said at last, cautiously.
It was safer to give his name first—though he hoped the man wouldn’t make the connection just yet.

As the stranger stepped closer, Harry was hit with a wave of pain and briefly lost focus—just long enough to truly see the man’s face.

Wind-tossed black hair.
Warm brown eyes.
Soft, familiar features.
Tall. Lean.

The man looked eerily like Harry himself.
A mirror reflection aged by two decades.

The maybe-James looked like he’d had his own epiphany. His eyes widened comically as he stared at Harry—lingering on the hair, the eyes, and the blood-soaked shirt.

Luna, Harry thought. Where exactly have you sent me?
Because Polyjuice Potion couldn’t last this long—not with remains as old as his father’s.

Which meant either someone had reanimated James Potter’s body…
…or somehow, impossibly… he was alive.

And if anyone in the world was used to impossibilities—
it was Harry Potter.

---

Chapter Text

For a few moments, silence took over the clearing. Only the rustling of wind through the leaves remained, sounding to Harry as if fate itself were laughing at him.

The man-who-might-be-James swallowed hard and, as if coming to some important decision, raised his hands again (he had apparently lowered them at some point—Harry had the distinct feeling Moody was rolling in his grave). Speaking softly, like someone trying to soothe a wild animal, he began approaching slowly.

“You look pretty banged up. Look, Harry—can I call you Harry? I wasn’t expecting a situation like this on my Sunday morning, but you clearly need help. And, well, the fact that you look alarmingly like me... that’s weird, believe me. I don’t remember having any extramarital affairs during my marriage, but we can talk about that after you’ve had your injuries treated.”

When the meaning of James’s words finally made it through Harry’s decidedly exhausted brain, he felt personally insulted—but also found it strangely hilarious that his father thought he was some illegitimate child born from a fling (which he claimed never happened).
Yes. Harry found it very funny and couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his lips.

Later, he would blame the blood loss and the literal death he had just experienced for laughing at being called a bastard by his own father.

A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over him. Harry stumbled as his vision blurred for a few seconds, inadvertently dropping any semblance of a battle stance he might’ve managed to hold.

Quickly pretending he was fine and that the world definitely wasn’t spinning, Harry put on his best indifferent expression—as if he hadn’t just let out a snort-laugh a moment ago—and nodded at the first question (which only made the dizziness worse. Apparently nodding isn’t great when you might have a concussion).

“Yes—I mean, I’ll follow you to your house. Do you happen to know anything about healing?”
Blood loss was definitely affecting him, Harry decided, because there was no way he should be casually talking to his not-so-dead father.
“Lead the way.”

James (probably?) was standing just ahead, closer than Harry would prefer for a potential enemy. But he seemed to think Harry was some kind of bastard son who’d been cursed or lost a fight (Harry didn’t know many bastards, to be fair).

If James wanted to help him under the (very mistaken) impression that Harry was a lost illegitimate son—well, who was Harry to stop him?

Because Harry had a growing, uncomfortable feeling that he was very far from the home he knew.

And as the laughter in the wind curled around him and the damn golden thread emerging from his wand subtly tugged him forward, he thought it would probably be very difficult to find his way back.

He also realized he must look ridiculous holding a glowing golden ribbon at the tip of his wand (and James had said something about it leading him to his doorstep?).

“The path? Right, the path. Uh… actually, your glowing ribbon is pointing straight to my house. That’s how I found you—followed the magical thread and ended up with an injured kid instead of a treasure.”

James practically stumbled over his words, throwing in a terrible joke at the end and chuckling weakly to himself (he seemed a little desperate).

“Of course you did,” Harry sighed.
“Go ahead,” he gestured with his wand. “I assume you know the way to your own house.”

Running a hand through his hair, James looked like he was about to say something else, but instead chose silence and started walking in the direction the very bright golden thread was pointing, turning his back to Harry.

Harry could’ve stunned him right then and there—but as a breeze brushed his hair, he decided to follow instead, dragging his feet sluggishly.

He was relieved to see (after a quick silent Reparo on his glasses) that they were close to the edge of the forest—the way ahead clearly brighter than where they’d been moments ago.

Still dazed, with pain and discomfort of various degrees coursing through his body, his chest felt slightly numb—which couldn’t be a good sign. He didn’t immediately understand what he was seeing.

There, in the middle of a clearing, stood a mansion.
It looked like it was made of dark gray stone, the large entrance doors carved from some kind of dark wood, adorned with detailed stags.

The golden handle was shaped like a claw. And as James hurriedly opened the door, mumbling something (about lunch?), Harry was suddenly hit by the realization that this was seriously surreal.

Because with so many carved stags—even visible from the entrance, in statues and the enormous crest on the wall—it looked like Potter Manor.

Which was impossible.

It had been burned with Fiendfyre.

Harry remembered that clearly. Voldemort had told him—gleefully and in excruciating detail—how he’d trapped Harry’s grandparents inside and turned everything to ash.

Harry felt his world tilt off its axis, memories of old conversations with Hermione after their time-turner trip coming back—paradoxes, alternate dimensions.

He had never felt so far from home.
Even when he faced death, he did so on the grounds of his first home—Hogwarts—knowing it was necessary.

Now, he just felt distinctly lost.

Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder.

He didn’t think—he just drove his wand into the throat of the person who dared to grab him. His wand sparked threateningly against their skin before he realized who it was.

James, hands raised, saying something—Harry tuned in just enough to catch that he was apologizing for grabbing him. In hindsight, Harry had overreacted a little… but he wasn’t going to admit that to James.

Lowering his wand from James’s throat, Harry gestured for him to move ahead.

Thankfully, the next room seemed to be the living room—at least from what he could gather from James’s babbling—which was great, because that last adrenaline surge had drained what little strength he had left.

Taking a deep breath, Harry decided to push aside every thought about parallel universes.

Future-Harry could deal with that.

Right now, he had to face his maybe-father-from-another-universe and try not to pass out or have a breakdown.

Chapter Text

As soon as Harry got close enough to touch the front doors, the golden ribbon connecting his wand to them burst into brilliant golden sparks, swirling around him before vanishing into thin air.

Blinking in surprise a few times, he shrugged it off—he had seen weirder spells. One that acted like a magical guide wouldn’t even make the top ten if he ever made a list.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, Harry couldn't help but gasp at the sensation that washed over him. It was like being back in the Gryffindor tower with his friends, yet also like the rush of flying on a broom. Belonging—that’s what he felt in that instant.

Leaning against the nearest wall as the sensation slowly faded (though still faintly present), he tried his best not to look like someone moments away from curling up on the floor and sleeping for several years. (Harry seriously considered that option for a moment.)

Taking a deep breath (bad idea—he could now fully feel his chest again), he straightened up the best he could and kept walking.

Apparently, not all magical houses were threatening, Harry couldn’t help but think (recalling Malfoy Manor and Grimmauld Place with a shudder). With warm-colored walls and wooden floors, the Potter Manor (but it couldn’t be) carried an air of welcoming luxury.

He couldn't stop himself from pausing a moment to look at the enormous crest of the Potter Family—his family—hanging proudly on the wall.

On deep red fabric was embroidered a majestic stag rearing up, intricately stitched in (of course) golden thread and adorned with what looked like gemstones around a clay pot. (Potter-er. Ha.)

“Um… Harry? I, uh, got you a Blood-Replenishing Potion. You definitely look like you need it. Wouldn’t it be better if you sat down? Of course, I understand if you’d rather stand.”

James, clearly far out of his comfort zone with the bloodied, injured teen in front of him, was trying his hardest to seem useful.

He placed the potion on the floor in front of Harry the same way someone might place a steak in front of a starving predator.

Apparently, Harry’s earlier attempt to open a hole in Possibly-James’s neck had served as a warning. (Good.)

Harry gave his wand a flick, silently levitating the potion into his hand.

He headed straight for the dark brown leather couches that he could now see more clearly. The house’s entrance curved just enough to keep the rest of the interior hidden from the door.

Half sitting, half collapsing onto the couch, Harry let out a soft sigh at how soft it was, and quickly downed the potion. (Still tasted horrible.)

“I’m not that good with healing magic, and even if I were, those injuries look like something that should be treated at St. Mungo’s. Wouldn’t you like a quick Floo trip?”

James was pacing in front of the sofa, running a hand through his hair, clearly worried about what he believed to be his bastard son. 

Harry looked up from where he was mentally cataloging the more superficial wounds (most could be handled with an Episkey).

“No hospitals. I’ll handle it.”

James raised his hands again. Harry idly noticed that he now had his wand in hand. (He might be a threat now.) Harry’s attention snapped back to him.

“Look, if you really want to help, grab me a Wiggenweld Potion, some cloth bandages, and a bucket. If you’ve got a Pepper-Up Potion, I’ll take that too.”

All the while, Harry’s wand was subtly pointed at James.

“Alright, alright… I’m sure I’ve got some of that in the emergency kit. I’ll be right back, kid. Try, um, not to pass out while I’m gone. Just a moment.”

James practically flew out of the room. Harry blinked, surprised by the older wizard’s sudden speed. (He could try grabbing him, but Harry was faster.) He winced as new waves of pain surged through him.

He didn’t yet have the energy to risk dealing with the deeper wounds on his chest, but he could start healing the rest with his limited healing knowledge.

Pointing his wand at his left arm, he cast an Episkey, watching as various small wounds healed over. (He loves magic.) He repeated the spell on his right arm.

Looking down, he grimaced at what looked like a badly done attempt at disembowelment. His shirt was obviously beyond saving.

Vanishing the ruined fabric (one of his last Dudley-brand shirts), he got a full view of the wound for the first time.

His earlier guess was partially correct—they did resemble Lichtenberg figures, but the center was another story entirely.

Someone had tried to rip out Harry’s heart. That’s what it looked like. The deep cut was almost eight centimeters long, the flesh at the edges curling outward, making it painfully clear how deep it went.

Suddenly, Harry’s vision in his right eye turned red, blinking as he now clearly felt liquid running down his face.

He reached for the scar on his forehead. (It was usually the one that bled, though he wasn’t feeling Voldemort’s rage this time.) He wasn’t surprised to find it covered in blood.

One thing at a time, he thought. The scar hadn’t killed him yet (though it had tried), so he would ignore it for now and focus on the rest.

Just in case, he pointed his wand at the scar and muttered, “Ferula,” causing magical bandages to wrap around his forehead.

He heard hurried footsteps approaching and frowned. James was taking too long. He focused, trying to expand his magical awareness into the room—distantly, he felt that same sense of home again.

More clearly now, he sensed two magical signatures approaching.

Harry couldn’t help but find it tragically funny. He had kind of trusted someone just because they looked like his dead father—and of course, he’d been betrayed at the first opportunity.

Getting up as fast as he could, he assumed the best battle stance he could manage. 

The exhaustion was still there, but luckily the blood-replenishing potion was kicking in, so he wasn’t as dizzy.

The Very-Fake-James could be heard saying something, but it was too low for Harry to catch.

The magical signature coming closer was familiar—oddly so, as he couldn’t think of anyone who’d be close enough to James to be called in to help kill his bastard son. (Obviously the only plausible explanation.)

Harry froze completely for a moment. (“Raised like a pig for slaughter.”)

Now he could see who it was. He could also see that person stop in their tracks at the sight of Harry’s condition.

It was impossible. Less than a day ago, this same man had bled to death in Harry’s arms. (Memories flowing like tears.)

It had been his memories that showed Harry the ultimate purpose of his life—there was no way he could be standing there, less than ten meters from Harry. (“You have your mother’s eyes.”)

James Potter had gone to none other than Severus Snape.

Chapter Text

There really should be a rule about how many dead people someone can see walking around before they lose their mind.

Harry was quite certain he was reaching that limit—fast.

First, Dumbledore appeared when Harry himself was dead, which, all things considered, made some sense—seeing dead people while being dead wasn’t that shocking (though, in truth, it kind of was).

But Harry kept seeing people who were supposed to stay dead—even after coming back to life. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

First, someone who looked a lot like him appeared, claiming to be his long-dead father. And now this.

Because Harry still remembered Snape’s body going cold in his arms. The ragged breaths through a torn throat.

Those black eyes staring into his (his mother’s eyes) in silent pleading.

His wand trembled slightly in his grip as the silence stretched. Everyone in the room stood unnaturally still, as if waiting for a sign.

Snape seemed to be the only one interested in breaking it, walking toward Harry at a much slower pace than before.

“Hello,” the man said calmly. “My name is Severus Snape. I’m a licensed Healer. Potter mentioned your rather reckless refusal to seek appropriate medical care — which, if I may point out, you clearly require.”

He gave Harry one of his signature looks—the kind that used to come right before “Twenty points from Gryffindor for breathing out of turn.” Harry almost laughed. Almost

Snape set down the bag he’d been carrying onto the small table beside the couches.

“We can do this the easy way—you sit down, lower your wand, and I’ll heal you. Or we do it the hard way—I stun you and heal you anyway.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know what was more unsettling — how familiar this version of Snape felt, or how different. His wand remained raised, steady now, now pointing directly at Snape.

He remembered that Snape was, in fact, a much more powerful wizard than average—even if this version might not be.

“I don’t think so. Thanks for the offer, really, but I’ll be going now.”

He started backing toward the door, knowing full well that in his current condition, any fight would end badly—especially against two skilled wizards.

“The thing is, Harry,” Snape continued calmly, “you clearly lack the ability to heal yourself spontaneously. Which means you require outside help. In this case—me.”

Snape’s wand was now subtly pointed at him—subtle to anyone else, maybe, but not to Harry. This Snape was practically sloppy.

Harry’s lip curled in a sneer.

“Oh, right. Like I’d ever accept help from a git like you.”

Oops. The sarcastic reply slipped out before he could stop it.

And the dizziness was back, of course. Because why wouldn’t Harry be disoriented while dealing with all this disturbing nonsense?

Snape’s face suddenly went completely blank—before one eyebrow arched, inquisitively.

“You seem to know me.”

Not a question. An observation.

“Yet I have no memory of ever meeting you before.”

Shit.

Harry needed to leave—now. Snape may be a git, but he was an observant, dangerously clever one (his body convulsing in Harry’s arms, blood running hot down his hand as he tried in vain to stop the bleeding).

Harry’s eyes darted around the room. No windows. No back door. Just dark oak walls and looming shelves.

There were couches, a center table, a few bookcases... Unless Harry started hurling furniture at them, there was nothing useful.

“You won’t be able to run with those injuries. And I’d suggest not trying to Apparate, the protections around this place prevent anyone from entering or leaving.”

Snape had stopped pretending to hide his wand now.

In the background, James (traitor) raised his own, almost reluctantly.

Suddenly, Harry remembered a conversation he’d had with Ron and Hermione after the whole Malfoy Manor disaster.

They were all in Ron’s room at the Burrow, when Harry, thinking aloud, had wondered how those anti-Apparition protections really worked.

Hermione lit up immediately, like she’d been waiting for that question.

She clearly researched it the moment they’d had time.

“They’re called Spatial Confinement Charms,” she’d said. “The most common is Claustrum Apparitia — it bends magical space within the protected area. Makes it impossible to connect the starting and ending points of Apparition. Even if you know where you're going, the magic twists it. It’s like trying to Apparate through a maze that rearranges itself.”

She’d pulled a thick tome off Ron’s shelf — one from Grimmauld Place — and flipped to the diagram.

Ron had chimed in:

“Bill said old wizarding houses — like the Malfoys’ — have all sorts of enchantments baked into the bones of the place. Not just spells, but blood protections. Walls, ceilings… it’s in the foundation.”

Hermione nodded solemnly. “Exactly. They often use ancestral wards like Salvus Praedium. It only lets you enter or leave if you have authorized blood. Or are invited.”

Snapping back to the present, startled by how vivid that memory had been, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what the hell that just was.

Then he felt it. A breeze—cold—brushing the back of his neck, lifting his hair ever so slightly.

Which was strange, considering he was in a sealed room (Was there a whisper in the wind—or was he completely insane?).

Recalling the feeling the house gave him earlier, that strange hum he’d felt since arriving. Like something ancient and alive, watching from behind the walls. Judging. Waiting.

He decided to do something completely mad.

Acting on instinct, Harry raised his wand.

“Fumus.”

Thick smoke erupted into the air, curling and expanding with supernatural speed. It cloaked him in gray shadow, swallowing the space between him and his would-be captors.

Focusing his intent, Harry reached for that familiar belonging he’d felt before, letting it fill him once more.

“I’m one of you,” he projected into the pulse of the magic around him. “Please... let me through.”

Somehow, he could feel the magic was almost sad that he had to ask— but then came the sense of agreement.

“Thank you.”

Harry readied himself. Through the thinning smoke—now being dispelled by some sort of wind spell, likely from James.

He caught a glimpse of dark eyes locking onto his. They widened—just slightly—realizing what he was about to do. Harry smirked.

“See you never.”

And he Apparated.

The protections let him pass, as though they weren’t even there.

The House had accepted him—and allowed him to go.

In hindsight, maybe he should have thought of a destination. The Apparition was taking longer than usual, space warping, stretching, and compressing.

When he finally stopped, Harry was thrown backward, hitting the ground, hard.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

He could feel consciousness slipping.

He tried to stay awake—but he was losing the fight.

The last thing he heard was the soft tinkling of wind chimes, distant and strange, as the world fell away once more into darkness.

Chapter Text

James Potter had always taken pride in the chaos he caused in his youth, finding it hilarious to watch the expression of others when caught off guard by a well-executed prank.

He had the distinct feeling that what he was experiencing now was very close to what those people must have felt—frankly, not pleasant at all.

As he stared at the spot where his potential son (he still couldn’t remember having had an extramarital affair) had stood just moments earlier, James felt undeniably lost.

His Sunday had started off wonderfully: he woke up full of energy, greeted his beautiful wife who, after a pleasant breakfast, had gone to meet Alice at Longbottom Manor so the two could travel to a magical center abroad (France, probably), where a new species of magical plant had been released in a specific shop.

His children were currently at Hogwarts—Charles in his seventh year, about to take his NEWTs, Jamie in his fifth and soon facing his OWLs, while Rose and Dahlia (his lovely twin daughters) were enjoying their third year.

In other words, James had the entire house to himself, and he had already begun planning to invite Sirius and Remus over to enjoy a bottle of Elvish wine, aged for 1,500 years, which he had struggled to acquire at an auction in Venice.

Now, James wouldn’t normally brag about such things, but this wine, aptly named Gleam of Moonëlight, was worth boasting about.

Rumor had it that when opened, the bottle exhaled a silver mist, as if the night itself were sighing from within—a light, shimmering fog, perfumed with a scent not of the mortal world.

Its appearance was said to be equally enchanting—a clear liquid, pale as liquid opal, yet deep as twilight. Under soft light, it emitted a gentle inner glow, as if fragments of moonlight floated within crystal.

When poured, it slid slowly, with the smooth viscosity of silk, leaving a glittering trail like frost upon glass.

It was clear James had been quite excited to taste such a magnificent creation. After all, since the High Elves and other fae species had closed off their realm from the human one, no new Elvish production had reached this world.

Humming a tune, he headed to the fireplace to make a Floo call to Sirius. He wanted to tell him about the acquisition—so they could both be equally anxious, and by splitting the anticipation, James wouldn’t be tempted to open the bottle before his best friends arrived.

Unfortunately for his plans, fate had other goals.

Without warning, the Manor's wards alerted him to a new magical presence inside their range—something that shouldn’t be possible, since only authorized individuals or close blood relatives could enter without being cursed, painfully and humiliatingly, he had added a few things after becoming Lord, of course.

Perhaps it was some kind of magical creature. The more powerful ones, like phoenixes or dragons (please don’t be a dragon), had magical signatures strong enough to trigger alerts, though not human enough for the wards to react aggressively.

Heading to the front door, he grabbed one of the cloaks hanging there and dramatically opened the heavy doors.

Only to be startled by the sight of a golden thread—brilliantly luminous and clearly magical—stuck to one of them.

Rubbing his eyes, as if that would somehow make the glow disappear, he blinked and let out a full-body sigh when it didn’t.

James could already feel his plans saying goodbye, but he decided not to be deterred. He would deal with whatever was going on, and then enjoy the wonders of that Elvish wine.

Realizing that the golden thread apparently linked his front door to something, he decided to follow it, as it was extremely likely that this oddity was also what had triggered the wards.

Walking at a semi-slow pace, he entered the forest that surrounded Potter Manor, following the thread for only a short time before he began to hear something moving through the dry leaves.

An old oak blocked his view of whatever was causing the sounds, and James—now more intrigued by the mystery—quickened his pace.

Only to nearly stumble when he saw what was clearly a child, appearing dirty.

A child who also stood defensively, adopting what could only be some kind of battle stance.

Thinking carefully about how to proceed, he reminded himself that this was his property being trespassed upon. He had a duty to make the kid leave.

“Hold on now—who might you be?”

He spoke calmly, but firmly.

“And what are you doing with a spell that, somehow, ends right at my front door?”

He added a rougher tone to that second question to make clear that such behavior was considered deeply disrespectful (he was great at talking to people).

The child somehow only seemed more agitated.

“Look, I didn’t mean to trespass. I’ll leave right away, and you can pretend you never saw me.”

Frankly, the boy was just being rude now. First he invades James’s land, and now he’s trying to tell James what to do? That wasn’t going to fly.

James readied himself to scold the insolent brat—but stopped himself the next second.

He was finally close enough to see that the child wasn’t just dirty.

The boy looked like he had fought a Hippogriff without a wand. His clothing (could’ve been a Muggle t-shirt?) was nothing but rags barely holding together, and nearly soaked in blood.

James had at least been right about calling him dirty; he couldn’t get a full view of the uncomfortable-looking wounds on the boy’s chest, nor even his facial features.

But he was clearly a child—about Jamie’s height, though thinner. He couldn’t be older than fifteen.

Quickening his pace, James put as much kindness into his voice as he could manage.

“Look, kid, why don’t you come to my house? We’ll treat those wounds—they can’t be good for you. Shit, are you bleeding?”

He made sure to wave his hands in the air to show he was completely unarmed.

The boy seemed to relax a bit, but still held a battle-ready stance. James could see drops of blood running down the kid’s (very dirty) stomach—not a good sign.

“It’s polite to introduce yourself first before taking someone to your home, I’ve been told.”

James found it a little funny—and quite concerning—that this kid was apparently worried about manners while looking about ready to collapse.

“I’m Lord James Potter, Head of the House of Potter, and I assure you I just want to treat your injuries. You look like you’re about to faint, kid.”

He had introduced himself with his title without thinking. Oops—force of habit.

And that’s when everything went off the rails. The child—furious (Harry)—started hurling accusations at him, asking deeply personal questions, and threatening him.

All while James kept getting closer.

It was the moment he finally got a good look at the boy-Harry’s face that everything hit him like a Flipendo to the chest.

Child-Harry was skinny, but it didn’t hide his delicate features, straight nose, or strong chin—much less that wild mop of wind-swept hair flying in every direction.

He looked frighteningly like James.

The most noticeable difference between them was the eyes. Where James’s were brown, Harry’s were hauntingly green—not like his wife’s, which were a beautiful emerald, but almost unnatural.

There was only one explanation for so many shared traits—combined with the fact that the boy had crossed the wards and the clear hostility.

Harry was his bastard son.

And apparently, he’d even told whoever his mother was that his surname was Potter—since the boy already carried it.

Somehow managing to lure the child (his son!) into the Manor without any curse triggering, James waited until Harry was settled in the entrance hall before deciding he needed specialized help.

Not wanting to make things worse—and seeing the boy’s unwillingness to go to St. Mungo’s—he decided to seize the opportunity when Harry asked (demanded) a list of items James hadn’t even fully heard.

Running as fast as he could to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder on the way, he called someone he never imagined he’d contact on a Sunday.

He was going to bring Severus Snape in to help.

As soon as he threw the powder and spoke the address (Cokeworth, Snape Residence), he stuck his head into the flames.

He had to wait several seconds that dragged on like hours before being answered.

“Potter.”

Snape still had that arrogant, sarcastic look, emphasized by the smirk on his face.

“To what do I owe this displeasure?”

James could feel a scathing comeback rising to his lips, but he shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time.

“Snape, I need your help. As a Healer.”

Then, swallowing the lump in his throat, he said one of the hardest things he’d ever had to say.

“Please.”

Both of Snape’s eyebrows shot up, and the reply he’d been preparing died in his throat. He studied James’s expression before nodding once, slowly.

“Well, now. That’s something I never expected to hear. You must truly be in need of my skills.”

James could feel the veins in his forehead bulging and his jaw tightening.

“Get out of the way—I’m coming through.”

Surprised by the positive response (he had honestly expected a no), James jumped up just in time for Snape to step through, carrying a case that appeared full of medicinal potions.

“So, whose certain and embarrassing death am I meant to prevent?”

Snape asked, wearing that arrogant expression of his. He was a bastard—but a smart one.

James sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and pointed toward where he could now feel the boy (he could feel him now?).

“In the waiting room. I’ll try to tell you what I know.”

As they made their way over, James did his best to explain everything that had happened—leaving out the part about the bastard son, of course.

And somehow, things only got worse from there.

He still hadn’t figured out how the hell Harry had crossed the wards. The boy might have James’s blood (maybe), but that alone didn’t grant access.

To cross safely, one had to be bound to the protections—or be accompanied by someone who was. Otherwise, it wouldn’t work.

Ahead of him, Snape turned with dramatically calculated slowness.

“Potter, I’m sure you don’t mind explaining what’s going on.”

Shit.

So much for a relaxing Sunday.

Chapter Text

The first sound that echoed around him was the whisper of the wind, filtered through a light curtain that danced with the morning breeze.

The sheet covering him was soft, with an indefinable scent — something between lavender, old paper, and moonlight — and the bed felt like it held memories of its own, as if it had once welcomed curious dreams and whispered conversations.

When Harry opened his eyes, the ceiling was the first thing he saw: a hand-painted dome, covered in smiling faces surrounded by golden threads. He was overwhelmed by a wave of affection and longing upon seeing them float like constellations in that invented sky. They were familiar faces — Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and his own. A magical ribbon connected them, drawing in the shimmering air the word “friendship.”

He turned slowly, and the room revealed itself in fragments of color and texture.

A paper mobile spun near the window, composed of fantastic creatures he had never seen in Hogwarts books — a Horned Puff danced alongside a creature with glass wings and embroidered eyes.

Everything there seemed alive, as if the very imagination of the room’s owner breathed in each object.

The walls were covered with drawings, clippings from The Quibbler, dried flowers tied with colorful string, and owl feathers carefully aligned on an improvised shelf.

In one corner, a pile of books balanced precariously on a dresser draped with hand-embroidered scarves, beside vials with crooked-labeled tags — “Moon Mist Essence,” “Dreamer’s Root Dust.”

The whole room was a serene chaos, like a dream organized by someone who sees the world through inward-turned eyes.

And even though she wasn’t there, Luna’s presence filled everything. It was in the colors, the scents, the impossible creatures that spun gently in the air. It was like waking up inside the mind of someone who had never been afraid to be herself.

And for a moment, lying there wrapped in that strange calm, Harry felt as if the harsh world outside had simply forgotten to come in through that window.

He sensed her presence before he heard it — much more clearly than others — her serene magic brushing against his own.

He turned toward the door just as it opened, and there, standing at the entrance to her room, was Luna Lovegood.

“Hello, Harry Potter. It’s lovely to see you again for the first time.”

She had that distant look that was her trademark, yet Harry could tell she was being sincere — her magic made that clear (since when could he do that?).

She moved closer to the bed in a slightly bouncing walk that drew attention to the flowing lavender dress she wore, embroidered at the hem with tiny moons and stars in silver thread.

Over it, she wore a pale yellow hand-knitted cardigan with radish-shaped buttons, and a butterfly flitted around her head, pausing occasionally in her long hair before beginning its orbit again.

Harry couldn’t help but smile, despite the vague feeling of loss that began to swell inside him.

“It really is lovely to meet you again, Luna Lovegood.”

As he sat up fully, sharp pangs of pain radiated through his body — especially his chest and head — but he ignored them with the ease of someone used to injury.

“Now, Luna, if you could explain what happened, I have the distinct feeling all of this is the result of following your advice and doing what you asked.”

He tried to sound stern, but it was incredibly hard to direct any anger at her — especially since she felt both so familiar and yet entirely different from the Luna Lovegood he knew.

“I’ve never spoken to you before this moment, Harry Potter. I’m afraid I don’t know what advice or request you’re referring to.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Luna swung her legs and spoke so casually that it shook Harry’s entire world.

“But I can feel that we’re bound by ancient magic, Harry Potter. I sense that I could never raise my wand against you with the intent to harm.”

She turned her face to look at him, though her eyes seemed to gaze at distant places.

“If you don’t know me, how do you know my name is Harry Potter?”

He couldn’t help but ask, raising a hand to his forehead. His head was throbbing harder now, and this conversation wasn’t helping.

“Oh, I never said I didn’t know you. Only that I hadn’t spoken to you before now.”

Her eyes suddenly sharpened, the usual silvery mist within them clearing.

“I’ve seen glimpses of epic adventures and tragedies, of a boy who only wanted to rest but was forced to take part in a war he never chose. I watched that boy grow into a man, saw him consumed by loss, and saw his heart stop in a choice that was never his.”

Harry felt another presence — distinctly inhuman — like invisible spirals of mist, vast as the clouds in the sky.

Something was studying him, surrounding and entering him in an instant — a presence woven from dream-stuff, a tapestry of enchantments spun with threads of intuition, madness, and raw beauty.

He choked as the presence diminished to a tolerable level, though he still felt it lingering behind everything — alongside what remained from the Potter Manor within him.

“We felt it the moment ancient oaths, older than magic itself, were rekindled — oaths never before sworn by Our House. And we accepted. We swore. We will guide you, Harry Potter. We made sure your future is no longer written in stone. We gave you a choice.”

It wasn’t just Luna Lovegood speaking — the Magic of the Lovegood Family spoke through her and with her.

She reached out and placed her index finger on the spot where he knew his scar was — a horrific parody of that night in the graveyard ("I can touch you now").

“And a choice you made.”

The presence gradually faded, like mist before the wind, and Luna’s eyes returned to their dreamy, nebulous state.

Harry swallowed hard, because he could feel the thread that tied him to Luna — stronger than ever. It wasn’t a thread anymore. It was a web of connections.

“I don’t understand… Please, Luna, tell me where I am.”

He must’ve sounded pathetic, begging for an answer, but he didn’t care in the slightest.

She pondered for a moment, during which he felt the presence flare up again — only to vanish just as swiftly.

“When you made your choice — I don’t know what it was — one could say you tore a rift in space-time. You didn’t follow the path already carved out for you.”

She settled again, playing with the butterfly in her hair, her eyes on the painted faces above.

“There are many worlds — some so similar the differences are imperceptible, others entirely different. When you made that tear, you were… tossed here.”

She caught and released the butterfly as she explained something Harry had suspected — but hadn’t dared to confirm.

“Is there a way for me to go back? I have to go, Luna. They need me there — to face Voldemort!”

She slowly turned her head to look out the window.

“I don’t know if anyone can ever return, Harry Potter. But I know you can’t.”

Harry flinched, tossing the sheet off and trying to stand, but a wave of pain from his injuries forced him back down.

“When an object travels across space-time, the amount of energy required is proportional to the object. If you haven’t realized, you’re immensely powerful magically. You only crossed because you were at your weakest — and even then, you were left severely wounded.”

She pulled her wand from behind her ear and began conjuring smoke shapes — a triangle, a circle, a butterfly.

“There’s another issue with that kind of magic. When a living being arrives in another plane, the Will of that world begins trying to erase the interference.”

She conjured something like a stag from smoke.

“But you managed to anchor your existence in time. By being recognized by the Potter Magic, your existence ceased to be an error to erase. And now, after the Lovegood Magic has helped heal parts of your soul… you are, by all means, a rightful inhabitant of this plane.”

Harry lowered his head into his hands, despair crashing over him.

“How do you know all this, Luna? Does Hogwarts in this world teach interdimensional travel?”

Luna let out a soft laugh.

“Magic, of course. The magic of the Lovegood House is ancient. It is illusory, but not a lie. It is silent, but not absent. It weaves labyrinths of wind and memory, and it nears those who understand it without understanding.”

Lifting his head at something she had said earlier — he’d been too distracted to grasp it at the time — a shard of hope pierced his gloom.

“Luna, do you know what happened after I… well, died?”

As a dog and an otter made of smoke followed the stag across the room, Luna shook her head.

“Ever since your heart stopped, I can no longer see that plane.” But then, she seemed to have a thought, turning to look directly at him.

“But maybe you can.”

Pointing to himself, Harry blinked in surprise.

“Me? I’m not a Seer, Luna.”

Springing to her feet and dispersing the smoke creatures, she turned toward the door.

“You may not be. But you do have access to the Lovegood Magic now. I’ll need to find the right ritual. Meanwhile, rest — curse wounds are terribly hard to heal.”

Harry could only watch in stunned silence as she vanished through the door, still reeling from everything he had just learned.

With a soft pop, food appeared on the nightstand — on a wooden tray, a steaming soup of some kind, two small rolls, and a cup of what looked like green juice.

Grasping the tray, Harry decided he should eat and regain his strength first.

He’d think about it all later.

Later, Harry could allow himself to think.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

Later came far too soon in Harry’s opinion.

After finishing the bread rolls and the vegetable soup — which included a few kinds he had never seen or tasted in a soup before — he hesitantly tried the green juice, only to be surprised by the flavor. It was something sweet mixed with mint — strange, but pleasant.

He carefully placed the tray on the nightstand and, reluctantly, found himself alone with his thoughts.

He didn’t quite know where to start unpacking everything he had learned since waking up.

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and raised his head to look at the smiling faces of his friends.

For a long moment, he felt nothing.

No immediate pain, no despair — just a vast silence that spread inside him like fog.

Then reality began to sink in, the weight of the spoken words settling on his chest.

Luna had said: “I don’t know if there’s any way to bring something back, but I know you won’t be able to.”

And Harry wanted to deny those words, scream that they were lies — but he could feel there was no falsehood in them.

He could almost hear a whisper in his ears, repeating insistently: “Truths, truths, truths.”

And those truths sank into his core, because Harry now had no choice but to accept: He would never go home.

The word “never” echoed in his mind with the lightness of a feather and the weight of a tombstone.

Never.

Never again would he see the warm glow of the Burrow’s kitchen at dusk.

Never again would he hear familiar footsteps in the corridors.

Never again would he open a door knowing his friends were waiting on the other side.

There would be no return. Not in the way he longed for. Not to what he had called home.

He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry (he couldn’t show weakness).

But something inside him gave way, like an old house slowly sinking into the earth.

Longing came in place of tears — a longing made of smells, of voices, of lights that existed only in that place now lost to him.

Because no matter how similar the people in this world were to the ones he called friends — family — they would never be the same. These people hadn’t been through everything life had hurled at them alongside Harry. They would never be his.

It was like looking through a distant window and seeing his own childhood waving back… and knowing the glass between them could never be broken again.

The magic that brought him here had required a price, and only now was he beginning to understand what it was.

First, his fingers started to tremble — lightly, almost imperceptibly, but constantly. Then the air refused to fully enter his lungs.

He gasped once, twice, as if he’d run an impossible distance.

His hands pressed against his ribs, clutching his chest, trying to hold back the wave that was spreading, the pain climbing to an almost unbearable degree.

A buzzing filled his ears, muting the world, and his fingertips tingled with unstable magic, faint sparks escaping his skin as if his very essence could no longer be contained within his body.

A wave of emotion crashed over him. Harry was dangerously close to losing control. He could feel his magic rising, trying to fix whatever was causing him this agony — but it couldn’t find the source, so it lashed out at everything around him.

The air in the room grew heavy, an invisible pressure descending upon everything. Nothing moved, as if waiting for the judgment of an unseen authority.

That invisible weight kept increasing, the hanging ornaments falling and shattering, breaking, or splitting.

The walls trembled slightly, as if unsure whether to keep standing or yield to what was coming.

Then, without warning, the entire room began to bend.

Books flew from the shelves — not as if thrown by wind, but as if pulled toward an invisible center in the air.

Their covers twisted, pages tearing on their own, not in straight lines but in spirals, as if gravity itself had gone wrong.

The curtains didn’t flutter — they tore slowly, pulled upward as though climbing an inverted wall.

The paints Luna kept in open jars — blues, silvers, lilacs — floated in liquid orbs in the air, quivering before being flung onto the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

The bed groaned, its legs nearly giving out, creaking dully, as if begging to be spared.

Before Harry’s magic could destroy everything within reach, something rose to stop it.

From deep within, something emerged.

It rose like warmth along his spine — not aggressive, but unshakable.

As if something invisible had stepped between him and the danger — like a father placing himself before his child to shield him from anything.

It was a calm fire that rose from within and silenced the overwhelming emotions.

The air seemed to vibrate with an invisible presence, as if the space around him recognized Harry and declared: “We’re with you. You are not alone.”

Harry gasped, as if pulled from the depths of a frozen lake (a dreadful experience), still wrapped in the warm Magic surrounding him.

He recognized it even though it had not introduced itself.

The Potter Magic had come to his aid.

He vaguely remembered Luna mentioning that it had acknowledged him at some point, and now, held in what could only be described as a magical embrace, he believed her (though he had already known it was true).

His magic gradually calmed, soothed by the Potter Magic, returning to the limits of his body, ceasing its attempts to save him from an invisible enemy.

After a few peaceful moments — during which he felt warmer and more at ease than he had in a long time (how long had it been?) — the Magic receded.

It settled quietly, like an ember under his skin — a warm, constant presence that watched in silence, a kind of strength grounding his feet, as if the world became more solid.

Feeling as if his emotions had been dulled — still present, but no longer drowning him — he suddenly became extremely aware of the mess he had made. Honestly, he was too old for displays of accidental magic.

He picked up his wand, only to be surprised when it sparked gold, silver, and black.

Staring at it, confused — something like that had only happened once, at Ollivanders, when the wand had chosen him.

Shrugging — this day just kept getting stranger — he gripped it firmly and pointed it first at the bed.

"Reparo."

But it wasn’t only the bed that mended — everything in the room began to return to its previous state. Cracks vanished, broken things became whole again, spilled paint floated back into jars, books reassembled themselves.

Mouth slightly ajar, Harry watched as what had moments ago been a nearly destroyed room became only somewhat messy — more than before Luna had left, but nothing compared to the earlier chaos.

He turned to stare at his wand, bringing it closer to his eyes, adjusting his glasses to make sure he was seeing clearly.

"You did that?"

As soon as he spoke, he felt rather foolish. Of course the wand wouldn’t answer.

Still examining it, looking for — he didn’t know what — he felt Luna return.

Feeling deeply guilty for destroying her room (even though he had fixed it), he straightened on the bed and tried to look as innocent as possible.

As Luna entered with what looked like a scroll in her arms, she walked straight toward Harry, not even noticing (or caring) about the worsened mess.

She smiled brightly at him — an odd expression on her face.

"I managed to find the correct ritual. But the ingredients must be gathered as part of the ritual by the one performing it."

Still smiling, she placed the scroll on the sheets and began untying the ribbon that held it closed.

"Fortunately, a good portion of it can be bought, and the rest won’t be too hard to acquire."

Turning to face Harry, she added innocently:

"Although we will have to rob a grave, at least once."

….

What.

Chapter Text

The sunlight streaming through the window was pleasantly warm, shining over Harry and gently warming him.

He could hear the distant singing of birds, flying cheerfully and free from worldly concerns.

Yet he couldn’t appreciate any of it.

Hearing Luna Lovegood—of all people—tell him straight to his face that they would have to rob a grave (at the very least!) was not something he had expected.

In fact, Harry had hoped never to hear the words “we’ll have to rob a grave” leave anyone’s lips.

The only person he had known to do such a thing was Voldemort.

He had bragged many times in those cursed shared dreams about doing whatever it took to be the best, about how Harry’s morality was what made him weak.

He spoke of how he had tortured people for the slightest hint of deception, how he killed those who were disloyal.

When Harry learned of Dumbledore’s tomb being desecrated, he hadn’t been surprised—he had felt Voldemort’s triumph surge in his veins. He knew the Dark Lord had done something.

And now Luna was asking him to do the same.

Something in his expression must have given him away, because her smile dimmed—though the amused air about her didn’t completely fade.

“There’s no need to worry, Harry Potter, for we’re not going to desecrate anyone’s eternal resting place.”

She had just finished unrolling the parchment and was now smoothing it out with her hand, brushing away some invisible crease.

“We’re going to ask first before taking what we need, of course.”

Now thoroughly confused, Harry furrowed his brows, accidentally skewing his glasses.

“You lost me there, Luna. How exactly are we not going to desecrate someone’s grave if you just said we’re going to rob it?”

Adjusting his glasses, he placed both hands on his lap.

“And if we’re going to ask, how is it robbery?”

As he spoke, Luna transfigured a few buttons into slightly distorted paperweights and placed them on the corners of the parchment to keep it flat.

“Legally, it’ll still be theft since we don’t own what we intend to acquire. But it won’t be desecration, because we’ll be asking the spiritual owners of the items for permission to take them.”

Harry could only stare in stunned silence as she read carefully from whatever was written on the parchment, her finger tracing some invisible line.

“Legally? Spiritual owners!? Luna, please tell me we’re not going to talk to the dead.”

She didn’t even look up.

“Of course not. We’ll ask permission from the magical remnants of those who owned what we need, naturally.”

Realizing he wouldn’t get a straight explanation right now, Harry gave up—for the moment. He’d press for a clearer answer later, but Luna seemed far too absorbed to respond properly.

Leaning over to look at the parchment stretched across the bed, he instinctively brought a hand to the injuries on his chest.

The pain that had previously radiated sharply had dulled to a tolerable ache. Looking down, he realized he was still shirtless, though bandages had been carefully applied.

The grime that had coated his body was gone as well—Luna must have cast a Scourgify on him.

Poking at the wounds, he noticed the pain was significantly reduced and couldn’t help but poke again.

At that moment, he felt the embers of Potter Magic flare again, as if scolding him for his self-harming curiosity.

Apparently, he’d found the source of his inexplicable improvement.

Now, with Harry’s uncanny ability to stumble into trouble, this would be quite useful.

He could even sense a flicker of amusement coming from where the Potter Magic rested.

Movement beside him caught his attention—Luna had abandoned the attempt to keep the parchment flat on the bed and was now levitating it at the perfect height for reading.

Shifting, Harry tried to read what was written, only to realize he couldn’t make out a word. (Was he illiterate in this world?)

“This parchment is written in Cambrian. You probably can’t read it right now.”

He had no idea how Luna knew he was struggling to understand, but he was grateful—being illiterate sounded horrifying.

“Cambrian? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Luna continued reading, pausing only to summon a small notebook and quill.

“Cambrian is considered by magical historians to be the first structured language used by Western European wizards, dating back millennia before the Roman expansion.”

She also summoned a bottle of ink (blue).

“It was spoken by the magical tribes of the valleys, forests, and mountains—those who communed with the earth, rivers, stars, and the dead.”

And apparently, this ritual Harry would have to perform was important enough to be written in a language that predated the Romans.

At least that increased the chances of it working— old magical rituals were powerful (“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken—you will resurrect your foe”), so this one, seemingly ancient, ought to be even stronger.

“Here—all the items and ingredients needed for the ritual are written in this notebook.”

She handed Harry the list and began rolling the parchment back up.

Eagerly taking the notebook—it looked enchanted to have infinite pages—he started reading.

Only to be shocked by the contents of the list. How the hell was he supposed to find all of that before the next—wait, full moon.

First, the ink to be used for the runes (on his skin?) had one of the strangest compositions he had ever seen.

Powdered bone from a Thestral that died violently. Hmm. That he could probably find in the Forbidden Forest—though he’d never heard of Thestral corpses before, and he really didn’t want to run into something capable of violently killing one.

Unicorn blood, given willingly. There were unicorns in the Forbidden Forest—Professor Kettleburn had brought one to class. They used to appear more often, but after Quirrell/Voldemort began killing them to drink their blood, sightings had significantly decreased.

Wings of a dead fairy. Harry had no idea where to find those—he’d have to research fairy gathering spots or see if anywhere sold them.

Ashes of a wand that failed its bearer. That was probably one of the reasons (if not the reason) Luna insisted they rob a grave. The worst part? Harry couldn’t exactly argue with her.

The instructions said to paint the runes on the user’s skin, though it didn’t specify which runes—Luna would have to tell him later.

The ritual also required other items for a distinct part of the process.

First, the circle had to be drawn using consecrated charcoal—burnt from the trunk of an ash tree struck by lightning on the winter solstice. The necessary symbols weren’t specified either.

In the center of the circle, a shallow basin of pure silver, free of impurities and created through alchemy, had to be placed.

Harry really hoped he could just buy that—learning alchemy sounded like a nightmare.

Inside the basin, a mixture of distinct ingredients had to be created:

Essence of Mnemoflower, distilled under moonlight—used in Pensieves, if he remembered correctly—so maybe not too hard to find, though the extra processing didn’t sound common.

Phoenix tears—he was fairly sure those could be bought, albeit expensive. But if he could befriend Fawkes again, he might get them for free.

Seven petals of white ash flower, gathered at dawn—easily found at an apothecary.

As he read through the list, Harry got up from bed and began pacing the room, ignoring his aches now that the pain was weaker.

But then a fleeting thought made him stop.

To buy most of these ingredients, he’d need a good amount of Galleons.

The problem was.

Harry Potter had no money.

Chapter Text

In the United Kingdom, mandatory education officially begins at the age of five.

It was about a week before the Dursleys were forced to let him attend that he heard his name for the first time.

Until that moment, he was certain his name was Boy Dursley — that’s what his family had always called him, except when he did something different or strange. Then, his uncles called him Freak.

His name became the only thing he truly owned: Harry Potter. Two words that were entirely his, though they meant nothing, they showed someone once cared enough to name him.

It was when he turned eleven that he learned the true value of his name.

Harry’s vault in Gringotts — number six hundred and eighty-seven — was in one of the bank’s deepest inner galleries, past countless narrow curves and deep tunnels that seemed to be carved straight into the mountain’s heart.

Inside were heaps of golden Galleons, smaller piles of silver Sickles, and clouds of bronze — Knuts — filling the vault to nearly Harry’s height. The metallic shine reflected on the walls as if the air inside the vault was always in motion.

It was more money than Harry had ever imagined owning.

And all of it had been left behind, apparently in another dimension.

He remembered dropping his mokeskin pouch to the forest floor, not wanting to give Voldemort anything else.

Everything he owned had been in that pouch.

Now, all he had were the clothes on his back (half of them), his wand, his glasses — and looking down at his bare feet — not even shoes.

Gazing once again at the list of items he would probably find incredibly difficult — if not impossible — to obtain without money, Harry felt a flicker of despair.

Damn it, would he really have to learn alchemy?

He decided to go after Luna. Maybe she had some idea of where they could get the necessary Galleons.

After all, his vault wouldn't exist in this world — his parents didn’t even know he existed properly, and James would likely never give money to someone he believed to be his illegitimate son.

Not that Harry would ask.

Leaving, he closed Luna’s bedroom door behind him.

He walked down a narrow corridor, where a rug covered in magical creatures lined the floor. One of them — a thing with thin legs and beetle eyes — seemed to shift positions every time he looked at it. Harry didn’t bother checking.

The house was silent, except for the soft creaking of the wind against the round windows.

Closing his eyes, he focused on sensing where Luna was, letting his magic rise — somehow, he instinctively knew how far she was and which path to take.

Following the pull of her magic, he reached the living room, where a lone armchair slowly spun in lazy circles, with no one nearby.

An open copy of The Quibbler floated in midair, held by some domestic enchantment Harry chose not to disturb.

The walls, instead of being painted or draped with common tapestries, were decorated with vibrant hand-painted murals — many depicting fantastic magical creatures, some real, others probably invented by Xenophilius Lovegood. The colors were bold, almost hypnotic, and seemed to dance subtly if one stared too long.

There was a large portrait of Luna’s late mother, Pandora Lovegood, with a serene smile and dreamy gaze. The painting wasn’t magical like traditional wizard portraits — it remained still, painted with a soft and emotional brushstroke.

Crooked shelves lined the walls, filled with strange books, dust-covered magical objects, and labeled collections of stones and feathers with peculiar names.

A mix of lopsided armchairs and oversized cushions was scattered across the floor — some stitched with cosmic patterns: stars, moons, comets; others shaped like fruits, vegetables, or flowers.

Sitting on a large cushion that resembled a pumpkin, Luna was surrounded by unstable piles of books, with an old tome open on her lap and her hair tied atop her head with a feather.

She didn’t look at him immediately — just calmly turned a page, as if she knew he’d come.

Grabbing one of the cushions — this one embroidered with tiny constellations — Harry sat in front of her.

“Well... Luna, I just realized I don’t have any money. And some of the items on that list will definitely need to be bought.”

He hugged the cushion to his chest — it was very soft — and watched the constellations slowly shift.

“And I get the feeling I can’t borrow from you, for some reason.”

Luna merely nodded, her eyes never leaving the ancient-looking tome on her lap.

“Cambrian is a very complex language,” she said, “with words that can mean entirely different things depending on the nuance. But this is written quite clearly: only that which is acquired directly by the one performing the ritual may be used.”

She pointed to something in the tome.

“I was checking to see if I’d misinterpreted anything, but it only confirmed what I suspected. Buying something from a seller is a form of direct acquisition only if the money used belongs entirely to the buyer.”

Tracing the constellation Canis Major (Sirius), Harry could only nod. He had suspected it wouldn’t be that simple.

“And where the hell am I going to get that money?”

That made Luna lift her head, her face tightening in confusion, as if she didn’t understand why he even asked.

“Gringotts, of course.”

Letting out a sarcastic laugh, Harry gestured at himself.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but I no longer have access to my vault, what with being in a parallel world and all. I doubt the goblins are handing out sacks of Galleons just for asking politely.”

A sudden unease crept in — memories of cursed vaults, multiplying treasure, enchanted chains, and fleeing on the back of a pale, wounded dragon.

“Luna, please tell me you’re not suggesting I rob Gringotts.”

She simply returned to reading her tome, now clearly written in Cambrian.

“Of course not, Harry Potter. That won’t be necessary. You’ll get the money another way.”

Harry waited for her to explain and, after a few moments of silence, decided to ask.

“And what way would that be?”

Luna closed the tome and placed it atop one of the precarious stacks around her.

“We’ll see if any Family Magic without a living heir is willing to accept you as a new Lord.”

Jumping to her feet, she waved him toward her.

“But you won’t manage that dressed like this. I’m sure something of my father’s old wardrobe will fit you.”

There was a lot in those sentences Harry didn’t quite understand.

But for now, he just stood and followed Luna out of the room.

They returned to the hallway and entered a door to the right that he hadn’t noticed before — it blended perfectly with the wall, only revealing itself when Luna prodded a small dent in the surface.

The room beyond had walls covered in hand-embroidered fabric, displaying cosmic patterns: twinkling constellations, silver moons in alternating phases, and runes.

To the touch, the fabric seemed to hum softly.

At the center of the room floated a rotating coat rack, where cloaks, robes, and coats spun gently, as if dancing to a music only they could hear.

Luna walked toward it while Harry took in the surroundings.

To the left, a shelf housed enchanted boots and shoes: glow-in-the-dark galoshes, slippers with tiny bells that chimed when walking, and a pair of puffskein wool slippers (shed naturally) that floated when they got tired of resting on the floor.

Above them hung a chandelier made of enchanted crystals and occamy feathers that changed color with the weather — sometimes turquoise, sometimes silver, sometimes vanishing completely into transparency.

Against the right wall, a magical oval mirror muttered to itself.

Touching the rack with her wand, Luna said something about “outing robes,” or so Harry thought — he wasn’t quite listening.

The clothes began spinning rapidly, and when they stopped, they were entirely different garments.

Some of the strangest robes Harry had ever seen appeared.

She laid out a few for him to choose:

A moss-green and rust-colored linen tunic, with deep and uneven pockets (some visible).

A leather belt adorned with dozens of small dangling charms — stones, teeth, shards of colored glass, tiny empty bottles.

A floppy, pointed felt hat in faded grey, topped with a carved wooden occamy held in place by a washed-out lavender ribbon.

A flowing cloak made of overlapping layers of translucent magical gauze in pale green, lilac, and amber — the layers floated with a will of their own, even when the air stood still.

Another cloak, asymmetrical — half striped in vibrant orange, lime green, and electric blue; the other half stitched together from circus tent scraps, old scarves, and even napkins embroidered with inspirational quotes.

He wouldn’t wear those robes — not even if the alternative were walking into Gringotts half-naked.

Thankfully, Luna must have noticed the deep revulsion on his face — or had some basic sense (debatable).

She placed her wand on the rack again and said, “Simple robes.”

This time, Harry approached to choose for himself. He had long since stopped feeling embarrassed about borrowing clothes from Luna’s father — two hideous cloaks ago.

Gathering what he had selected, he headed toward a kind of dressing booth he had spotted earlier.

Dressing as fast as he could, he stepped out with his clothes still slightly crooked.

Only to stop in front of the mirror.

He was wrapped in a robe of pale blue so light it seemed to float around him. As he moved, light rippled across the fabric in shades of deep violet and blue, creating a hypnotic effect.

Sewn with precision, tiny prism fragments spiraled from chest to hem — this was one of the more subtle pieces.

Beneath the robe, he wore a white linen shirt with a high collar and lace cuffs.

The trousers, deep purple and almost black, fit comfortably and were fastened by a belt entirely made of braided glass fused with silver threads.

On his feet were white dragon-hide shoes, pale as morning mist, their soles enchanted to make no sound.

These bright, flamboyant robes stood in sharp contrast to his face.

His skin, naturally olive, was now pale, almost gray. His hair — once wind-tousled — had taken on the careless look of a rat’s nest, dry and tangled.

His face, now gaunt and angular, with sunken cheeks from lack of sleep — or food — gave him the look of someone who had spent weeks in a cold tent, running and surviving on the bare minimum (he did).

But what truly made him look like someone else were his eyes.

Those eyes.

Once a soft emerald green, they now seemed to have changed from within — a vivid, cutting green, almost unnatural.

Harry knew that color well.

It was the green of the Avada Kedavra.

Chapter Text

For as long as Harry could remember, he had that scar—his earliest childhood memories bore it.

He used to like it, at first. It was a link to the parents he would never meet, something that made him special.

After entering the wizarding world, it had taken on another imposed meaning. Others saw it as the mark of the war's end, a symbol of victory.

He didn’t even hate it when waves of pain spilled from it—it had its uses. It was almost like a sensor for Voldemort’s presence, a mood indicator. A warning.

When he learned about the Horcrux, he’d wanted to tear it out, to cut it open and rip the thing out by force—but he couldn’t. He had a duty to fulfill.

And he did. He died so others could live.

But he still remembered Voldemort’s speeches in those shared dreams, the way he used to talk about how deeply he’d marked Harry.

"You think that scar was a mistake, Potter? You think it was chance, that you survived because my power failed?"

He couldn’t dream alone anymore. Sleep always led him into nightmare.

"You are my creation. A crooked extension of my own magic."

Each night, the same speech, only the words rearranged.

"You grew up trying to rid yourself of me... when everything you are, everything you feel... began and will end with me."

Each vision, a nightmare reset.

"I am the origin of your fame, Potter. I am your scar."

And he had managed to mark Harry again, altering something he cherished in a memory of himself.

That green was no longer the soft green from Lily Potter’s photographs—not the gentle reflection of leaves in sunlight.

It was a deep green, too vivid, like liquid poison. A shade that reminded him of the flash that struck him down in the forest.

The same flash that had burst so many times from Voldemort’s wand.

The same green that haunted his dreams.

He no longer had his mother’s eyes.

He felt a sudden pressure in his chest—not pain, exactly, but a strange hollowness, as if a quiet part of him had been erased. An invisible inheritance, taken from him without notice.

For all he’d lost, he’d never imagined losing that too.

Those eyes had been the only thing directly connecting him to her. The last living proof she’d once been here—that something of her remained in him. Now, even that had changed.

He pressed his forehead to the mirror, eyes closed, trying to pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

He stayed there, the glass cold against his skin, as if the chill could wake him. As if there were a spell to undo it.

But there wasn’t.

His eyes weren’t the same anymore.

For a moment, he wanted to smash the mirror, to erase the false reflection showing him a face he didn’t recognize.

But he didn’t. There wasn’t enough rage for that. Only weariness. And a heavy, wordless sorrow that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him.

This time, Voldemort hadn’t left visible scars. He had etched something onto his soul.

Harry closed his eyes. Tried to recall her face.

His mother. Lily.

He remembered a framed photograph at the Lupins' house, her smile as she blew enchanted soap bubbles toward a baby just out of frame.

He remembered her eyes—wide, calm, the green of early spring mornings.

Everyone always said: "You have your mother's eyes."

It was as if Voldemort had touched him again. Not with the Killing Curse, but with something subtler, more enduring.

As if he had carved his presence into something that once felt pure. Something that belonged to her. Something Harry thought eternal.

A warm weight climbed from his stomach, suffocating. It wasn’t anger. It was grief.

Grief for himself.

And yet, even in that pain, there was something strange. A rough sort of acceptance. As if, by taking yet another piece of him, Voldemort had also made room for something new.

Not a son. Not a reflection. Just himself. A young man with an old scar, a body too thin, and eyes that had changed because the world had shaped them by force.

And, oddly… that calmed him.

Harry opened his eyes and looked at his reflection again. The green staring back was cold, bright, merciless. But it was his.

Not inherited. Not borrowed.

Maybe that’s what growing up meant: losing what you thought was eternal. Changing, even unwillingly. No longer carrying someone else’s eyes, but learning to see with your own.

With the eyes of someone who survived.

Harry ran his fingers beneath his eyes, wiping away a tear that hadn’t quite fallen. Then he looked at his reflection again, firmly.

"You marked me again, did you?" he murmured, not expecting a response. "So be it."

And he turned away from the mirror.

Harry hadn’t taken three steps before he felt it.

It was like static electricity, but alive. A spiral shiver rising from the base of his spine to his neck, spreading through his arms, his fingers. The magic in his body—something in it had awakened, and it was furious.

He stopped. The air felt denser, and there was a faint humming in his ears, like spells being whispered far below the earth.

Then the floor creaked beneath him.

The furniture around him vibrated gently. The lace cloth on the side table fluttered as if someone had just dashed past.

Harry took a step back, breath catching. Heat rose from within, but it wasn’t a fever. It felt like magic pressing against the edges of his skin, trying to escape. It pulsed.

His heartbeat matched its rhythm.

The mirror behind him cracked, a fracture splitting through the magical frame, dead center. Distorted reflections danced across the glass, as though the image inside wanted to break free.

And for a moment, the eyes staring back at him weren’t his. Nor Voldemort’s.

They were something… ancient.

The Potter Magic was furious, and it demanded to be seen and heard.

It had tasted his thoughts and seen his memories.

The air around him trembled, and for a second, every object in the room shifted slightly away, repelled by an invisible force.

Harry felt the magic coursing through him—not obedient, but wild, ancient, reactive. As if it had been marked, provoked… awakened.

And he knew.

He knew the change in his eyes wasn’t just a remnant of dark magic.

It would become a new symbol. His alone.

With Potter Magic still flaring around and inside him, he could taste copper on his tongue, see psychedelic colors forming at the corners of his vision, and feel a voice rising.

"I’m no longer just the Boy Who Lived," he murmured to the air, voice trembling. "I’m what was left behind."

The Potter Magic resonated with his words, lending them weight, like a vow.

It flared again, still angry but appeased, wrapping around Harry in a semblance of an embrace before vanishing—slowly, as if content.

The mirror cracked once more and fell silent. Everything returned to its place.

But he knew: something inside him had changed.

"Looks like you liked the clothes, Harry Potter."

Luna was still standing by the coat rack, unbothered, as though Harry hadn’t just nearly destroyed (another) room.

"We should leave now. We’re heading to the Leaky Cauldron and from there, to Gringotts, where your potential fortune awaits."

Still shaken from the revelation, Harry only nodded.

After all, it was just Diagon Alley. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Text

Leaving the changing room, Harry followed Luna down the narrow hallway of the house, where the walls were still covered with tapestries of improbable creatures, slowly blinking portraits, and a faint scent of sandalwood and fresh paint.

Luna walked ahead, almost floating, the hem of her dress rippling with her light steps. They turned right at a corner that seemed too sharp for the house's dimensions.

The room they entered was different.

There were no tapestries, paintings, or floating objects. No animated portraits or enchanted mobiles.

The walls were bare, made of pale stone, marked with age and moss in the darker corners. The darkened wooden floor was covered by a thick, old rug, unadorned.

And at the center of the opposite wall stood the fireplace.

The stone that framed it seemed almost translucent, fused with small fragments of glass embedded in the material — as if they'd been thrown in during construction, petrified at the precise moment of fusion. The carvings spiraling up its edges depicted unicorns running through forests, each different from the last. Their eyes were sculpted — and for a moment, Harry thought one looked back at him.

A chill ran up his spine.

The memory struck him suddenly. Hermione. The tent. The scent of warm tea and the pages of the book on ancient magic.

“The Floo Network fireplaces are nodes of magic, Harry,” she'd said, sitting on the tent floor, her hair tied in a hurried bun. “The old wizards studied ley lines, you know, those magical currents running through the earth like underground rivers, and created artificial connections to travel safely. That’s why it works. It’s like... using the veins of the earth as magical corridors.”

Harry had listened silently, clutching a warm mug in both hands.

It was hard to imagine the earth laced with invisible paths, webs of power running beneath villages, forests, mountains.

“But you have to be a wizard. A Muggle, if they try to go through... well... the body can’t handle the magical compression. They’d be... shredded,” Hermione added in a whisper, noticing Ron’s alarmed expression.

Now, standing before the Lovegoods’ fireplace, Harry felt what Hermione had tried to explain: the faint pulse of something alive, very ancient, running beneath his feet and converging there. It was like standing before the mouth of a sleeping dragon.

He swallowed hard. Ran a hand over his face.

Faint colors in the fused glass, invisible heat currents rising from the stone. He felt the network not as a story, but as a tangible truth.

He knew, without anyone telling him, that if he lit that fireplace and said the right name, the world would fold around him.

And maybe, for a second, he would vanish completely.

He sighed. Luna looked back, her eyes wide with gentle curiosity.

“Are you ready?” she asked, as if she hadn’t noticed how lost he was.

Harry nodded. He ran his fingers along the carved edge of one of the unicorns and felt the magic lightly hum beneath his skin.

And stepped forward.

He approached the fireplace, and Luna offered him the Floo powder — a blue ceramic jar, painted with golden constellations that danced slowly across its surface.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” she said softly, and threw a handful of green ashes onto the enchanted coals.

The fire responded immediately, rising in emerald flames with a snap louder than Harry expected.

He didn’t hesitate. He touched the glass inlays of the fireplace one last time. The stone’s coldness contrasted with the warm air.

He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and placed the jar back into a nook in the hearth.

He spoke clearly, not wanting to end up in the wrong place (again).

When he stumbled out of the fireplace, he blinked, still adjusting to the stable world.

The magical dust dissipated around him as he straightened, brushing his cloak with a quick gesture.

The Leaky Cauldron in this dimension was both familiar and strange — like a memory dreamt a little differently.

The floor was the same, old and worn stone. The walls, dark wood lined with crooked paintings and floating candles.

There were cheerful voices, clinking silverware, a witch playing violin in the corner, and an absence of tension in the air.

A couple exchanged love notes at a nearby table, a group of children debated Chocolate Frog cards. There was no fear. No looks of recognition.

Though there were curious glances, of course — despite wearing the most discreet robes he could find, they were still Xenophilius’s, which meant far more eccentric than anyone else’s.

Before the looks could linger too long, Luna approached and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head — he hadn’t even noticed it had a hood.

From what he could tell, it was the same color as the robes, but strings with tiny glass beads created a curtain in front of his face — useful, since even if no one here knew who he was, his face was still that of a Potter.

Following Luna, they passed by the bar. The man behind it was Tom — or rather, a very different Tom. Thick brown (graying) hair, a jovial face, smiling eyes. No scars. No limp. He looked... happy.

“Good afternoon,” said Tom, in a clear, clean voice. “First time here?”

Harry didn’t respond — couldn’t force words past the sudden tightness in his throat — and hurried to catch up with Luna, already heading toward the alley entrance.

As Harry passed through the brick arch behind the Leaky Cauldron, it felt like stepping into a moving painting — a living, vibrant mural of the wizarding world in all its splendor.

Diagon Alley pulsed with life, as if the world had never known war, death, or pain.

Wizards and witches flowed past like a river of colorful robes. Shades of turquoise, purple, gold, and olive green fluttered in the air with every movement, as if the street itself breathed color and motion.

Some wore extravagant hats with feathers that moved on their own; others had owls perched on their shoulders or cats with shining eyes in shopping baskets.

Children ran laughing between adults — some chasing bubbles that refused to pop, others riding tiny brooms that hovered thirty centimeters off the ground.

A little wizard was trying to convince a talking frog to return to its cage, while a girl enchanted sweets to shuffle like playing cards.

A shop window displayed books that changed covers depending on the reader’s mood; another sold gloves that whispered advice when worn. Further ahead, a robe store had a floating mannequin that changed outfits every ten seconds, each one shimmering with stars.

A new establishment with an emerald awning sold only enchanted quills for animated writing — one of them scribbled elegant insults on parchment for sheer amusement.

Harry stopped for a moment in the middle of Diagon Alley, colorful and full of voices and enchanted sounds, and let his eyes wander.

But for a brief moment... that wasn’t what he saw.

The color drained. The people vanished. The cheerful voices were replaced by the dry sound of hurried steps on cold stone.

The scent of sweets was swallowed by the stench of old fear and fresh blood.

The windows were closed, locked, many boarded or darkly enchanted. No music, no sugary aroma. Only the dragging sound of rushed footsteps and the constant flutter of posters on the walls.

The few people passing — and there were very few — walked quickly, heads down.

Witches in dark veils with wands hidden in sleeves, pale-faced men who avoided eye contact.

A child's laughter passed Harry like a gust of warm wind, stirring the dust of memory.

He shook his head, as if to shake off the memories, and hurried after Luna.

Harry walked quickly among the people, the beads brushing his face with each abrupt movement.

Luna was already on the staircase ahead, not bothering to wait — as if knowing they'd meet again at the end of the path.

Then he stopped.

There. In a robe shop, through the enchanted glass — her.

A red-haired woman, her long hair tied in a simple bun, examining fabrics with a gentle smile. Dressed in discreet elegance. She was in profile, but Harry would recognize that silhouette even in the dark of a nightmare.

His heart leapt. One step forward — involuntary, as if the body remembered before the mind.

His eyes stung. He blinked, quickly. Once. Twice.

She turned for a moment. The face. So familiar. But older. Alive.

His throat tightened as if struck by a spell. His stomach dropped, magic curling in tense spirals around his ribs. For a second, his entire body screamed to run to her.

But it wasn’t her. Or it was. But not his.

Harry stepped back. The world seemed to tremble subtly, as if reality pulled him away from that moment.

The woman — Lily — laughed at something the clerk said. A crystalline, sweet laugh he knew as if from a forgotten memory tucked in a corner of his heart where echoes of the childhood he never had lived.

He turned away.

Without hurrying. Without a word. With an empty chest.

The stones beneath his feet echoed like distant drums. The crowd didn’t seem to notice as he crossed the street.

Gringotts’ stairway loomed ahead, imposing and cold.

Two goblins watched as he climbed the steps slowly, cloak brushing his heels, beads tinkling.

It wasn’t escape. Not exactly.

It was just too heavy to carry among laughter and running children.

Harry entered without looking back.

---

The interior of Gringotts looked larger than Harry remembered — or perhaps it was just the way the light from the immense enchanted windows spilled across the white columns, making the ceiling seem farther away, like a stormy sky held in check.

Goblins strode briskly along tall counters. Long quills trembled in silver holders.

Contracts floated through the air, being signed by witches and wizards in expensive robes.

Harry walked toward the farthest counter, eyes fixed on one particular figure.

There. A goblin. Small, with dark eyes and sharp blades in his grin.

Griphook.

He was standing on an elevated platform, speaking to a witch in purple robes, while his thin hands slid over coins and enchanted documents.

Griphook — with his dry laugh, his twitching fingers — shouting inside the vault room.

The dragon’s roar. The heat of fire.

The Sword of Gryffindor, ripped free.

The goblin’s blood spilled among cursed gold.

He had betrayed. But so had Harry.

There was no honor there. Only survival.

And Griphook had died for it.

Now, seeing him here — whole, alive — was like looking at a ghost dressed in flesh.

Spotting Luna already waiting across the hall, in front of an older-looking goblin, he walked over as quickly as he could without running.

As soon as he arrived, the goblin — dressed in what looked like an expensive suit, gemstone rings on his fingers and a golden pocket watch — addressed him.

“Heir Lovegood says you wish to pass through the Hall of the Forgotten. Do you confirm?”

Blinking at the name he had never heard before (a warning would’ve been nice, Luna), he nodded, the beads jingling.

“Yes, I mean, I confirm.”

The goblin looked him over with disdain, clearly judging whether he was worth his time.

“Follow me then, aspirant.”

Harry began to follow, only to pause when he saw Luna still standing there.

“Aren’t you coming, Luna?”

She shook her head.

“This trial can only be undertaken and witnessed by those who seek to be recognized — or are goblins. I’ll wait for you at Fortescue’s.”

He could only watch as Luna walked away, then shrugged and turned to follow the (very) impatient goblin.

The goblin, who introduced himself as Thurvak, walked with the stride of someone who had far too many important things to do.

They didn’t take the carts — instead, they entered a door carved with reliefs of words in the goblin tongue.

Harry was guided by Thurvak through Gringotts’ winding corridors, where the air seemed to grow denser with every step.

The walls were adorned with goblin weaponry — curved spears, toothed axes, and serrated swords — some still stained with dried blood, others dripping viscous, oddly-colored fluids in acidic greens and deep purples, glowing faintly under the flickering torchlight.

As they descended deeper into the bowels of the bank, the halls widened into carved stone galleries.

Colossal murals, etched directly into the rock, told stories in vivid relief: goblins locked in fierce combat against hooded wizards, others battling magical beasts that seemed to come alive under the dancing light.

There were scenes of war, of forging, of betrayal — and in every sculpted gaze, an almost lifelike intensity, as if the stones whispered echoes of forgotten battles.

“Well, Mr. Thurvak? What exactly are we doing? My friend didn’t really explain what I’m supposed to do.”

That made the goblin turn with a scathing look — oops.

“You are about to undergo a nearly forgotten process — possibly fatal — and you don’t even know what it is?”

Thurvak seemed furious, muttering about wizards and their idiocy wasting his precious time.

“You, nameless wizard, shall present yourself in the Hall of the Forgotten, and the Magics of extinct Houses shall judge you. Should you be deemed worthy of a House, you must accept it, speaking your intention clearly. But be warned: if you are chosen by none, the Hall will annihilate your miserable existence for daring to stain this sacred place with your presence.”

Right — he hadn’t introduced himself. And of course failure meant annihilation. Typical Harry luck.

He could feel the embers of Potter Magic stir at that thought — but it was the Lovegood Magic that rang louder.

A chill wind seemed to brush the back of his neck, carrying a feeling that could only be translated as: it’ll be all right.

Realizing Thurvak was still staring at him, apparently waiting for a response, Harry nodded, the beads jingling and reminding him he was still hooded.

When he opened his mouth to introduce himself and thank the goblin for the explanation, Thurvak huffed and resumed walking — even faster this time — toward Harry’s (possible) doom. How lovely.

After walking for at least fifteen minutes, Harry finally reached the chamber where he would find out whether any ancient Magic, from a long-lost House, would accept him.

He passed beneath a circular arch etched with unfamiliar runes — twisting, ancient symbols that seemed to glow from within.

Crossing the threshold, he froze.

The sight before him was breathtaking.

The chamber was as vast as a Quidditch pitch, a perfectly circular cavern carved with impossible precision.

Walls of black obsidian gleamed like glass beneath a ghostly light with no visible source.

There were no cracks or seams — only smooth surfaces interrupted by jagged edges and spires that jutted like blades, so thin and menacing they looked capable of skewering anyone who came too close.

In the center of the space, a suspended bridge of pure white marble stretched from the entrance to a circular podium floating dozens of meters above the floor.

The bridge had no railings, and each of Harry’s steps echoed with a hollow, sharp sound, as if the marble were judging his weight, his very existence.

With every step, he felt watched — not by eyes, but by hidden presences, ancient entities that examined him with silent intensity.

Upon reaching the podium, he turned — and saw that Thurvak had not followed.

The goblin remained beneath the runic arch, motionless, with an expression bordering on apprehension. His narrow eyes were locked onto Harry.

The podium was smooth as glass, made from a stone Harry didn’t recognize — dark and shimmering, as if it were alive. At its center, a pedestal rose, curved like a blooming flower.

Above it, a diamond orb floated — the size of Harry’s own head, translucent, cold, and vibrating with an almost imperceptible hum, like the silence before a storm.

“Now,” said Thurvak, his voice echoing strangely clear across the space, “spill seven drops of blood. Only then shall you be judged.”

Harry then noticed the knife resting at the base of the pedestal: pure obsidian, its handle carved into the shape of a serpent devouring its own tail.

The edge looked sharp enough to cut air itself, and its touch on his fingers sent a slight tingling through his skin—like slumbering electricity.

He took a deep breath, pressed the blade to his palm, and drew a clean cut. Warm blood slid silently down, and seven crimson drops fell onto the glowing orb.

The diamond responded instantly. A soft light kindled in its core and swelled, pulsing in multicolored waves.

Rays of light burst into the air, casting beams onto the distant walls of the chamber.

Harry felt something within himself awaken.

The Potter Magic—ancient and tempestuous—stirred violently, as if recognizing the call. The Lovegood Magic, in contrast, murmured in response—ethereal, nearly dreamlike, but steady, connected.

Suddenly, precious stones began to appear out of nowhere—shimmering jades, flawless emeralds, sapphires as blue as the sky before a storm, blazing rubies, lapis lazuli deep as the sea.

They danced around Harry, whirling in irregular orbits, like planets circling a newborn sun.

Each stone represented a magical lineage, a forgotten or extinct House. They drew closer, seeking to merge with his magic, begging to be chosen.

But then, came the rejection.

From within Harry, a deep vibration echoed, a silent roar.

The magic within him—Potter and Lovegood, different yet united—pushed back each gem with an invisible force.

One by one, the stones were repelled, hurled back into the darkness with crackles of pure magic.

In Harry’s mind, there were no words—but the judgment rang clearly in his soul.

Weak.

The rejected stones seemed to hover in the air, vibrating with a note almost mournful, before slowly retreating. Some spun one final time, as if pleading for a second chance, but withdrew with reluctant silence.

The space around Harry darkened briefly, as though the air itself lamented.

But new stones emerged, their glow more restrained, deeper—amethysts in somber purples, sugilites with violet swirls like internal mist, olive-green peridots gleaming like wet leaves under moonlight, and golden citrines, nearly solar.

They approached with confidence, their lights pulsing in harmony... but they too were rejected.

There was no anger—only firm refusal.

The Potter Magic raised an invisible wall, silent and steady, while the Lovegood Magic whispered with an almost ethereal resolve. They would accept nothing lesser.

Harry’s lineage—powerful, dissonant, and singular—would not bend to feeble magic, no matter how beautiful.

There would be no fusion with anything that was not its equal—or greater.

More stones appeared.

Cavansites in electric cobalt blue, rhodonites veined with serpentine pink, garnets glowing red like embers in an ancient hearth.

They were also repelled—but instead of vanishing, they began to orbit Harry, slowly circling like moons around a planet.

The atmosphere shifted with every second—something was coming.

And then, it appeared.

Emerging from the shadows, not hurriedly, but with inevitable presence, a single stone formed in the air.

It was enormous—twice the size of the others—and none dared approach her.

A black opal.

Its surface was deep and ever-shifting. With every movement, new colors were revealed. Within its darkness, flames of poison green spiraled, thin streaks of violet, emerald flashes cutting through waves of black.

At times, it seemed to contain a star-filled night sky; at others, a whirl of smoke and thunder.

It did not emit light like the other stones—it absorbed it, shaped it, returned it as if telling secrets through the shimmer.

The surrounding jewels drew back, almost in fear, as if they recognized in that stone something older, darker—and more powerful.

The black opal floated toward Harry. And for the first time, there was no resistance.

The Potter Magic, ever cautious and protective, did not push her away—but did not welcome her easily either. 

There was an acceptance... reluctant. A silent recognition of something that could not be ignored. But it was the Lovegood Magic that responded most strongly. It thrummed with rare intensity, its notes echoing straight into Harry’s soul.

It was a chant, a whisper of ecstasy.

Retribution. Victory.

The opal hovered before Harry, spinning slowly.

And he knew. Not because anyone told him, but because the truth was etched into his blood, his heritage—something older than even his consciousness:

This was the Magic of the Gaunt Family.

Chapter Text

Few knew who the last members of the Gaunt Family had been.

They remembered the tales well — men and women nearly feral, their sanity unraveled by generations of incest, kept on the fringes of the magical world like specters of what they had once been.

Their magic was disfigured, stunted, torn from within like the rotting fabric of a legacy that refused to die.

They had lost everything: prestige, fortune, honor.

Even their appearance had decayed, rendering them twisted reflections of the pride they once held.

And then came Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Powerful. Charismatic. Cold as ice and burning like fire. In many ways, he was what the old magical families revered: raw talent, commanding presence, a mind sharp as a blade.

But he never called himself Lord Gaunt. He rejected the name, despised the history, and ignored the bloodline magic that coursed through his veins.

He chose instead to claim only Salazar Slytherin as his ancestor.

But the Gaunt Magic never rejected him.

It was there, silent, in the shadows, as he uncovered secrets of darkness and raised armies.

It accompanied him in the creation of the Horcruxes, watched—powerless—as he mutilated his own soul. It felt each fragment torn away, it felt the pain, the collapse.

It tried to whisper, tried to hold him back, tried to stop him. 

But it couldn’t. Voldemort would not listen. He silenced it with arrogance and denial.

And then, piece by piece, Harry began to undo him.

And the Magic felt it.

It was not hatred. Nor revenge. It was... awakening.

By destroying the fragments of Riddle’s soul, Harry had unknowingly freed pieces of ancient Gaunt Magic.

Suffocated fragments that, slowly, began to remember what they had once been.

Of the roots before Slytherin’s bloodline had entered by marriage, before the decay.

Of a lineage that predated Hogwarts, that existed in times when magic was raw, wild, and untamed.

A forgotten family, old, wounded, and lonely, that had lost its name not from weakness, but from pride misdirected.

Now, the black opal floated before him — not as an offering, but as acknowledgment.

Harry felt its truth. It had not come to him by accident.

It had come because within him, there was space — not of weakness, but of understanding.

Because in killing him, Harry had helped Tom Riddle die with a trace of dignity he had not chosen for himself.

And now, the Magic wished to give back.

Not with power. With legacy.

The jewel seemed to hum with memories. Harry felt blurred images: ancient fields under red skies, caves filled with whispering voices, solitary wizards walking through shadows.

It was ancestral magic, woven from pain — but also from rightful pride.

And in that moment, Harry understood:

The Gaunt Magic was not darkness.

It was retribution.

The black opal hovered just inches above his open palm, pulsing with an inner light that flickered between shadow and brilliance, as if hesitating, as if waiting.

And Harry, sensing the jewel’s whispering sadness, understood — they recognized one another.

Both had lost.

He had lost people, childhood, peace.

It had lost purpose, voice, time.

Different losses, but intertwined — two lonely echoes finding resonance in each other.

With his palm facing upward, feeling the ethereal chill of the stone hovering above his skin, Harry recalled Thurvak instructions — the importance of the right words, the weight of intent, the truth of the soul.

He drew a deep breath and let his magic wrap around each syllable like an invisible veil of ancestral power.

His voice echoed through the chamber, not merely as sound, but as a tangible force, a vow etched into the very fabric of the world.

“I, Hadrian James Potter, by my own will and honor, choose to accept your legacy, your magic, and your story.

From this moment on, we shall be one.

My will, your will.

Your story, my story.

With bonds forged in loss... I accept you, Gaunt Magic.”

With each word, the jewel descended — slowly, ceremonially, as if pulled not by gravity, but by fate.

And at the end of the oath, when his hand closed around the opal, it broke.

Not with a sharp crack, but with a pure, slicing sound — like glass fracturing under pressure.

Fragments of the stone dissolved into the air like dust, and the magic contained within was released.

It passed through him like a wave.

It was as cold as the depths of a lake hidden in the heart of a forgotten mountain.

It was ancient, full of whispers and voices in dead tongues, dragging chains of memories long buried.

It was raw, like a magical beast left alone for too long — fierce, desperate for connection, yet hungry for respect.

It chimed like jewels clashing, like cascades of emeralds pouring through dark tunnels, and it resounded like a storm crushing the skies, like thunder hammering the bones of the world.

And then came the sea.

The sensation of a living, raging, conscious ocean — swallowing ships, crushing harbors, drowning the weak. Not out of cruelty — but by its very nature. 

The Gaunt Magic did not ask. It took.

But Harry did not drown.

He accepted.

And like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock, it penetrated him completely, descending through the layers of his being until it reached his magical core — that silent, sacred place where inherited, learned, and earned magics entwined.

There, where the storm of Potter Magic roared and the dreamy mist of Lovegood Magic danced, the Gaunt Magic arrived.

And there was no explosion.

There was silence.

The kind of silence that comes before creation, or the end of the world.

And then, a new heartbeat echoed from within Harry. A third presence. Ancient. Dense. And... his.

The echoes of Gaunt Magic still coursed through his body like deep, cold currents, remnants of a sacred fusion. Harry felt changed — not fuller, but vaster, as if forgotten parts of himself had awakened. Every fiber, every magical vein now vibrated with new weight and purpose.

For a moment, he allowed himself to forget why he had come. The downfall of the Gaunt House, the real purpose of his visit — access to forgotten vaults, hidden funds needed for the ritual. None of that mattered now. The magnitude of what had just occurred rendered gold and property trivial, almost foolish in the face of what he had accepted.

Around him, the jewels that still floated — those that had been repelled but remained watching — began to disappear.

Before vanishing, they glowed one final time — soft, melancholic, as if they understood they had witnessed something too grand to belong.

And then, one by one, they dissolved into particles of light.

Harry took a deep breath, thinking it was over, and began to turn, when the air changed.

Not with violence. But with weight. As if time itself had held its breath for a moment.

And then—she made herself known.

One final jewel emerged, slowly, as though it did not rise from air, but from the very foundation of the world.

It did not float with the lightness of the others — it hovered with gravity, as if every inch demanded reverence.

It was a Bloodstone. But not like any Harry had ever seen illustrated in books or magical gem catalogues.

Its base was a deep, dark green — almost black — a tone as dense as forgotten forests or ancient moss growing between the stones of ancient tombs.

Across that liquid darkness, vivid splashes of ruby-red spread like blood snapped onto fabric, or like constellations of living hematite, dancing in chaotic patterns.

There were also veins of rusted orange and dark brown — like sacred rust, marks of centuries of struggle and endurance.

The stone didn’t reflect light — it absorbed and transmuted it, revealing secret, hidden shades, shifting like mist trapped beneath glass.

It was larger than the Gaunt Magic opal. Far larger. Not just in physical size, but in presence.

Its approach felt like the creaking of an ancient door opening after millennia of silence.

And as it rose, every magic within Harry responded.

Potter Magic trembled with a joy that seemed to emerge from the childhood of the lineage.

Lovegood Magic sighed with pure anticipation — a dance of excitement and reverence, like the wind that precedes an eclipse.

And Gaunt Magic… bowed.

With respect. With recognition.

Harry knew, without the faintest doubt:

Something was coming. Something that did not belong merely to history.

The Bloodstone spun slowly toward him, and with each rotation, Harry felt reality itself bend slightly around it.

It did not hasten its movement — it didn’t need to.

Its coming was inevitable.

And its magic, ancient as Death, carried not only the weight of a lineage — but of three brothers who had deceived the end and left their names echoing across eras.

Peverell Magic had come for Harry.

He reached out, and the Bloodstone — magnificent, ancestral — hovered before him, rotating slowly, like an ancient planet orbiting a forgotten sun.

Upon touching it, there was no heat, no cold. There was judgment.

Not in words, nor human emotions — but in truth.

The jewel examined him, piercing through his layers like light invading dark water.

And in response came the flashes.

Images not his own, but reflections of the unbreakable bond:

— The whispering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak, enveloping him in the quietude of forgetting.

— The phantasmal weight of the Resurrection Stone, and the comforting chill of walking, even if only briefly, among the dead.

— The absolute pulse of the Elder Wand, the intoxicating sensation of being invincible, but knowing the price of every spell cast with it.

Three Hallows.

Three marks.

Three powers.

Harry understood then — this was not a choice. It was a calling.

And he answered, not as a child, not as a hero, but as the heir of forgotten tales.

His voice cut through the chamber’s air, deep and steeped in magical weight, each word carving itself into space as if etched in stone:

“I, Hadrian James Potter, by my own will and honor, choose to accept your legacy, your story, and your magic.

From this moment on, we shall be one.

My life, your life.

Your end, my end.

With bonds forged in legacies and secrets… I accept you, Peverell Magic.”

The jewel trembled.

A dim, shadowed light spread within it, like black ink diluting into silver water.

And then, it shattered.

Not like glass.

But like stars dying in silence.

What remained sank into his skin like liquid mist — without pain, but with a presence so dense the world itself seemed to draw away.

Peverell Magic was not gentle nor turbulent. It was inevitable.

It descended, coursing through his bones, his skin, his veins, like stardust drifting through forgotten galaxies.

It was heavy.

Heavy like a moonless night, like the waiting between two times.

Cold — not like ice, but like the vacuum between stars, where nothing lives, but everything is possible.

It carried the echo of a train station — that place between worlds, where all things end and begin.

It slipped through his fingers like black ink — alive, malleable, ancient.

And when it finally settled, reaching the center of his being — where the storm of Potter Magic, the ethereal breath of Lovegood, and the restrained fury of Gaunt already dwelled —

It did not rest.

It remained.

Its echoes vibrated within Harry. Like muffled bells in fog. Like an ancient secret telling itself over and over again.

Harry leaned on the podium before him, still shaken by the sensations surging through him.

Taking a deep breath, he turned, the beads of his hood swaying with the rhythm of his steps, and made his way toward the exit.

He knew he could accept no more Magic. Just as Potter and Lovegood had refused to merge with any lesser force, so too would Gaunt and Peverell.

Approaching Thurvak — still euphoric from the lingering sense of contentment — with his magics resonating, Harry couldn’t resist the urge to prank the stunned goblin.

Harry had never seen one look quite like that (it wasn’t a pretty sight).

“Well,” he said, voice teasing, “perhaps now I can introduce myself? Or shall we continue with ‘nameless wizard’? I quite liked that one, frankly one of the best nicknames I’ve had.”

Coming out of his stupor, Thurvak opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally managing to speak.

“I prefer an introduction, sir. I would very much like to know the name of Lord Peverell and Gaunt. I must say, your acceptance process was… at the very least, unexpected. Never before have so many Magics chosen the same wizard.”

Frankly, unexpected was practically Harry’s middle name.

And he had done quite a few “never done before” things in his life.

The only one to survive the Killing Curse (twice).

The youngest Seeker.

The only one (that he knew of) to survive a Basilisk bite.

Among many others. Honestly, he was getting a little tired of being the only or the first.

So, deciding to be as dramatic as possible, just for fun, he pulled down his hood and placed a hand over his chest, bowing slightly.

“I am Hadrian Potter. But you can call me Harry.”

The goblin’s eyes were bulging, staring at his features before settling on his eyes—only to look away moments later. Even behind the round-rimmed glasses, they were still terribly piercing.

“A Potter, of course. An illegitimate son of the current Lord, I presume?”

Harry was fairly sure the Lovegood Magic loved theatrics, for it chose that moment to make itself known. It emerged like a warm breeze, lightly lifting his robes, with fleeting ghostly ribbons of psychedelic color shimmering for only an instant.

The goblin looked as if he were on the verge of an aneurysm.

“A child of Potter and Lovegood... good gods, what has the world come to? A descendant of those families is Lord of Gaunt and Peverell.”

The Potter and Lovegood Magics were almost laughing in the back of his mind—Harry could feel their amusement echoing through him.

The Magics of Gaunt and Peverell were quieter, more solemn. They merely existed, subtly acknowledging their names when spoken, but not enough for anyone other than Harry to sense.

“Well then, Lord Hadrian, follow me, please. We’ll proceed to my office to formalize your naming.”

Pulling his hood back up—he was truly starting to enjoy the beaded curtain—he simply gestured for the goblin to lead the way.

Harry followed Thurvak silently through narrow halls, expertly carved, until they reached a bronze door engraved with low-relief runes. The goblin gave it a dry push, and it opened soundlessly.

The office stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the previous chamber.

The walls were polished white marble, reflective enough to faintly mirror their shapes. On the left, taking up most of the wall, was a richly painted mural—its colors still vibrant despite the age. It depicted a goblin clad in black armor, wielding dual axes, lifting them in triumph over the corpse of a magical beast Harry didn’t recognize—something reptilian, with multiple eyes and curved fangs, sprawled in a pool of greenish blood.

At the center stood a large desk of dark oak, perfectly polished. The chair in front of it was simple, practical, lightly oiled wood. The chair behind it, however, was taller, its backrest carved with spirals and edged with tiny inlaid silver blades—unmistakably a judge’s throne.

Thurvak motioned to the simpler chair with a curt gesture.

“Wait here. I’ll retrieve the rings,” he said, in a tone that permitted no questions.

Harry sat. The room’s silence was near total, broken only by the subtle sound of the door closing. With time suspended, he turned inward.

At the core of himself—where magic pulsed like a second heart—the four Magics resided.

The Potter Magic, firm and steady like lightning beneath heavy clouds.

The Lovegood Magic, drifting like dreamy mist, chiming like crystal in wind.

The Gaunt Magic, quiet but vast—a shadow of deep ocean, old and proud.

And the Peverell.

It did not impose. It didn’t need to. It simply was—orbiting his core like a moon that had always belonged in that sky. It didn’t push or pull, but it shimmered faintly, content, honoring the presence of the others. There was an aura of mutual acceptance. None competed. None overlapped.

The harmony was new. Strange. But good.

In this inner silence, Thurvak returned, carrying two small boxes—one black with golden filigree, the other silver with pearlescent accents.

He placed them on the desk and, with long fingers, opened them carefully.

Inside, nestled in crimson velvet, rested two rings.

Magically forged yet undeniably ancient, they were made from the very gems that had presented themselves moments before.

The first was raw, ancient, yet refined: a ring of abyssal iron (drawn from the depths of a sea trench), topped with a black opal that seemed to contain a storm within—it was the very opal of the Gaunt Magic. Its glow was muted, restrained, as if awaiting the right touch to awaken.

The second was subtler, yet overwhelmingly imposing: the band was silver-gray, forged from a meteorite, unmarked and polished like a mirror, with a bloodstone set at its heart. The stone appeared alive—red flecks pulsing within the deep green, like slow blood seeping through shadowed layers.

Thurvak looked at him seriously:

“Just a formality, or so they say,” he said, eyes gleaming with something between irony and reverence. “But had you not been accepted by these lineages... putting either of these on would’ve cost you at least an arm. Perhaps your life.”

Harry picked up the first one. No hesitation. No second thoughts. He knew it was his.

The moment he touched it, the opal flared, and the Gaunt Magic within him stirred in response—like a memory finding home.

He slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand.

Then he picked up the second. The bloodstone seemed to pulse beneath his skin even before he made contact. As he slid the ring onto the ring finger of his right hand, the Peverell Magic responded with silent dignity, as if merely affirming the inevitable.

No pain.

No resistance.

Only absolute acceptance.

Harry stared at the rings now adorning his hands. For a brief moment, he had wondered if the Resurrection Stone would be one of them—either for Gaunt or Peverell.

But now he knew better. His magic whispered the truth: that had never been a Lord’s ring—just a memory clung to by the last of the Gaunts.

He hated that Voldemort had been right about anything.

After Dumbledore had been cursed retrieving the ring, Voldemort had raged for days—Harry remembered the fury through his scar.

“A worthless legacy. The only inheritance left by a House broken, drowning in its own blood and pride.”

He remembered Voldemort declaring in a vision, speaking to his hooded followers.

There had been... restrained fury.

“This ring? It is nothing but a symbol of weakness. A reminder that lineage without vision is just a slow path to oblivion.”

And in that moment, Harry couldn’t fully disagree. As he rubbed the black opal, he knew it was partly true.

Not a symbol of weakness—but a symbol of clinging.

The Gaunt House had lost everything, leaving behind only a thread to grasp—and they had ended up hanging themselves with it.

Thurvak slammed a stack of papers down onto the desk—harder than necessary—jolting Harry out of his thoughts.

For a moment, the Gaunt Magic, which had been resonating with quiet sorrow through Harry’s memories, surged in anger at being interrupted. It rose like a freezing wave, looming around Harry like the crest of a storm.

The room's temperature dropped. A thin layer of frost began to form on the polished floor, and the goblin’s breath came out in misty puffs—while Harry’s didn’t. He still felt comfortably warm. The Gaunt Magic would never punish him alongside others.

Seeing the frost continue to spread and the goblin’s breath grow labored, Harry decided to intervene. It was enough.

Letting his own magic unspool from his core, he gently wrapped it around the Gaunt Magic, pouring his own calm into it, silently urging it to relent. It worked.

The forming ice melted, the Gaunt Magic brushing joyfully against Harry’s own before withdrawing, coiling back into his being.

After a moment to steady himself, Thurvak pointed at the two paper stacks, tapping the smaller one to the left.

“These are the financial statements of the Gaunt and Peverell Houses. I regret to inform you the Gaunt House has little to offer in terms of gold.”

Then, tapping his claw against the larger stack on the right:

“The Peverell House, however, holds a significant sum of galleons and other material assets—diminished, though, after Iolanthe Peverell took much of it with her when she married Hardwin Potter.”

Recalling that ingredient list for the ritual—and his stubborn refusal to learn alchemy—Harry couldn’t help but ask:

“Would there happen to be... an alchemical silver basin among those material goods? Or, say, fairy wings? Dead ones, of course.”

Raising an eyebrow, the goblin looked at him with mild curiosity.

“Gringotts has no access to sealed vaults. To know exactly what lies within, you’ll have to visit personally, Lord Peverell-Gaunt.”

Harry winced slightly at the title, but stood and nodded to the goblin.

“What are we waiting for, then? A cart ride awaits.”

He didn’t even pretend to hide his dread.

Chapter Text

Harry followed Thurvak through the tunnels and corridors of Gringotts, down a path different from the one they'd taken earlier. It seemed that a few enchanted instruments had passed this way before them, clearing just enough space in the stone to reach the carts.

The goblin climbed up with the ease of someone who had done it all his life. Harry followed, clumsier, and barely had time to sit before the journey began.

He was nearly thrown out at the start for his lack of preparation. Revenge for the incident in the office—he was certain of it.

They snaked through narrow, jagged tunnels, each twist plunging them deeper into the bowels of the bank.

The enchanted cart came to a halt before a bare stone wall. They got out, and Harry looked around curiously until the goblin reached out toward the opaque surface.

"Only the ring of the Lord may open this vault," said Thurvak, his deep voice sounding almost like a veiled warning.

Harry slowly raised his hand and touched the stone.

The ring with the black opal—the physical manifestation of Gaunt magic—flashed briefly.

Upon recognizing his presence, the stone wall creaked open, revealing a narrow arch leading into a chamber bathed in shadows.

The smell reached them first — dry, ancient, slightly metallic, like dust mingled with decay.

As they stepped through the entrance, Harry felt the magic clinging to the air: faint, brittle... yet stubborn. Like a breath refusing to fade.

Thurvak conjured light, revealing the scene: the vault was, in part, a pit carved directly from the black stone of the deep underground. The irregular walls still bore the marks of claws or ancient tools.

There were no marble linings, no gold, no glowing runes like in other noble vaults. It was raw, bare, and silent.

In the farthest corner, a pitiful pile of stained sickles and a few rusted knuts rested on a corroded iron plate. The dim glint of coins only emphasized the emptiness around them.

No gold. No tapestries. No crests on display.

Nothing to celebrate.

Nothing to guard.

Only remnants.

Near the coins, a blackened wooden chest lay slightly open, revealing shreds of what may once have been ceremonial robes or gala cloaks. The fabric crumbled with the faintest breeze, as if time had stopped holding it together. Faint green hues, barely visible embroidery, and a lining of rotting silk.

But it was what covered the chamber walls that caught Harry’s eye. Dozens of snake skins, carefully arranged in ceremonial rows, hung from dark iron hooks.

Some still shimmered with an opalescent gleam. Others were so dry they crumbled at a touch. There were large, medium, and small skins — many arranged in pairs or patterned shapes.

“A desperate attempt to preserve the link with Salazar Slytherin,” said Thurvak, emotionless.

“The last of the Gaunts believed that by surrounding themselves with the image of the serpent, they would keep the bloodline alive. As if snake skin were power.”

Harry walked slowly to the center of the vault. He could feel wounded pride in every stone.

The Gaunts had refused to abandon the name even when everything was taken from them. They’d rather rot in ruins than admit the end.

The ring on his finger pulsed. Not with power, but with memory. As if recognizing the grave in which its previous bearers had decayed.

He said nothing.

He simply stood there for a while, letting the silence echo inside his chest, feeling the weight of a legacy that now belonged to him—not of glory, but of survival.

As Harry remained still, reverently watching the skins hung on the cold stone walls, a subtle shiver crawled down his spine.

The Gaunt magic within him stirred. Not in pain, nor urgency, but in purpose.

His eyes were drawn—without conscious effort—to the old blackened chest where the rags of garments lay. The rotted, discolored fabric seemed completely worthless.

But something… something shone.

Faintly.

Like a breath held in the dark.

Harry knelt and, with careful hands, moved aside a layer of decayed fabric. That’s when he saw it.

A necklace.

The chain, made of dull silver, seemed ordinary at first glance, but the pendant told a story time had not erased.

It was a crest, forged in dark metal with a strange glow—like iron mined from abyssal depths fused with the House’s black opal.

When Harry tilted it under the magical light, colors began to dance: abyssal greens, deep blues, dense purples, streaks of black and white that churned under the surface like a storm-tossed tide.

At the center of the crest—a colossal shark, body arched, mouth open in a silent roar—jagged teeth ready to tear through anything in its path. It was brutal, primal… and majestic.

Around the beast, fine spirals reminiscent of violent waves. And behind it, a black moon with golden veins — the symbol of the House's inheritance.

It was the original crest.

Before the snakes.

Before the madness.

Before the Gaunt name became synonymous with ruin.

The Gaunt magic trembled inside Harry. There was pride here. Silent, hardened, wounded by time—but alive.

The necklace was more than an ornament. It was a relic. An anchor.

The forgotten identity of the House—erased by generations obsessed with leeching off the Slytherin name to stay relevant.

Harry closed his fingers around the pendant and felt the magic pulse softly, as if recognizing him.

The metal was cold to the touch, but comforting—like swimming in a lake at night and knowing the shore awaited.

It was a bond—perhaps the first true one—with what the Gaunts once were.

And then he knew.

He would wear that necklace.

Not as ostentation.

But as a reminder.

That he now bore the legacy of restoration.

Not just of power.

But of dignity.

He put on the necklace and turned away—nothing in that place resonated anymore; only desperate remnants of hopeless people remained.

Harry and Thurvak climbed back onto the goblin cart, which now seemed more reinforced, with security enchantments braided around its sides like threads of pulsing silver.

As they began their descent, Harry felt the air temperature shift—not like entering a cave, but as though stepping into a world that had never been touched by light.

The wind slicing across his face grew denser, almost like a living presence, and the tunnels began to lose their reinforced structures of iron or carved stone, giving way to raw, black rock veined with glinting minerals.

They were going far deeper than any vault Harry had ever known—deeper even than the Lestranges’.

And with that came the memories.

The sting of skin scorched by those cursed goblets, which seemed to multiply pain with each copy.

The shrill clang of metal, the stench of poisoned magic, the suffocating sensation of being crushed by cumulative enchantments.

Hermione’s silent scream as she tried to lift a goblet that felt alive with fury.

And then—the dragon.

Harry remembered the eyes of that enormous creature, pale as ancient bones, blind from lifetimes in darkness, yet still responsive to the clink of dragging chains.

He could feel his Magics responding to old threats—the Peverell Magic sliding across his fingers like ink, making the shadows deepen around him.

He would never forget the scars, the flaked scales, the visible bones where flesh had been scorched away.

The Potter Magic made his breath mist faintly, heat pouring from him in a way that shouldn’t have been possible, responding to his anger and the weight of memory.

Such a majestic creature… reduced to an alarm system.

A shiver ran down his spine, and his fist clenched at his side, the Gaunt magic chilling the air around him.

He thought he heard a solitary roar in the distance, and the echo of those bells.

“I’ll get him out... somehow,” he murmured to himself, voice nearly drowned beneath the rumble of the cart’s tracks.

The Lovegood Magic chimed as he spoke, as if in agreement with his resolve.

Thurvak didn’t seem to hear—or pretended not to—and simply continued guiding them deeper. Harry knew the goblins wouldn’t simply hand over a dragon.

Perhaps… an exchange might be possible.

As the cart veered sharply to the right and then dropped in a dizzying plunge, Harry fixed his eyes on the darkness ahead, where only the flicker of a bluish torchlight danced along the stone wall.

The cart stopped with a subtle jolt, and the sound echoed strangely in the deep—like the space around them had forgotten what movement was.

Thurvak jumped down first, his normally sharp eyes now hesitant, wary of the wavering shadows cast on the living stone walls.

They were in a cavern—a vast natural grotto carved into the heart of the world. Stalactites like daggers hung from the high ceiling, and stalagmites rose from the floor like teeth, forming a mineral forest that had grown in absolute silence over centuries.

The air there was cold, damp, and heavy with magic—not wild, not cursed, but old, as if time and power had been compressed into stone.

Harry and Thurvak’s footsteps echoed solemnly. The goblin walked ahead with reverence, like one treading sacred ground.

When the door appeared—a colossal structure of dark stone reinforced with curved bars of forged goblin iron—it looked more like a funerary monument than a vault entrance.

It was covered in runes carved with obsessive precision. Some glowed. Others seemed dormant.

Even the floor before it was worn down by ages of footsteps—though no one should have passed through in countless generations.

Thurvak stopped abruptly, his ears pricking and his eyes scanning the surrounding darkness.

“From here, it’s up to you, Lord Peverell-Gaunt,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “It will recognize you—if you are truly worthy.”

Harry felt it before he saw it.

The Peverell Magic awakened like smoke rising from a hidden fire, a dense shadow winding around his body like a cloak that had never been sewn.

It didn’t hum. It didn’t glow. It was silent, weighty—like the space between stars. Like a secret never spoken.

When he reached out and touched the doors, there was no click, no jolt, no explosion.

The doors simply... opened, as if they knew him.

A choked breath escaped the back of Thurvak’s throat.

Harry took the first step.

The interior was vast, but not like the usual vaults of Gringotts.

This place had not been built to store — but to honor.

And he knew, the moment he stepped inside, that he was not walking into a vault. He was crossing into a mausoleum, a temple of power.

What caught his eye first were the weapons.

A true arsenal.

Two-handed swords with blades as wide as shields, spears whose tips still shimmered with enchantments even after centuries in darkness.

There were hammers so massive they seemed forged for giants, not men. Double-headed axes carved with patterns of tides and thunder. Halberds with living metal hafts, long curved scythes with edges so fine they seemed made not to cut flesh — but fate.

Further on, another section — no less awe-inspiring.

Staves.

Each one unique, shaped with a beauty that defied logic. Some ended in embedded stones, others were pure carved wood, thrumming with living energy. Some were made from the bones of colossal beasts, and a few looked as though they had grown from the flesh of long-dead monsters.

And then the wands — dozens of them.

Laid out with precise intention, as though they were waiting for a call. None were broken. None worn. Each glimmered with restrained, proud magic. Not one of those wands had ever failed.

Harry felt the Peverell Magic quiet around him, almost content. Like a sentinel that had brought the heir home.

And in the silence, Harry understood: these weapons had not been forged for war alone. They were symbols. Testaments of ages of power, of battles fought and won, of witches and wizards who shaped history before Hogwarts was ever dreamed of.

He took a few more steps, feeling the weight of legacy settle upon his shoulders — not as a burden, but as an answer.

Here, within these walls, Hadrian James Potter was no longer merely a survivor. He was a name bound by blood and magic to something far older, far deeper.

Harry walked through the chamber like one stepping into a legend, each footfall more silent than the last.

The Peverell Magic still enveloped him, now whispering in words without tongue, without sound — impressions that brushed directly against his soul.

He stopped before one of the most heavily protected shelves, set apart by pillars carved with blood-runes.

There were only four items there.

Four mithril creations.

A collar, a set of chains fine as mist, a ring, and a brooch shaped like a trembling star.

But even among those legendary artifacts, one piece drew Harry in entirely.

The chains.

They were made of liquid threads that looked like the tears of stars. Silver — but not ordinary silver — with a multicolored gleam at the center, a subtle motion, as though the ornament was breathing.

As he approached, the ambient light seemed to draw back — not to obscure the piece, but to spotlight it. As though it recognized royalty.

And then… the vision began.

Not a thought. Not a memory.

A living memory, projected by the Peverell Magic and amplified by the Lovegood lineage.

Harry staggered as the world dissolved around him, his mind dragged backward through time like a soul caught in a tidal pull.

The world roared.

The heat was suffocating.

From the edge of a volcanic crest, he saw a ring of black stones forming an altar before a glowing crater. Flames shot upward in bursts, spewing ash and cinders into a darkening sky. The air was thick with raw, searing magic — almost painful to breathe.

There, surrounded by hooded figures — all inhuman, their gazes fixed in religious silence — stood a man.

He had the presence of a giant among mortals, with broad shoulders and arms shaped by combat and forge. Black hair hung over a pale face marked with etched runes.

His eyes burned with electric blue fire, bright with obsession and purpose.

His name was not spoken, but Harry knew.

A Peverell. One of the First. His ancestor.

Upon the altar lay ten still bodies.

Unicorns.

Creatures of immaculate purity, now motionless. Their horns were broken, their eyes shut. Drops of silver blood trickled from them — as if they wept.

Their throats had been cut cleanly, with as little suffering as possible.

Runes beneath them pulsed, channeling their essence into a cauldron of molten silver, where something was beginning to take form.

"Only through the sacrifice of purity… can true power be forged."

The ancestor’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

The creatures around him chanted in low, ancient tones.

A living phoenix was brought forward — its feathers of flame shuddering in tragic frenzy.

The ancestor slit his own palm with a curved dagger, letting blood drip onto the bird’s chest, then plunged the still-living phoenix into the cauldron, sealing the rite.

The phoenix cried.

The mithril screamed.

Not with sound, but with light. A light so pure and terrible that all present fell to their knees.

The mixture boiled as though alive — then, with crude iron tongs, the beings poured it into a mold shaped like woven chains.

Untouched by impure hands at any moment of its forging.

The chains were born. Born of death and agony.

Fluid, gleaming, with a shine that moved like water in slow motion. Translucent, multicolored, and dense — pulsing with the light of something too beautiful to be comprehended.

The ancestor raised the chains before the flames and cried:

"Let this artifact carry the blood of ages, the power of worlds, and the vow of the dead! For me, for the line to come, for the memory of what was!"

Harry gasped.

He was on his knees, breathless as though he had run twenty laps around the Quidditch pitch, heart hammering in his chest.

He had witnessed one of the most beautiful, vile, pure, and horrifying creations ever wrought by man.

The chains still lay there, unmoving, atop a pedestal of obsidian.

The Peverell Magic wrapped around him like a cloak of silent acceptance.

A single whisper echoed in his mind — more feeling than word:

"One is enough."

Harry understood.

Those chains would be enough.

They bore the weight of unimaginable sacrifice, of forbidden magic, of a legacy older than the concept of right and wrong.

He reached for them carefully.

And the ornament — warm to the touch — glowed faintly.

He had chosen the piece that belonged to him by right: the Mithril Chains. So fine, yet alive, braided like silk — as if made from the tears of stars.

At his touch, Harry knew they were more than adornment: they were weapon, shield, inheritance.

He placed them around his neck and shoulders. Not as a necklace, but as a mantle of power.

They could hang loose, flowing like a metallic veil, or harden in an instant, sharp as liquid blades.

Living magic. Obedience sealed.

They did not behave like ordinary jewelry.

They did not rest passively on his shoulders — they shaped to him.

The Mithril Chains, arranged like an intricate body chain across his chest, moved subtly as if alive.

Emerging from a single point at the center of his collarbone — a star of liquid threads — they branched into fine silver filaments that spread across his torso, tracing over muscle with almost ritualistic precision.

Their texture was moonlight made solid.

At the slightest touch or shift in emotion, their glow changed — now mist-pale, now burning like fire reflected on water.

When Harry breathed deeply, the chains quivered, as if they breathed with him.

More than ornament — they responded to feeling, to threat, to thought.

They were a living armor and a constant reminder: this was no gift. It was legacy. A pact.

The magic of mithril — forged from the deaths of unicorns and the sacrifice of a living phoenix, born in the heart of a volcano — still whispered within them.

And they recognized their new bearer.

Time no longer seemed to have meaning inside that ancient vault.

Magic whispered intensely around Harry — Peverell Magic, ancient and sovereign, pulsing against his skin like a second heart.

Beside him, atop a small column of basalt, rested a brooch.

Shaped like a flaming star, its glow pulsed with the restrained intensity of a supernova.

The piece was wrapped in layers of protective runes, and the magic surrounding it was hungry, predatory.

When Harry touched it, the Peverell Magic itself seemed to halt — as if watching.

The message was clear:

"This is not for you. But yours will be the burden of spending it as coin."

Harry didn’t hesitate.

He stored the brooch. He already knew whom it was meant for.

A breeze stirred the beads before his face, almost as if asking him to turn his head.

There, on a shelf, were jars and basins of all shapes and materials.

Approaching, he let the Lovegood Magic guide his hand, with the whisper of wind in his ears and the weight of Peverell Magic dragging over the Mithril chains.

Soon, he found what he had been seeking.

Innocently sitting there was a basin of alchemical silver

— it was written in Old English on the label at the front —

created by Edrathar Peverell, whom Harry could feel was somehow bound to him.

Running his fingers across the name, he felt the Lovegood Magic whisper in a near-maniacal tone, with a kind of profane joy.

Past. Legacy.

He pulled his hand back as if burned.

The winds howled around him, sending his vision slightly askew, whispers mingling with the clinking of glass.

Edrathar Peverell had been the one to forge the chains Harry now wore.

The one who had profaned the purest things in the name of creation. One might even say he had played god.

And yet — Harry couldn’t despise him.

He couldn’t hold hatred for that ancestor.

Edrathar. He remembered what he had seen in the vision, the presence of that man.

Harry would not scorn a forebear who had done one of the vilest acts in the world before morality had even existed.

Grasping the silver basin, Harry turned toward the exit, the wind at his heels and shadows twining through his chains.

As he passed through the doors, they sealed shut behind him as if they had never been opened.

Thurvak was waiting by the cart, and Harry was sure he hadn’t imagined the goblin’s surprised expression.

The creature had likely believed he wouldn’t return alive.

Thurvak growled low as the cart began to rise along the rails, but Harry remained silent.

Lost in what he had learned of his blood’s past.

He could almost hear them echoing in his ears —

the cry of the phoenix in agony, transforming into the soundless scream of that pure and cursed metal being born.

Running his fingers over the brooch in his pocket, he caught flashes — brief images of its creation.

It had taken the life of only one unicorn to be born, the phoenix vanishing just as the first had, leaving behind no ashes from which to rise.

Edrathar could be called a genius.

He had forged the impossible four times over — a metal that existed only in tales.

That forge had been bathed more than once in pure blood.

Harry was certain that if he visited it, the stains would still remain.

The chains were Edrathar’s final creation, the Magics whispered wordlessly — his most perfect and refined work.

Harry could feel tendrils of shadow and silence flowing through the chains.

The Peverell Magic had not calmed since he had donned them.

It moved across them, between them, beneath them — like being embraced by the void or wearing the final breaths of the innocent (not far from the truth).

The cart finally came to a stop.

Ahead was a platform for disembarking, with other goblins moving about, disappearing into different tunnels.

Looking into the distance, Harry reaffirmed his decision:

He would save that tortured creature, the one trapped in the cavernous depths of Gringotts.

Even if it meant facing the wrath of the goblins.

Chapter Text

The place where the cart had been parked echoed with murmured conversations of busy goblins, their footsteps reverberating in such a way that it sounded more like a marching battalion than bank clerks at work.

Recalling the carved murals he had seen earlier, that impression likely wasn’t far from the truth.

Goblins were an extremely warlike race; rarely did a century pass without some kind of war between goblins and another people — wizards or magical creatures alike.

History classes at Hogwarts were, essentially, just goblin wars — one after another. At the slightest provocation, goblins would take up arms and march to battle. Every goblin a soldier.

And now Harry was about to provoke them.

“Thurvak,” he said with the calm of someone who had already mapped his path. “I want the dragon. The one from Chamber Twenty-Four. The one guarding the condemned vaults.”

The goblin let out a rough, rasping laugh—so sudden and harsh that it startled Harry. It was a horrible laugh, like claws dragged across slate.

“You want what, wizard? Our dragon?! This isn’t the Diagon Alley fair!”

Harry then drew the mithril brooch from his pocket and placed it onto the goblin’s outstretched palm.

The laughter stopped instantly.

Light danced across the surface of the star-shaped brooch, making it seem alive, glowing with its own power.

Thurvak froze. His eyes bulged, nostrils flared, and the grin on his face shattered like cracked glass.

“...That’s...” he whispered, reverently. “...true mithril…”

Harry said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The goblin clamped his mouth shut, swallowing hard. At last, he rasped:

“You… You’ll have to speak with the King. I don’t have the authority to decide this.”

Harry nodded. He could already see the greedy glint in Thurvak’s eyes — he had expected it. Slipping the brooch back into his pocket, he leaned casually against the nearest wall.

The goblin turned and hurried away, nearly running, speaking sharply in Gobbledegook to a few others nearby, gesturing at Harry. Murmurs and harsh whispers followed him as others stared at the wizard with open suspicion.

After several minutes under heavy scrutiny, Thurvak finally returned.

He motioned for Harry to follow and led him down a side corridor, his steps brisk and businesslike.

The journey through Gringotts already felt like it had crossed into legend, but when Thurvak pushed open the great doors carved from black basalt, Harry found himself in a world unlike any he had seen — a throne worthy of forgotten epics.

The Hall of the Goblin King was raw opulence made manifest. The walls, carved from living stone, shimmered with gems the size of Quaffles: sapphires deep as the sea, rubies red as bleeding hearts, emeralds so pure they looked as if forests lived inside them. Between the gems, towering statues of solid gold and polished diamond portrayed long-past goblin monarchs — their faces severe, holding ritual weapons and grotesque crowns. There was a cruel solemnity in their gazes, as though they judged all who dared breathe in their dominion.

In each corner of the hall, goblin guards stood sentinel — taller than most, armored in enchanted black iron. Their curved spears bore bleeding runes that whispered curses even before being touched.

And at the center of it all — the Goblin King.

Seated upon a throne of pure obsidian, inlaid with iridescent opals and fossilized bones, the King was small in frame but vast in presence. Each of his fingers bore a different ring — a black tourmaline humming with malice, an amethyst spinning with inner light, a diamond so clear it blurred with air itself. Ancient silver and bronze spell-forged cuffs wrapped around his arms.

His robe shimmered gold — woven from threads of actual sun-metal, light as silk but heavy with enchantments. It glinted beneath the floating blue flames of arcane chandeliers.

And on his head, a terrifying crown — not mere ornament, but monument.

Forged to resemble a goblin war-tower, it rose in spiraling runes adorned with uncut diamonds, grey pearls dredged from cave seas, star sapphires that only shone in darkness, and a massive black crystal in its center — the eye of an ancient predator. It bore not just jewels, but weight. Power.

The King looked at Harry with burnt amber eyes, hiding neither boredom nor disdain. His voice echoed, deep and dry:

“So, wizard? Have you brought something of value… or just arrogance in your pockets?”

Harry stepped forward, his boots echoing loud in the cavernous space. His gaze locked with the King’s — firm, unshaken. He didn’t need to shout.

“I will take the dragon. I offer a trade — something of priceless worth, in exchange for a dying, tortured, neglected beast.”

For a moment, silence stretched thin like a drawn blade.

The guards shifted as if struck — spears rose in one motion, sharp and deadly, tips already humming with enchantments that made Harry’s skin prickle.

The sound of metal filled the air — an orchestra of imminent violence. But Harry… did not flinch.

That was when the chains stirred.

He felt the cold, serpentine touch slither beneath his skin, unseen beneath cloth — living, sentient, poised with will. They slid along his arms and settled, quiet but alert, like hidden armor sharpening its resolve. Harry shivered. He hadn’t known they could do this. Not like this.

But what truly stilled the room wasn’t the chains.

It was the Magic.

It rose around him like a storm with no wind, a scent of ancient power beyond naming.

They were like old beasts, predators born before there were words to describe them.

Potter, seething at the audacity, blazed with protective fury — pushing outward, daring the world to try him again.

Gaunt, furious at the threat, radiated a savage wrath — the scent of old blood and saltwater lingered like a curse looking for a throat to drown.

Lovegood, delighted and watchful, danced at the edge of sanity — too wide, seeing too much. Her presence was a laugh at a funeral — eerie, misplaced, and oddly prophetic.

And Peverell, disdainful and regal, extended like solid shadow — ancient, silent, and inevitable. Death itself.

They didn’t follow him.

They were him.

Harry looked mortal — like prophecy incarnate.

The subtle chime of beads and metal from the chains echoed like a whispering hiss — something sharp dragging along the edges of reason.

The guards did not lower their weapons, but neither did they step forward. They shifted, nervous. Hesitating.

The King tilted his head. His golden eyes narrowed. The air was thick with tension, but he seemed to savor every drop. When he spoke, his voice fell like silk soaked in venom:

“You are no mere wizard. You are a living echo of tales best left forgotten.”

He paused, fingers drumming on obsidian.

“And what, exactly, do you offer… for my dragon?”

Harry simply raised his hand and, with a slow movement, drew the mithril brooch from his pocket.

He needed no more than that — Peverell magic had already begun to seep from the artifact, as if the metal itself wept starlight.

The hall fell silent once again. A silence heavy as ancient stone.

And the King… laughed. Low and hungry.

With golden eyes gleaming with greed, the King moved his fingers as if already feeling them closing around the brooch.

“Well, that is a fair price, wizard.”

Before Harry could agree or even nod, he felt the rejection from his Magics. They made themselves known even more now, echoing words without speaking, yet clearer than speech.

Too much. Thief.

Clenching his hand around the brooch, Harry cast thought and magic outward, letting them merge with the Magics shimmering around him.

“Let’s put on a show. Let’s remind them we are not to be deceived. That we are beneath no one.”

Approval rose from his core, and the Magics rose to show that this unworthy being could not be trusted.

Potter was the first to rise.

It burst from within him like a storm echoing the furious summer skies: thunderless flashes of golden lightning coiling around Harry like burning serpents. A dry, scorching wind shook the tapestries of the hall.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears — protection magic, vengeance, justice — blazing like a father's love that would tear the world apart for a child.

Each beat of his heart made the air tremble with the vibrant power of life — shielding, healing only the worthy, and consuming the foolish with fire.

Then, Lovegood unfurled.

It didn’t roar or scream — giggled. Like a child breaking cosmic rules just to see what would happen. The air turned surreal, bending at the edges of vision; colors bloomed where none should be, and the floor felt as though it floated beneath their feet. Translucent butterflies with wings made of crystallized madness fluttered out of nothingness, dissolving before touching anything.

That was chaos incarnate — dancing, ethereal — yet there was logic to her lunacy, a cruel precision behind the laughter. And everyone in the hall felt it. The fear of those who see too much.

Then came Gaunt.

The presence fell like a winter tide — heavy, crushing, wet. The scent of rusted iron and blood washed in salt water spread without mercy. Droplets of water appeared in the air, condensing from nothing, as though the hall were drowning in an invisible ocean.

Harry felt the pressure against his bones, like a judgment from an ancient court made of tides and wrath.

Gaunt was cold hatred — not the anger of fire, but the kind of rage that waits centuries to crush enemies under an inescapable, dark wave.

Wanted to drown. Wanted to punish. Wanted to destroy.

And then, Peverell.

There was no sound.

None.

Peverell’s magic rose with no color, no glow, only absence.

Shadows stretched at the edges of reality, swallowing the light, dragging away sound, shrinking the world before the void that is death.

There was no beauty. No promise. Only the undeniable presence of the end.

The King's eyes trembled. Some guards dropped their weapons.

Harry’s skin tingled with the icy touch of destiny.

Peverell was absolute silence — final breath — the memory of all deaths that had ever occurred. And in that moment, Harry became the living memory of what devours all.

He raised his head, chains glittering like silver veins.

His voice, when it came, was not just his own — it was a whispered choir of all his Magics speaking in unison, layered, perfect, and terrible:

“You mistake us for someone who can be deceived. You attempt to lie in an unfair trade, Thief King.

The gems of the past, unique in their weight and truth, are worth more than dozens of dragons.”

The Magics did not roar. They revealed themselves.

Silence still hung in the hall, thick as enchanted fog.

The presence of the Four Magics pulsed around Harry — alive and unstoppable — no longer hidden shadows, but storms laid bare.

The Goblin King, still reclined on his throne of black stone, fingers tapping the armrests with sharp claws, smiled — a smile more calculated than emotional. His golden eyes, still hungry, now measured.

“Impressive power, wizard.” His voice dragged like molten gold.

“And worthy of respect. I know when I stand before something… too strong to bend.”

He rose, his metallic-scale robes gliding silently over the steps. A subtle, almost reverent gesture — then extended a hand, a gesture of peace, ancient between their kind.

“Permit me, then, to offer another coin. Not gold, nor gem. But friendship. The friendship of goblins. Our knowledge, our web of influence, our memory.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, the Magics replied.

Not with words — but with a sudden contraction of the air, as if the world itself drew a deeper breath.

Potter wrapped Harry in firm, protective warmth, as though brushing away a filthy hand from his skin.

Gaunt cracked like breaking bone — a sudden pressure in every eardrum, like a wave about to crash.

Lovegood distorted the edges of reality for a second — the King’s hand seemed to fracture into laughing mirrored reflections.

Peverell simply loomed. Impenetrable. Undeniable. Shadow stretched across the floor.

“No.”

Harry raised his face, green eyes shining with a light not born of the physical world.

“We do not take sides.”

His voice was calm — but heavy.

“And if we accepted the hand of friendship stained with lies, we would also accept the weight of future promises. Wars that are not ours. Oaths we did not choose.”

The chains around him clinked softly, like ancient teeth chattering in agreement.

“We are no longer soldiers.”

The Goblin King did not take offense — or at least did not show it. He merely chuckled lowly, a sound echoing with a bitter note of resignation.

“I tried, at least,” he said, withdrawing his hand with the grace of a monarch.

“Perhaps in another life, with less pride and more gold.”

He stepped down one stair, eyes fixed on Harry’s hand still closed around the mithril brooch.

“Then let me offer something simpler. I will buy the jewel. At fair value. No veiled deals.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he opened his fingers, letting the brooch’s light dance among the hall’s shadows.

“It’s not for sale. But I will accept a fair trade.”

The words cut the air like a clean spell.

He pocketed the brooch again with a gesture that said more than words — it was not a treasure. It was a burden. An inheritance. And a warning.

“For now, I want to have the dragon. I will take it when I find a proper place to keep. And only after it’s in my hands, will you receive the jewel.”

A beat of silence.

“And the rest of the price…”

He paused, tasting the shape of the phrase.

“…I’ll collect later. When the time comes.”

The goblins exchanged glances in silence.

Harry then raised his chin, directly to the King:

“I also want a formal magical breeding license for the dragon. He won’t be thrown into a reserve, abandoned and mutilated by others of his kind who’ll see weakness, not survival. He is mine. And I care for what is mine.”

Potter burned in acceptance.

Gaunt murmured with pride.

Lovegood spun around the decision like leaves in the wind.

Peverell quieted. Awake — and satisfied.

The Goblin King observed him with narrowed eyes — thoughtful. Measuring what he had lost… and what he could still gain.

“You speak like a true warrior. I accept your terms, Lord Peverell-Gaunt.”

Harry didn’t reply — only nodded.

“Thurvak will escort you to the office. If you wish, he can tell you of the properties you hold.”

Thurvak approached, still trembling — for the Magics had calmed… but had not vanished

Chapter Text

The throne room gleamed, alive with the refracted shimmer of magical fire dancing across the gemstones encrusted in its high, arched walls.

Each stone—ruby, sapphire, emerald—caught the flicker of flame and scattered it in a thousand directions, as if trying to outshine the solemnity of the place with raw, dazzling light.

The floor, polished obsidian veined with silver, mirrored the ceiling’s grandeur, while towering columns carved with ancient runes rose like silent sentinels toward vaults painted with constellations long forgotten.

The silence was profound—not empty, but watchful, as though the chamber itself awaited a verdict.

Even the air remained suspended, reluctant to move too freely. It hung heavy, thick with the residue of unspoken truths and the lingering heat of something that had passed—a command issued, a fate sealed. It hesitated in the lungs of all who entered, uncertain if it was yet safe to breathe again.

It was not simply a throne room.

It was a crucible.

And the fire had only just cooled.

Looking at the goblin approaching—not as if he were facing a skinny, short wizard in garish robes, but rather his own grave—Harry couldn’t help but find it amusing, especially in contrast to the disdain with which he’d initially been treated.

“As you wish, my King. Let us proceed then, Lord Peverell-Gaunt. We have much to do.”

Thurvak bowed respectfully toward the Goblin King. As he straightened, he glanced in Harry’s direction, avoiding direct eye contact.

He departed quickly, with Harry following at a slower pace, allowing the Magics around him to calm and return to harmony.

Upon arriving at the office again, the space now felt almost too modest after the opulence they had just left behind. Stacks of parchment receipts, enchanted quills floating above logs, and a small iron kettle boiling without fire atop a heating rune.

He was now certain some form of spatial manipulation was at play in Gringotts. It could not have been more than three minutes since they’d started walking, yet they were already standing before Thurvak’s office door.

Entering and dropping into the same chair as before, he found himself slightly puzzled by the goblin’s reluctance to step into his own office.

It wasn’t as though Harry would attack or deceive him.

Frankly, Harry even felt a flicker of guilt—briefly—before remembering they'd tried to deceive him first, sweeping away any lingering remorse.

Relaxing into the chair, the goblin had left—probably retrieving the necessary documents—and Harry idly played with one of the bead cords hanging from his robes.

He’d probably been incredibly rude, speaking to a King without revealing his face. Oops.

But no one had tried to disembowel him for that insolence—at least not for that one in particular.

Sinking even deeper into the seat, he couldn’t help but think that this had been one of the busiest Sundays of his life.

Wait.

Was it still Sunday?

His eyes flew open, and he shot upright so suddenly that he startled Thurvak, who dropped the papers he was carrying and leapt behind the desk.

Slightly embarrassed by the goblin’s reaction (Harry wasn’t going to eat him, for Merlin’s sake), he cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice firm yet gentle.

“Um, Thurvak? What… what day is it?”

The goblin cautiously peeked over the desk, and seeing no threat in Harry’s posture or tone, straightened his robes and pretended nothing had happened.

“Today is the fourth of May, 1998, according to the Gregorian calendar.”

Harry remembered James saying it was still Sunday before he made a strategic retreat (read: fled as fast as possible).

Which meant he’d been unconscious for two days.

Not the longest he’d ever been out, but close. His magic always tried to heal him quickly.

He had no idea what might’ve happened in his original universe during those two days.

Voldemort could’ve won.

His friends might be dead.

His home—Hogwarts—could lie in ruins.

He could feel the chains slithering to wrap tighter around him, a parody of an embrace, and the warm hum of his harmonized Magics flowed softly through his body.

He breathed deeply, grounding himself. He had a purpose to fulfill—something to free. And for that, he needed a residence.

Thurvak sat heavily in the chair behind the polished oak desk. Picking up one of the now-reorganized parchments, he began speaking in a dry tone.

“According to the records Gringotts holds, there are two properties listed under your name: the Gaunt Residence, and another whose original name has been obscured by magic—commonly referred to as Peverell Castle.”

Harry already knew exactly what the Gaunt Residence looked like—he’d seen it in Dumbledore’s memories. He remembered it as a wretched place, soaked in generations of despair. He wasn’t going there. Not yet.

Fiddling with one of the chains wrapped around his wrist like an imitation bracelet, he nodded.

“I already know the state of the Gaunt Residence. What’s the situation with this Peverell Castle? I’d like to move in as soon as possible.”

The goblin picked up another parchment from the pile and read it aloud.

“Last known record describes it as ruins. Located in the northern mountains of Caithness, Scotland. Expansive grounds, protected by ancient wards. No recorded activity since the 12th century.”

Neither option was ideal, but if he wanted to keep a dragon, he’d need space and Muggle isolation—something the Gaunt residence couldn’t offer.

Besides, ruins could be rebuilt. And Harry wanted to see where his ancestors once lived.

“Peverell Castle, then.”

The goblin sorted the documents, stored a few in a drawer, separated two, and read them closely.

“This address is not connected to the Floo Network. If you wish, I can arrange a Portkey. For a fee, of course.”

After Harry agreed, Thurvak jotted something on a paper and snapped his fingers, making it vanish.

“Anything else, Lord Peverell-Gaunt?”

Harry shook his head—then paused and nodded. He had forgotten his original purpose for coming.

Looking at the silver basin resting on the other chair (Thurvak had held it while he confronted the King), he picked it up and rotated it slowly, noting a raised rune at its base. He pressed it curiously, watching in fascination as the basin folded in on itself, shrinking to the size of a handheld mirror.

Magic was amazing.

He placed the now-small basin into the opposite pocket from the brooch—he didn’t want to tempt fate by keeping two powerful, possibly volatile magical items together.

“I need a large quantity of Galleons. No exact amount.”

“The rings will serve as seal and payment. Press them to any magical receipt and the sum will be automatically deducted from your vaults.”

He’d never heard of that option before, but it meant carrying less, so he simply nodded and stood.

He had barely turned when the goblin called him back.

“You’re not going to formalize your position as heir to House Potter and House Lovegood?”

Harry pointed to himself, surprised.

“I’m not their heir. I’m not even truly a Lovegood. And… well, I have no legal claim to House Potter. I’m a presumed bastard, remember?”

The goblin stared, then rolled his eyes and replied sharply.

“From the way you handle the Magics of those Houses, it’s clear they’ve accepted you. The Lovegood lineage is particularly… selective. The Lovegood Magic chooses its bearers and their position, though it usually waits for the previous lord to die before doing so. And human legality holds no weight on goblin land, Lord Peverell-Gaunt. If you wish to claim them, you may—provided they accept you.”

He swallowed hard, feeling the named Magics move through his body—together, they felt like a warm, tingling breeze across his skin.

“No. House Lovegood is Luna’s to inherit. I won’t steal her birthright. And before I choose, I want to know—does the current Lord Potter have any children?”

He felt a little anxious. He wasn’t sure whether he hoped there were children or not. He could feel the Lovegood Magic approving of his choice—it would guide him, stand by him—but it wouldn’t be his name to carry.

“It is common knowledge that Lord Potter has four children. Two male, two female. All currently attending Hogwarts.”

The goblin folded his hands, looking at Harry with a curious expression—as one might observe a strange, new creature, no matter how deadly it might be.

Siblings.

Harry had siblings.

Something he’d never have in his own world—now presented as simple, matter-of-fact reality.

The Potter Magic surged—echoes of childish laughter and footsteps on polished wood floors surrounded him.

Family. Ours.

He calmed himself, breathing deeply. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on a family that had no place for him.

“Then I won’t accept the Potter inheritance. One of James’s children will carry the title.”

The Potter Magic felt sad, but resigned—as though it had expected that answer but had hoped for another. It would never abandon him, but its mark would not adorn him. He would not bear the Stag’s Crest.

But the stag would always walk beside him.

The Potter Magic settled around him in a mimicry of an embrace, then quieted.

The goblin appeared truly surprised—someone turning down more power? For goblins, ambition was admirable, provided it came wrapped in cunning.

“Very well. It is your choice, Lord Peverell-Gaunt. Would you like to change your name to reflect it?”

Harry had never considered he could—or was expected to—change his name.

He paused, thinking about his name. In truth, he was rarely called by it. He only discovered his real name was Hadrian upon receiving his Hogwarts letter. Desperate for connection, he’d looked up its meaning in baby name books.

Derived from Latin Hadrianus, it meant "from Adria." In Etruscan, Adria meant "water." Another possible root came from ater, meaning “dark.”

It could be interpreted two ways, then:

Born of water, or he who comes from darkness.

His middle name, James, was even less used—a tribute to a father who gave his life to protect him. He’d only ever heard it spoken during his sorting—McGonagall calling it aloud. Still, she’d called him Harry.

He would continue using Hadrian, but… he didn’t feel right using James. Not in this universe, where memory had blood and soul. Here, there was another James—not the one who died for love.

A stranger.

The name Potter was a link to who he had been. A tether to his universe.

A memory.

An anchor.

He felt the affirmation echo from the Potter Magic. The name Harry Potter was a burden he would never fully shed.

Too many memories. Too many losses. Too much pain.

For Harry to even begin healing from the invisible scars left by his life, he would need to change.

Not forget.

But begin again.

Still, he wanted to leave a trace—some clue, in case someone ever came looking. A mad hope.

What if someone else followed the same path?

What if they were lost? Alone?

What if they could follow a subtle hint?

He’d never imagined that reading through a baby name book (his own name wasn’t exactly common) would be so useful.

Kelos.

From ancient Greek, kḗlos, meaning scar. A mark of a wound already healed.

Well, Harry never claimed to be that creative. It was a subtle clue, but clear enough—if someone knew what to look for.

“My name will be changed. I’ll be Hadrian Kelos Gaunt Peverell.”

He realized just then how annoying it would be to hear people call him by his full name all the time. He had no idea how Dumbledore put up with it.

“It will be done. Your Portkey will be ready by tomorrow morning.”

Waiting a moment and seeing the goblin had nothing else to say, he stood and walked to the door.

It had been a long day.

And Luna was waiting at Florean Fortescue’s.

Hadrian could have some ice cream.

Chapter Text

Leaving through the towering bronze doors of Gringotts, Hadrian felt extraordinarily tired.

He had been through a great deal since arriving in this universe, though he had managed not to risk his life again (yet).

Descending the cold marble steps of Gringotts, the weight of what he had done lingered behind like a distant echo, as Hadrian returned to the pulsating world of Diagon Alley.

The sky above seemed to pour a dull golden light over the crooked façades, tinting the shopfronts in shades of amber and rust, as if time itself had its own color there.

The buildings leaned into one another at impossible angles—wood and stone joined by an architecture sustained almost entirely by magic.

Despite his flamboyant cloak and extravagant clothes, Hadrian moved like an underground current—deliberate, almost silent.

The curtain of glass beads hanging from his hood swayed gently with each fluid step, tinting the world ahead of him in a pearly shimmer.

And though he did not notice, others did.

Not with alarm—never with open shock—but with the same instinctive caution fish show when a darker shadow passes beneath the surface.

A slight step to the side, a turn of shoulders, a pause in conversation. The subtle opening of space between him and the others, as if the air around him was charged—or predatory.

He passed by Ollivanders, where a lone wand rested on a worn cushion in the display. The shop was empty, but Hadrian felt—as if it were a memory—the scent of dust and air thick with the magic of countless wands, the touch of wood against palm, the sigh of one magic connecting to another.

To his right, the windows of Flourish and Blotts shimmered with books that stirred on their enchanted shelves. One black-bound tome seemed to be trying to slither off the shelf, even while tied down. Another quivered, eager, as if wishing to leap from its place and beg for attention. 

He did not stop. His mind was elsewhere, traveling through layers.

The narrow path led him past Madam Malkin’s, where robes hovered over invisible mannequins, spinning slowly in the enchanted breeze.

The air smelled of burnt sugar and dragonhide, of ancient incense and new bookskin.

Finally, the colorful awnings of Fortescue’s appeared ahead. The storefront radiated warmth and welcome, with its small carved-iron tables and enchanted parasols spinning slowly beneath the timid sun.

Ice creams floated in crystal dishes, dripping slowly like clocks that defy urgency.

And there, under one of the pastel-colored canopies, Luna waited for him.

Sitting with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze wandered through the clouds as if in conversation with them.

Hadrian approached, hesitating a moment before pulling out a chair.

“It seems your journey was fruitful, Hadrian.”

Taking the ice cream Luna pushed toward him as she spoke, he tasted it. Hmm—chocolate, raspberry, and walnuts. Perfect.

“Yes, I obtained the Gaunt and Peverell Lordships, which came with enough Galleons to buy the items and the silver Alchemic Basin we need.”

Nodding, Luna returned to watching the clouds and eating her ice cream, which was a mossy green in color. 

They sat in a nearly private corner, beside a plant that looked aged and wilted.

The enchanted canopy swayed gently with the warm midday breeze, tinged in hues of honey and lavender.

Soft laughter echoed from inside, among the clinking of spoons and the lazy dance of ice creams levitating in glittering bowls.

His eyes, for a moment, followed a curly-haired girl spinning between the tables, chasing an enchanted snowflake that melted before it could touch the ground. Her laughter was crystalline, pure.

A child stuck out their tongue at a color-changing ice cream. A pair of wizards laughed as they shared a dish.

From that half-hidden corner, Hadrian watched this world—so similar, yet strange.

It was vibrant, alive, in a way his had never been.

Far more people walked through here, unafraid, without having to worry if their loved ones would survive until next Christmas, without watching child-soldiers march into desperate battle.

“This world is a field in bloom,” he thought. “Mine… is what remains after the harvest.”

But there, for an instant, he allowed himself.

He allowed the idea that perhaps he could rest.

That perhaps, here, he wasn’t just the symbol of war.

Perhaps, for a few afternoons, he could be Hadrian—and not the one who survived his own ghosts.

It was then that Hadrian saw her.

At first, not as a recognizable figure, but as a presence: a woman approaching with silent, precise steps, her eyes marked by something between intelligence and doubt.

The elegant redhead wore a cloak in warm shades—wine and copper—that danced lightly with the wind. Her hair was tied back in a practical braid, her green eyes far too alert for someone on a simple walk.

She wasn’t looking at him.

“Luna,” she said with contained gentleness, her eyes still scanning Hadrian like someone measuring a sudden change in a potion’s temperature. “Is everything alright? You’re not supposed to be at Hogwarts?”

The Potter magic, awakened by her nearness, responded like rekindled fire: invisible sparks danced around them, unfelt by anyone but Hadrian, glad that one of its own was drawing close to its favorite.

Luna smiled—serene as a dawn that refuses to hurry.

“It’s all alright now, Lady Potter,” she said, with that light tone that always hid deeper things. “I just needed to retrieve someone who was a little lost. A family emergency.”

The Lovegood magic swirled around the three of them, free as stardust. It whispered in tongues no one else could hear, poked into corners where truths hide, wove bridges between the absurd and the inevitable. It danced around Hadrian with familiarity. Around Lily with curiosity. And when it touched the Potter magic… it laughed. Not cruelly. Just in recognition.

Hadrian didn’t move. He was far too still.

Inside, a stormy sea.

The Gaunt magic, buried deep in his bones like a caged beast, lifted its head in alert. Growling. Territorial. A silent creature testing the ground, scenting the air. That woman made its bearer unstable. And nothing that unsettles him should exist.

“This is Hadrian. A distant relative. He came from very far away.”

Farther than you’d ever imagine. Farther than you’d dare to imagine.

Luna was speaking again to the clouds now, ignoring Lily and analyzing their shapes as if the answers to all unspoken questions lay within them. Perhaps they did.

Lily Potter tilted her head slightly.

Caution. Courtesy.

But she smiled. A brief, rehearsed smile.

“Hadrian. A pleasure.”

He inclined his head in response, but his voice didn’t come.

Not here. Not in front of her.

His mind was a veil of memories and silence.

She wasn’t his mother.

She wasn’t his Lily.

But… she was.

Not as a memory, but as something almost more terrible: an alternate truth.

The same tone of voice.

The same quiet strength behind her eyes.

The same silent flame he knew from childhood memories and the sear of loss.

She was alive. Unaware of him.

Untouched. Whole. Untouchable.

Like a star he had known since childhood, but could never reach.

And for a moment—just a moment—Hadrian wished he could lie to the world and to himself.

He wished he could pretend that woman saw him with tenderness.

That she would know his full name.

That she wasn’t just an echo.

The Peverell magic, the one Hadrian barely understood—cold as ancient ice, unmoving as time—did not stir. It merely observed. Distant. Indifferent. Like a witness who had seen empires rise and fall. It recognized Lily, but it did not care. It knew she was not part of it. Not a threat. Not an answer.

The longing faded quickly. Like all things that cannot be.

He forced a soft smile beneath the curtain of beads.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Potter.”

But she was already looking back at Luna, and the moment dissolved like ice on the tongue.

Hadrian fell silent.

Something inside him had cooled—some faint flame of hope that insisted on existing diminished into embers. 

Not extinguished. Not yet.

Only then did he realize he was trembling. That the Gaunt magic had fallen quiet in its internal spiral. That the Potter magic had withdrawn. That even the Lovegood danced more slowly.

The Peverell magic, however, remained. Watching. Like a final judgment that never hurries.

Lily was still smiling, now turning slightly toward Luna with serene familiarity.

"Will your father be at the fundraising ball?" she asked casually, but with genuine interest. "For the Riddle Fund. He always has something to say about the hospital reforms, and I must admit I enjoy watching him try to hide how much he hates wearing a tie."

Hadrian didn’t understand, not immediately.

The word dropped like a stone into a lake already disturbed.

Riddle.

He shifted slightly—not enough to be noticed, but enough for Luna, always attuned to inner tides, to glance sideways at him.

He blinked.

Mouth dry.

Mind a whirlpool.

Riddle.

They had said Riddle as if speaking of charity, of hospitals, of ties and social events.

That name.

He didn’t know why he spoke.

Perhaps it wasn’t desire—perhaps it was instinct.

But the words came out, muffled, hoarse.

"Riddle?"

Lily looked at him.

Confused, not alarmed.

"Yes. The fund Dumbledore created, after the tragedy," she replied with that natural ease only someone who lives in a world where evil never came to be can possess.

"In honor of the boy, Tom. Tom Riddle."

She sighed, with the sadness of someone who hears a story—but never had to live it.

"A promising Muggle-born. Quiet, solitary… but very bright, they said. He was murdered while still young. It’s a horrible story. But Albus said no one should forget."

Hadrian wasn’t breathing.

She went on, unaware of the emotions threatening to consume him.

"He created the fund to support Muggle-borns and magical orphans. And… well, some say it’s also a way for him to forgive himself. For not seeing what was happening to the boy in time."

The world around still seemed normal—the laughter, the clinking of magical glasses, the sparkle of experimental spells from apprentices at nearby tables.

But inside Hadrian, something was silently detonating.

Tom Riddle.

Dead.

He had never become Lord Voldemort.

Had never worn the name that bled through generations.

"Was he in Slytherin?"

Hadrian asked, not knowing why. The question came out like a blade.

Lily nodded, surprised at his interest.

"He was, yes. Very gifted with potions. It’s a shame he was so misunderstood. Albus thinks he may have suffered in the orphanage… but, well, those are just guesses. We’ll never really know."

Hadrian felt a cold nausea rising in his gut.

Tom Riddle wasn’t a specter looming over the world.

Wasn’t the ruin of childhoods.

Wasn’t the Dark Lord.

He was a dead boy.

A lament. A sad story. A child.

And yet, Hadrian knew.

He knew every fragment of the soul the boy had torn apart.

He knew about the diary, the chamber, the founders’ relics and the deaths.

He knew the pain.

And there stood a world—without that. Without him.

Lily and Luna’s voices floated like background music, too soft to distinguish completely, but enough to fill the air with a familiarity Hadrian could not grasp.

"How did he die?"

The voice was low. Cold. Almost too neutral.

Lily hesitated, but went on.

"It’s not something people talk about often… but I’ve heard the story."

She stepped a little closer, as if trying to shield the memory of someone long forgotten.

"Tom Riddle was an orphan, you know. Living in an orphanage in a part of the city that, at the time, was marked as a 'filthy zone.' Industrial, abandoned. One day, there was an attack. They say it was only meant to hit an old warehouse—no one expected anything… but a group of extremist Muggles set off a bomb."

Hadrian blinked.

"A bomb?"

Lily nodded with melancholy.

"Yes. The papers weren’t even sure there were any children inside. They only paid attention when the orphanage staff noticed Tom was no longer among the living."

An uncomfortable silence settled. Lily continued, her voice lower:

“The Aurors arrived too late. They found the place in ruins. They say they only knew he was magical because of what was left…”

“What?”

Hadrian murmured, desperate for an answer he already knew.

“The walls were melted from the inside. As if the boy… had tried to do something, something impossible, something he didn’t understand. The spells disintegrated with him. The magic lingered in the air for days. Still, nothing remained.”

She looked at him. Curious, probing.

“Albus Dumbledore was the only one who went to the funeral.”

Hadrian said nothing.

The world seemed suspended.

The name Tom Riddle echoed in his memory like a curse without a caster.

And now, dead… by wandless hands.

Tom Riddle, killed by a Muggle bomb.

Not by the fate Hadrian had known.

Not out of greed or power or hatred.

Not because of Horcruxes.

Not by Dumbledore.

Not by his own hand.

But by a world that never saw him.

By something random. Filthy. Insignificant.

A bomb.

As if the universe had swept the chessboard away before the game even began.

Hadrian felt suffocated.

A part of him, dark and secret, wondered: Was that what he deserved?

Another part whispered: Could he have been saved?

And a third, cold as ice, said:

What if the world is better off without him alive?

Luna drew Lily’s attention back, speaking of something he didn’t catch, distracting her while he thought.

He knew he needed to lose himself in silence before returning.

Lily smiled at Luna and said goodbye with a gentle wave. 

But as she stepped away, her gaze fell once more on Hadrian. A shadow of doubt. Of curiosity. Perhaps even of recognition.

But she said nothing.

And vanished into the crowd.

And there stood Hadrian, beneath the sky of a world where the monster had never been born.

“How old was he?” Hadrian asked suddenly, without looking at Luna. His voice was soft, but each syllable weighed like lead.

Luna blinked, then looked upward, as if revisiting a distant memory.

“Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He was about to be invited to an international magical exchange, according to Professor Dumbledore…” — she paused — “He had plans for Tom. Wanted to introduce him to the International Confederation, maybe even send him to Beauxbatons for a while. Said he was promising, in the papers.”

The world stopped spinning for a moment.

Fifteen.

The age when the other Tom — the real one, the inevitable one — opened that secret chamber beneath Hogwarts.

The age he killed.

The age he made his first Horcrux.

Hadrian’s stomach sank.

As if a tide of forgotten memories crashed against the pillars of his mind.

Myrtle.

The girl who wept through the pipes.

The childish soul, interrupted.

The hissing voice, the hollow eyes, the stupid death.

And it had all started there.

But in this world… there was no Myrtle.

No basilisk.

No Chamber opened.

The monster had never been unleashed.

The first soul-splitting cut had never been made.

And what if…?

If a bomb… a simple human weapon… had stopped the Dark Lord before he was ever born?

Hadrian couldn’t decide if he felt pity… or rage.

Part of him rebelled — how could he have died early?, as if that denied everything Hadrian had endured, as if a cycle had been broken the wrong way, too abruptly.

Another part, darker still, felt relief. Not just for himself, but for the whole world.

And a third part, deeper, quieter, mourned something strange for what Tom might have been. The orphaned boy. The lonely child. The brilliant student. The possible friend. The possible hero. The possible nothing.

“He never killed anyone?”

Hadrian asked, throat tight.

Luna didn’t even seem surprised by the question. She shook her head slowly.

“Not that anyone knows. Some said he was… intense. But he never hurt anyone. He was just… very alone. Very observant. Very quiet.”

The kind of quiet Hadrian knew all too well.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

The silence.

The orphanage.

The bomb.

The Horcrux that never was.

The soul that stayed whole — until it shattered, all at once.

And in that moment, Hadrian did not know what hurt more: knowing that this world had been spared… or knowing that, perhaps, Tom Riddle had been, too.

And then, the air changed.

As if the world itself had sensed the subtle pain of an unwritten timeline.

As if time, with all its possible branches, bore a wound there — invisible, yet throbbing.

The magics responded.

The Gaunt magic, ever watchful and taut around Hadrian, trembled.

Not with fury — but with grief.

A deep, ancient grief, seeping like water from the stones of a forgotten crypt.

It was the weeping of extinct bloodlines, the sigh of secrets never spoken.

It drew back, folding into itself like a mourning beast, murmuring its sorrow in fragments no one but Hadrian could hear:

“Blood without guide. Seed without soil. Doomed and alone.”

The Lovegood magic, light as wind through trees, wavered.

Always dancing — like golden dust in sunlight — but now dulled. Grieving. A charm without match.

It hovered, as though its notes had lost their melody.

For where Tom had never existed as a threat, he had not existed as a possible bond either.

A friendship never born. A connection that might have changed everything — but never even had a chance to begin.

The magic seemed to sob. Trembling. Transparent.

The Potter magic, steady as a wall and clear as a blade, fell utterly silent.

No warmth, no retreat, no guilt.

It did not react with gestures — but the magic that usually wrapped him like the glowing embers of love became stone.

It was as if it said, without words: There was nothing to heal here.

And after tasting Hadrian’s buried memories, after sampling his thoughts, that magic would rather see the boy dead.

It was protection before the threat.

Intuitive justice.

A denial of the monster — before the monster could ever be born.

The Peverell magic, however, remained still.

Solemn. Watchful.

It did not judge. It never did.

It was the oldest, the most indifferent to human passions — for it had seen every ending.

What Hadrian felt, it had witnessed in others. The mourning. The doubt. The wonder at peace that had been denied.

It simply enveloped him like a starless night. A dark cloak. A pact with silence.

I understand, it whispered.

And Hadrian, in the center of it all, was a vortex of echoes and absence.

He remained still for a long moment, as if a cold wind passed through him from the inside out.

The beaded curtain of his hood hung like heavy dew.

His expression was one of someone who had been screaming for hours — only inwardly.

Luna stepped closer, but did not touch him.

She knew.

There are storms that cannot be stilled by hands.

He looked to the ground. Then to the sky. Then to nothing.

“He could have been someone,” he said, barely audible.

The magics did not reply.

They knew that in that moment, no one was something.

Not Tom.

Not Hadrian.

Not the living.

Not the dead.

Only echoes of choices that were never made.

And time moved on.

As it always does.

Chapter Text

Lily was having a wonderful week.

The news of the discovery of a new magical herb — whose flower, according to reliable rumors, could stabilize sleep potions — had come through Severus. And, since it came from him, she did not doubt it.

She met her friend Alice at Longbottom Manor, and together they departed with an international portkey.

Le Cour Cachée is the French equivalent of a magical shopping district, more focused on plants and potion ingredients, its shops selling mostly potion components — petals harvested under eclipses, preserved scales, crystallized roots — and live magical plants of all kinds, from the most delicate to the most aggressive.

Sheltered by ancient buildings of pale stone, with elegant arcades and glass-paned windows framed in wrought iron. In daylight, the clarity that filters through the tall walls gives the place a golden and diffused glow, as if sunlight passed through a veil of pollen.

The shops line the arcades, with signs of carved wood or enchanted metal, many of them covered in living moss or small vines that bloom according to the season’s mood — or the mood of the shop itself.

The windows are a spectacle in their own right: full of vials suspended by charmed threads, roots that move on their own, leaves that change color upon detecting human presence, and small vegetal creatures slumbering under glass bells.

The constant sound of mortar grinders, magical entrance chimes, and the distant bubbling of potions creates a tranquil and mysterious soundtrack — as if the very place was breathing.

There was an early sale happening of that magical plant, and Lily needed to acquire it — its potential uses were far too tempting not to purchase in advance.

And if James could spend a fortune on a bottle of liquor — whose appeal, frankly, she couldn’t see — then she could certainly spend on a rare potion ingredient.

And it was a magnificent plant, worthy of the exorbitant price she paid.

The Chaleur-Sommeil rose with unsettling elegance, distinguished by its singular flower — reminiscent of a calla lily, but with an unusually deep coloration.

Its broad, satiny petals were of a dark, velvety purple, interspersed with vivid yellow blotches that resembled the pattern of a dragon’s egg. These markings weren’t fixed: they oscillated slightly, as if pulsing to some subtle, internal rhythm.

The flower’s interior seemed to contain a faint golden mist, visible only in twilight, which led some witches and wizards to believe the plant “exhaled dreams” as it matured.

Its stem was its most distinctive feature: a dark green with bluish undertones, it grew in a serpentine fashion, coiling around itself as if in perpetual slow motion — like a sleeping serpent.

In older specimens, the stem had been known to spiral into perfect coils.

Its leaves were long, narrow, and serrated, a muted green with black veins visible under wandlight.

When touched, they emitted a surprising sound — something between a low growl and a guttural purr, as if the plant were guarding its own slumber. This sound was magical in nature and served as a defense mechanism: enough to scare off nocturnal creatures and even repel certain intrusive enchantments.

It was a botanical marvel. And Lily knew she needed it.

Of course, she bought three specimens — one for immediate use, one to keep in her greenhouse, and one for Severus. He would surely adore it.

Lily couldn’t help but feel joyful about being friends with Severus again. They had had a falling-out when she began dating James in sixth year, but nothing that a few months hadn't eventually resolved.

Despite James and Severus always treating each other with disdain, she was certain that one day they would become close friends — he was even Dahlia’s godfather.

However, she hadn’t been prepared to return home and find James and Severus in the same room, appearing to be simply... talking.

She was surprised at first, of course — but quickly very pleased. At last, they were getting along better. Perhaps they'd finally become friends.

There was one small issue, though.

They were hiding something from her.

They were subtle, but she could sense it — the diverted gazes, the hushed side conversations. Honestly, she had even caught James writing a letter — not a howler, no hexes, just a normal letter — to Severus.

She decided to let it go. For now.

With the Riddle Fund charity ball approaching, she needed to order new robes for herself and James — after all, it would be a scandal to be seen wearing the same formal attire twice.

Lily didn’t mind being seen in something twice herself — but she was no longer Lílian Evans, the Muggle-born girl. She was Lady Potter.

And the Potters had an image to uphold, after all.

She went to Diagon Alley to buy them — it was traditional, after all — and Twilfitt and Tatting’s always made the best pieces, for a steep price.

It took her some time to choose among the fabrics and cuts, but she was happy with her final selection.

A long gown of deep crimson magical silk, with layers that moved like waves as she walked. The bodice was fitted, with a soft sweetheart neckline, and featured almost invisible embroidery of a stag in golden thread, revealed only at certain angles — a subtle enchantment responsive to surrounding magic.

The skirt had a slight side slit, revealing a golden lining embroidered with tiny willow branches.

It was complemented by a long cloak of deep black velvet with a scarlet lining and high collar, fastened by a golden brooch shaped like a galloping stag.

The hem of the cloak was embroidered with enchanted rubies and garnets, evoking the Potter family crest.

James’s robes were designed to be unique yet part of a matched set with hers.

A long tunic of magical black fabric, with deep crimson details on the seams and cuffs. The Potter family emblem — the golden stag — was embroidered across the back in real gold thread, its eyes made from tiny sapphires.

He would also wear a heavy cloak of dark wine-colored fabric, lined in golden satin. The high, structured collar was fastened on the shoulder by a clasp forged with the Potter crest — a shield bearing the stag leaping beneath a pot surrounded by jewels.

Elegant and luxurious.

Worthy of the Potters.

After completing the payment and requesting delivery to the Potter Manor, Lily was preparing to Apparate home when she saw something curious.

Seated at Fortescue’s was Luna Lovegood — something that shouldn’t be happening, as they were still in the middle of the Hogwarts school term.

As she approached Luna, Lily noticed she wasn’t alone. Seated beside her was a strange figure.

More details became clear as she drew closer.

Cloaked in an ethereal mantle of light blue with deep violet shimmer, it was a figure both mesmerizing and unsettling.

The hood covered his head, and a curtain of bead-like threads studded with glass concealed his face. Sunlight struck the fragments, distorting his features further — hiding any expression he might carry.

The lack of a defined face only intensified the aura of mystery and power that surrounded him, as if the world itself hesitated to look at him directly.

Even wearing such vibrant clothing — a white linen shirt with delicate lace, midnight-purple trousers, and a belt of glass and silver — there was something primal about his presence.

The gemstones sewn in spirals across his cloak caught the light and the eye, but did nothing to diminish the feeling he evoked: that of a predator at rest.

Nothing about his posture was openly threatening — and yet everything about him suggested danger.

Elegant, restrained, and on the verge of being unleashed.

It was difficult to see anything beyond the colors — the unsettling gleam of the cloak that floated like liquid mist around the wiry boy, with spirals of shimmering stones sewn in with obsessive precision.

Lily had walked over with a light spirit, still carrying the glow of a well-spent afternoon — the chosen fabrics, the giddy image of James in those ridiculously elegant robes, the bubbling excitement inside her from the new magical plant. All of it made her feel good, grounded, at peace.

It was as if, for a rare moment, everything was in its proper place.

Then she lived through one of the strangest conversations she had ever had in her entire life.

All the stranger for the fact that her Lady Potter ring seemed to react to the young man — Hadrian — which should have been impossible.

When the ring grew warm on her finger, Lily nearly stumbled over her words.

It was a subtle warmth, like a whisper beneath the skin — but unmistakable. The Potter magic recognizing him. Reacting. Responding.

The suspicion fell on her like a shadow.

Her eyes returned to the boy. There was something in his bearing, in his presence, that stirred every dormant instinct. And yet — or perhaps because of that — he didn’t look at her. He ignored her completely. As if she wasn’t worth the trouble.

And that was when something snapped.

The warmth of the ring turned into a sharp pain deep in her chest. A foreboding. A terrible possibility taking shape with terrifying speed. Rage rose through her, slowly, like venom warming in the veins — first as a silent question, then as a painful certainty.

James. James and his damned secrets. James and his hidden letters. James and Severus whispering in corners. James, who always had the gift of loving her with a light in his eyes... and of destroying her with the very same intensity.

She clenched her fists. Her fingers trembled — not with fear, but restraint.

That child — that stranger — had been recognized by Potter Magic. That could not be faked. Could not be forged. Blood, lineage, magical inheritance do not lie. And if they do not lie...

Then James had a bastard son. Likely from a Lovegood.

And she... she was staring right at him.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment. As if the ground beneath her had shifted in shape, and all that was solid was now mist and doubt.

As soon as she could, she said her goodbyes to Luna. The other occupant at the table didn’t even bother to glance at her or bid her farewell — frankly, rude.

She might have been projecting some of the fury and rage she felt onto the boy, but who could blame her?

The pride of Lady Potter still held her upright, still guided her. But inside, the Evans girl screamed.

And when she Apparated away, she carried with her the thunder of her fury.

James Potter had a lot to explain. And an apology would not suffice.

---

The old Potions Room of the Potter Manor was bathed in a golden gloom, lit only by the flickering glow of enchanted candles floating beneath the vaulted ceiling of black stone. The air was thick — laden with the pungent scent of ancient ingredients and the weight of what was about to be revealed.

Severus Snape moved with meticulous precision across the ancestral workbench — lacquered ebony, its edges worn smooth by time. A copper cauldron, charmed and well-aged, boiled over a green-blue fire, its translucent contents bubbling like liquid amber. With every turn of his stirring rod, the brew shifted color — honey, then gold, then rust.

He turned the rod one final time, counterclockwise. The copper cauldron responded with a steady, viscous glow, pulsing in tones of amber and burnished red beneath the flickering candlelight. The old Potions Room — hastily renovated, like everything James ever did — seemed offended to house something of such gravity in its stone belly.

“He’s taking too long,” James muttered, pacing back and forth like a restless shadow. His eyes were dark with worry, fists clenched at his sides.

“Who would’ve thought…” murmured Severus, his voice soft but sharp as a honed blade, “the brave Marauder, reduced to waiting on a paternity result. Should’ve learned to keep your belt fastened, Potter. The world doesn’t need more of your kind.”

James stopped, turned, and stared at him — his expression caught between exhaustion and irritation — but said nothing. Severus noted, with cold satisfaction, the sweat on his brow. Good. Let him feel the weight of doubt.

With steady hands, Severus retrieved a sealed vial — a drop of dried blood clung inside, deep brown-red against the glass.

“Blood of the supposed child,” he announced, more to himself than to James, “collected within the last lunar cycle.”

James looked over, brow furrowed.

“He bled when he sat on the sofa,” Severus explained shortly. “A shallow wound — likely from his side or wrist. Left a stain on the fabric. I removed the thread of blood with a distillation charm before you even noticed. The magic was intact.”

He uncorked the vial with care. The blood shimmered faintly under the candlelight, as if it remembered being alive. When he poured it into the potion, the liquid hissed, turning a deep shade of violet as a soft spiral of smoke rose, carving invisible symbols in the air.

“And now?” James stood beside him, not daring to touch a thing.

Severus held up another vial, containing a darker, coagulated droplet.

“Blood of the supposed father. Dried overnight in a silver vessel.”

The potion shivered.

The scent of the paternity brew was always the same: damp earth, iron, and something older — a bitter magic steeped in unspoken truths. Severus stirred the mixture with rhythmic, ceremonial motions, his every gesture deliberate. Slowly, the potion began to change: from pale amber to translucent violet, then finally to a pale, stormy blue.

The surface rippled like glass on the verge of shattering — then burst in golden reflections. Crimson thistle petals dissolved into steam, releasing a sweet, loamy aroma.

Severus leaned slightly forward, his voice low and resonant as he murmured the final incantation — like summoning a truth older than law:

“Veritas Sanguinis… Origo Aperiatur.”

A brilliant light surged from the cauldron. The brew twisted in on itself, emitting a low, constant hum — like an ancient war drum deep beneath the earth. Then, in one final pulse of light, the surface of the potion went still — glowing with a vivid, unmistakable gold.

The truth had spoken.

Severus opened his mouth — perhaps to deliver some cutting remark, just to further needle Potter — when the door burst open with force.

Lily entered.

She arrived like a contained storm. Eyes ablaze, steps sharp. When she saw James standing before the cauldron — and Severus beside it, a stirring rod still faintly glowing with magic — she stopped cold.

The potion gleamed.

At the bottom of the cauldron, the mixture had settled into a rich golden hue — like liquid amber at dusk. The definitive color. Undeniable. No words were needed.

Severus said nothing. The potion spoke for him.

Lily stared into the brew for several long seconds, as if its golden reflection blinded more than it illuminated. Then she turned on James with blazing eyes.

“You’ve gone too far,” she said, her voice tight, but sharp as an enchanted blade. “With a Lovegood, James. Of all people… a Lovegood?”

James’s eyes widened, shock slashing across his features like lightning.

“What?!” he protested, voice high with disbelief. “I’ve never been with any Lovegood! That’s insane!”

“Oh, really?” Lily snapped, arms crossed. “Then why was your bastard child in Diagon Alley today, having ice cream with Luna Lovegood?”

The silence that followed was sharp — and thick as fog. Severus didn’t bother hiding his arched brow.

James opened his mouth, then closed it. Tried again. Finally, the words came out, uncertain:

“Harry?”

“No. Hadrian. That’s what he told her. Unless you’ve got another stray child wandering around.”

James shook his head, clearly trying to reorganize the shattered pieces of what he thought he knew.

“But… but he told me his name was Harry. That’s how he introduced himself.”

Lily paused. The silence pressed down again, heavier than before.

“When did you see him?” she asked — calmer now, but her voice was cold.

James averted his eyes. His posture sagged slightly. He scratched the back of his neck — a guilty tell.

“Sunday,” he muttered. “He showed up… filthy, hurt… on the Manor grounds. I don’t know how he got in. He was scared, confused. Said his name was Harry. Then… then he saw Snape and bolted like a spooked deer.”

Severus, who had remained silent until then, gave a dry, unimpressed grunt.

“I do radiate trust, don’t I?”

Lily ignored him. Her gaze stayed locked on James — searching, weighing, unraveling. What she saw wasn’t deception… but chaos, grief, and splintered memories.

“You should have told me,” she said at last. “We should have dealt with this together.”

James stared at the floor, his jaw tight.

Severus turned away, bottling the remaining potion into a silver flask, sealed tight. The truth was captured now — sealed, unyielding. Like a scar still bleeding, years after the wound.

And Hadrian… Hadrian was now the name that filled the space between them.

They walked together into the drawing room in silence — thick, charged silence, like the air before a storm. The Potter family tapestries lining the walls did nothing to soften the tension, which stretched long and unspoken — like the pause before a verdict.

Lily remained standing, her hands trembling slightly — though held upright by her indignation. James sat at the edge of the armchair, fingers clasped tight, jaw set — the look of a man barely containing emotional collapse.

“We need to reach out to him,” Lily said at last, her voice cutting through the room like spell-forged steel. “If the Potter magic recognized him… then to our House — to its very core — he is one of ours. And that carries consequences.”

She took a step forward, eyes blazing.

“If he makes a mistake, it will be a Potter mistake. If he is cursed, the Potters will bear it too. And if he raises a wand—against anyone—it will be our family name echoing alongside his spells.”

James looked down. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers digging into the strands as if he could tear the questions out by force. Finally, he murmured:

“I know. I just… didn’t expect it. He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a Potter,” Lily replied, less bitterness in her voice than before, but the same iron certainty. “And that alone is enough for half the world to want to control him. Or destroy him.”

That was when a new voice broke through the tension—cold, sharp, and perfectly controlled.

“Or use him.”

They both turned. Snape was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the tapestry-woven rug bearing the family crest.

“If the Potter Magic accepted him…” he began, voice low and poisoned with bitter truth, “then don’t fool yourselves into thinking he hasn’t noticed. A wizard attuned to magical inheritance can feel it when that kind of bond touches him. And if he’s clever—and he seems to be—he’ll use it.”

Silence returned, sharper than before.

“He’ll want to know his rights,” Snape continued. “Inheritance, lineage, titles. He’ll ask who he is, where he came from, what belongs to him. And when he finds out the name Potter holds thousands of Galleons locked away in forgotten Gringotts vaults... he may not settle for just answers.”

James looked up, fists tightening around the arms of the chair.

“He’s not an opportunist.”

“You don’t know him, Potter,” Snape shot back, his gaze cutting. “No one does. He could be anything. Including a true Potter. Including an enemy.”

Lily didn’t move, but the fury that had once burned inside her began to condense into something sharper. She was tired of men dancing around the truth as if they could shape reality with half-spoken thoughts.

“Maybe,” she said, meeting Snape’s gaze firmly. “Or maybe he’s just a frightened boy, lost, and recognized by a magic that doesn’t choose out of convenience.”

She turned back to James.

“Either way… we need to speak to him.”

James nodded slowly, eyes tired. There was no escaping it. The magic had already made its choice.

And the Potters—whether they liked it or not—were about to answer for it.

Chapter Text

He remained there for a time that could have been only minutes—or perhaps hours—as the sunset dragged shadows across corners like long, silent fingers.

When he eventually moved, it was in silence. He followed Luna without saying a word and only broke the hush by murmuring the location of the Lovegood House, before vanishing into the fireplace, swallowed by the green flames of Floo powder.

He didn’t want to speak to anyone—and his magic sensed that before he even realized.

It spread around him like a contained storm, erratic and threatening, mirroring what lay inside him. 

It seemed to shield him with invisible claws, using the icy fury of Gaunt Magic as armor, intertwined with the unfathomable expanse of Peverell Magic, draping around him like an ancient, silent veil.

Even the most insensitive wizards to ambient magic couldn’t help but step back.

He wore splendid, colorful clothes that caught the light in shimmering tones—but what others saw wasn’t brilliance.

It was a threat.

Like a dense shadow at the bottom of a deep lake, where something waits—stilled but lethal.

He was a presence that didn’t need to reveal itself. A glimpse was enough.

After reaching Luna’s house, Hadrian stood before the hearth, absently rubbing his rings. 

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the day’s weight settle into his shoulders.

Night had fallen gently across Lovegood Hill, but his mind still buzzed like an unsteady broomstick.

When Luna offered him a towel—bright yellow, embroidered with small hookahs featuring wide-eyed faces and swirling mustaches—he didn’t have the energy to question it.

He simply accepted with a murmur of thanks and followed silently down the house’s winding corridor, guided by the warm glow of a floating candle.

The bathroom seemed to belong to a dream—or a painting in an enchanted child’s scrapbook.

The floor was a deliberately incoherent mosaic: tiles in every size, shape, and color, fit together with the logic of a puzzle that made no sense. 

One tile showed a navy-blue feather on a gold background; another a closed eye surrounded by faded runes. Others were simple clay or glazed porcelain in moss green or muted gold. None matched—but all were in perfect harmony.

The walls, hand-painted, shimmered in old rose, lilac, and pale cream-blue tones, as if the entire room breathed soft hues that shifted mood with the light. 

Here and there, small enchanted shells were embedded among the paint, whispering soft sea-sounds or innocent melodies—reminding visitors that time could slow down here.

The bathtub, precisely centered, was a perfect porcelain circle—large, white, edged with delicate golden lines, scented of dried herbs and something sweet and earthy.

Beside it, a woven wicker basket nestled in the corner, already half full. 

Hadrian slowly removed the clothes borrowed from Xenophilius and laid them inside, resisting laughter at the socks printed with dragons doing the polka.

Under the magical shower, the floor was covered with smooth white stones like eggs, gently warmed by a spell.

When he activated the flow with a light tap from the wand resting on the wall, water fell in a steady warm cascade scented with lavender, lemon balm, and something that reminded him of old book pages.

The steam rose slowly, and Hadrian closed his eyes. For the first time in days—perhaps weeks—he felt his body pause, as though the house itself had loaned him a fragment of peace.

Mist began to cloud the mirrors and encase the walls like translucent veils. Hadrian lifted his arm to adjust the water temperature—and in that automatic motion, he felt it again: the Peverell jewel, silent, cold, insistent against his skin.

Made of finest mithril chains interwoven like webs of living silver, it draped across his shoulders and chest, crossing his torso with the delicate rigidity of an ancient enchantment. 

At rest, it took the shape of a subtle arcane body-chain—crafted to protect more than adorn.

Now, attempting to remove it—not from revulsion, but simply discomfort while bathing—his fingers hesitated. 

He touched the thin chains at his sternum and tugged gently, but they simply shifted sinuously, slithering under his fingers. The metal felt alive, coiling around his side, tightening lightly just below his ribs.

He tried again, gently pulling where a chain passed over his left shoulder—but the jewel responded like a protective spell, shifting position and adapting with an almost organic stubbornness.

The mithril glowed faintly blue where water hit it—but remained dry, as if repelling even the mist.

He stopped. His heart beat slow, heavy, as though something beyond the physical had manifested.

It was not a jewel. It was a magical sentinel—forged with intent, bound to the lineage he now carried in name and destiny. The chain did not want to leave him. Perhaps it could not.

Hadrian rested a hand on the tile-covered wall, trying to steady his breath. The jewelry’s magic murmured against his skin—not in words, but in sensation—a silent ancient pact whose terms he had yet to comprehend.

Steam curled around him. He left the chain where it was. Easier that way. Let what was his stay.

Hot water dripped slowly from his hair, falling silently onto the star-shaped rug at the center of the bathroom.

The brine-scented vapor lingered like a lazy enchantment, cloaking the space in soft lavender-and-dew mist.

Hadrian slowly towelled his skin, feeling the embroidered yellow hookahs graze his shoulders like tiny enchanted cotton serpents—a delightfully Lovegood touch that, strangely, brought him peace.

He hung the towel on the bronze mushroom-shaped peg and noticed the now-steamed mirror barely reflecting anything but the shadow of his frame—cut against soft light from the tadpole-shaped lamp fixed to the ceiling.

The mithril chain still adorned his torso, adjusted as though part of him—an unspoken reminder of his inheritance impossible to ignore.

A linen-and-ivy basket stood beside the door, and inside, carefully folded, was the pajama Luna had selected.

Hadrian picked it up with some reluctance—almost as if he were touching a sleeping magical creature.

The trousers were loose, made of light fabric slightly transparent in the light, dyed in greenish-gray and faded purple tones, with lunar symbols embroidered along the hem—phases of the moon alternating with small protective runes.

The shirt was more eccentric: soft, worn-as-a-relic fabric in a lightly pearled ivory tone, with asymmetrical buttons and spiral stitching, all handcrafted. 

A sleeping thestral was embroidered on the chest pocket—so detailed he could almost see it breathe.

When he dressed, Hadrian felt the fabric mold to his body as if it had memory. It was like wearing an embrace: light, strange, too comfortable to resist.

He ran fingers through damp hair, glancing once more at the bathroom—at the mosaic tiles, lilac walls, and pebble-massage floor—and then turned the pear-shaped doorknob.

The house was silent except for a faint creak from downstairs. The world seemed suspended for a moment—not at war, not at peace, just breathing.

Hadrian crossed the corridor slowly, the mithril chain shimmering faintly beneath the light shirt, walking toward the guest room where curtains danced in an unseen breeze, and night began murmuring ancient secrets.

Luna escorted him to what she called the “guest room,” though she soon explained—with her usual calm—that no one truly ever stayed there.

“Father says that visitors usually prefer to stay in the garden with the Crimpclimbers,” she remarked, as if it were perfectly reasonable.

At the door, Hadrian was enveloped by a soft, hushed atmosphere—like the inside of a shell lost beneath the sea. 

The walls weren’t a single color but flowed in shades of blue, from pale morning to deep night-indigo—a chromatic whisper soothing to the eyes.

The room itself was nearly empty. No bed, just a clean corner with a worn star-carpet and an old issue of The Pasquin resting on an armchair. 

Shelves held colored glass jars, each with unnamed objects gleaming gently as if they breathed. 

A cracked oval mirror hung at the center of one wall, reflecting candlelight in greenish tones—distorting as though seen through water.

“We never manage to keep a bed here. They… vanish. The house’s magic doesn’t like permanence,” Luna said, as if discussing the wind.

With a lazy flick of her wand, Hadrian pointed toward some stacked items in a corner—a wooden bench, a forgotten quilt, an old suitcase with a broken clasp—and murmured:

Mutatio Mollis.

In an instant, the shapes twisted like magical clay and fused into a sort of thick mattress, somewhat lopsided, but soft enough to shelter a tired body.

A handkerchief embroidered with tiny dancing bottles spread across the surface as if it had always belonged there, and Hadrian smiled at the sight of it.

From the inner pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handful of old potion corks, forgotten there since Gringotts, and with another low spell, reshaped them into a short, surprisingly comfortable pillow.

A few seconds later, Luna appeared at the door, barefoot, her gaze dreamy.

“I thought you might want something cozier,” she said, lifting a small bundle of yellow and green sheets decorated with ogres having tea in flowery armchairs, each holding a steaming teapot in their enormous hands.

She handed them over with the gentleness of someone offering a wildflower.

“Thank you.”

Hadrian spoke sincerely, not just for the sheets, but for everything.

She only smiled, that smile of someone who sees far beyond the surface of the world, and disappeared down the hallway with the same lightness with which she had come.

The guest room was bathed in twilight, lit only by the gentle glow of a floating candle Luna had insisted on leaving—“to keep away the Pensathrones, who like to feed on insomnia.”

Hadrian had smiled at the comment, but now, alone in that space of crooked furniture and tapestries that whispered moving stories, he felt… strangely safe.

He lay down, adjusted the cork pillow beneath his head, and pulled the sheets up to his chest. The room murmured of dried herbs, old wood, and a hint of cinnamon.

He thought he would stay awake for quite some time—his mind buzzed with questions, memories, and the weight of that invisible chain that was his fate.

But it only took a blink.

And he was already asleep.

…..

The field stretched vast and rust-colored, dry grass underfoot revealing dark patches — ancient fire pits, or perhaps buried bones beneath the hardened soil. The wind whispered low through twisted trees, as though the very air murmured memories of forgotten times.

Between scattered rocks, a silent group moved. They were gaunt, almost spectral, skin gray from dirt and cold. Their garments were simple assemblages of wool, crude leather, and dried tendons. Most walked bent, eyes cast downward — not to the ground, but to the memory of hunger that trailed behind each step.

And leading them: he. The man.

His heavy, foul-smelling beast-hide hood concealed most of his face, but dense strands of dirty brown hair escaped—matted with earth, dried blood, and some other time-corrupted fluid. His frame was wrapped in black fabric and well-cured leather, etched with patterns so archaic they seemed clawed rather than stitched.

He halted.

Silence fell like a spell.

Thirty or so figures froze too — as if their hearts depended on the rhythm of his breath.

From behind a cluster of gray stones, something moved.

A wolf emerged with silent grace. Its matted fur was dark, mud-stained, speckled with ticks. Its eyes were burning embers of primal fury. It lifted its snout and howled.

The sound echoed against stone.

Other howls responded. Dozens.

From tall grass. From behind boulders. From wooded shadows.

The encirclement formed.

But the humans did not flee. No step back. Not even the children. It was as though fear was a luxury of another era.

The wolf lunged.

And in that instant, the man's golden eyes flared — like coals catching breath. He did not shout; he did not cast spells. He merely gazed.

And the wolf — that first foolish predator — had its head snapped from its body in a nearly silent crack, like a branch breaking. Blood spurted like a fountain, splattering grass, stone, and the silent crowd. The head rolled aside, eyes still open. The body collapsed, trembling briefly.

Others attacked.

And the world became shredded flesh, shattered bones, and the brutal dance of a fury without words.

A wolf leapt into the air.

It was cleaved in two mid-flight — from muzzle to tail. The halves struck the ground with distinct sounds — flesh and rib separation.

Another tried to flank. The man turned his head — and the creature’s front paw exploded in bone fragments, as if bitten by an invisible trap. Screaming in agony, the wolf was pulled — by unseen force — against a rock, leaving a trail of entrails and brain matter on the granite.

Two more closed in. The man did not move his arms. Yet one wolf’s ribs burst outward like a grotesque flower, and another’s spine twisted so fiercely that shoulders and hips pointed in opposite directions before it collapsed in a dull thud.

The earth was soaked with blood.

The air tasted like copper, grease, and fear.

Wolf fragments lay everywhere — dislocated jaws, hanging tongues, intestines draped like purple cords on stone. One headless body still twitched; each spasm flicked blood onto the man’s calves like mad brushstrokes.

He walked among the remains. Treading through warm entrails, his feet sinking with slimy squelches — like walking through living mud.

At last, the survivors retreated. Weeping. Limping. Fleeing. Their yellow eyes extinguished in the forest’s gloom.

The man remained.

Dirtier. His face painted by chaos-red drops.

Silently, the group moved.

Without words, they began to skin the wolves — gutting bodies, cutting bellies with stone knives. They stripped flesh with the precision of ones who reheated this ritual each winter. Baskets filled with fillets and organs. Intestines washed and braided. Brains crushed to tan hide.

And the man?

He walked on.

Returning before the group, leaving behind what he always left:

Blood. Bones. And the certainty that, in that forgotten time, magic was born from hunger, and the world obeyed only those who refused to die.

…

Hadrian woke with a jolt — but did not cry out.

His eyes flew open, ripping through darkness, and for a heartbeat there was no distinction between dream and flesh.

The ceiling above pulsed alive and warped, like the dome of black clouds over the ancestral field. The air was thick, saturated. And the smell — the smell was still there.

Blood.

Warm, damp iron tangled with spilled entrails and the acrid scent of fat burned by friction. Impossible. Absurd. Yet it tickled his nostrils as though each breath drew a piece of that past into him.

His skin was slick with cold sweat, but beneath the surface… something stirred.

Not muscle.

Magic.

Ancient. Unbridled. Unwilling to be forgotten.

Peverell magic — the force that had cracked ribs and shattered spines in that field — now writhed within him like dormant serpents beneath his ribs, awakened and irritated. Twisting, slow, burdened, carving spirals through his bones as if seeking release or remembrance of what once was.

Then — a breeze.

A cold brush skated across his collarbone, down his chest.

Almost like fingers.

The Lovegood magic.

It did not command. It insinuated. It danced across his skin like late-morning mist, drifting in directions unseen. Where Peverell magic was weight, pressure, presence, Lovegood was displacement, shadow, intuition.

A contrary current.

Hadrian gasped.

He raised his hand to his face — and for a moment, a red stain blinked on his fingertip. He paused. Watched.

Was it blood?

No wounds. No cut.

Yet the taste — metal and warm — lingered. Real.

He sat slowly, muscles tight like snapping cords. His room was still. But the magic… it roared in waves and whispers.

Between the invisible clink of ancient chains and breezes that didn’t exist, Hadrian understood:

It wasn’t merely a dream.

It was memory.

And the dead were speaking within him.

The morning was still a diffuse mist when Hadrian awoke.

The guest room looked different under the soft light that filtered through the cracks in the window — a milky glow dancing among the vapors of dreams not yet fully dissolved. 

The air was cold, but not sharp — like the inside of a leaf at dawn, damp and perfumed by some memory of rain and lavender.

The star-embroidered rugs seemed to sigh beneath his body, and the blanket he’d slept under — the one with the little dancing bottles — had curled around his shoulders like a nest.

The armchair in the corner now held an open book all on its own, the pages turning in an invisible breeze that murmured words in a language he didn’t know — or perhaps, had forgotten.

That’s when he heard it.

A brief, metallic creak from the door.

His body reacted before his mind: fingers instinctively grasped the cork-stuffed pillow — a useless gesture, but heavy with reflex — and he rose in a single, contained movement, eyes locked on the pear-shaped handle that slowly turned. 

The wood groaned softly, revealing the slender figure in the doorway.

It was Luna.

Barefoot, her hair tangled into small knots of wind and light, she wore a light-blue dress that looked as though it had been stitched from pieces of sky. A beetle-shaped button shimmered on her shoulder.

In her arms, she balanced a neatly folded change of clothes.

“Brought something more comfortable,” she said with a calm smile, placing the clothes on the chair near the enchanted stove. “These chose you.”

The floating candlelight wavered, casting elongated shadows of Luna’s body on the floor, like a spectral ballerina from another dimension.

She stepped into the room with light movements, nearly dancing, and laid the folded garments on the armchair with reverent care, as though clothes, too, deserved dignified rest.

Hadrian was still breathing with the quickness of someone who had awoken in alert, eyes narrowed, the mithril chain cold beneath the thin shirt. 

Luna noticed the tense gaze and smiled — a smile both wide and faint, like a crack in the calm of the world through which light escaped.

“Sorry for the fright,” she said. “The doors here like to dramatize entrances.”

Hadrian blinked, heart slowing.

The tension began to dissolve, like ice under the fingers of a snow-charmer.

He nodded in silence, raising his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes, pushing away the fog of sleep.

He cast a wary glance at the pile.

The yellow shirt looked like it had been stolen from some sun-worshiping cult; the robe, from a forest spirit mid-celebration. And there were… flowers. Many flowers.

“Are you sure this is travel attire… and not an offering to a spring spirit?”

His voice was dry, but the corner of his mouth threatened a smile.

Luna simply observed him, her head slightly tilted — as if listening to a song only she could hear.

“You liked the veil,” she said simply. “Even if you didn’t realize it. When your face is covered… you breathe differently. Like the world stops looking back at you.”

Hadrian hesitated, eyes fixed on the floating petals, which seemed to have memory.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was good not to be so visible, for once.

Or maybe it was just Luna’s way of finding meaning where no one else dared.

He picked up the shirt with one hand — like one holds a sleeping animal — and lifted it to examine.

“If Xenophilius wore this to go outside, I understand why people crossed the street.”

But he didn’t put it back.

He simply turned with the shirt in his arms and walked toward the bedroom, muttering something that sounded vaguely like:

“…at least it covers the face.”

Luna smiled, satisfied.

The clothes had been accepted.

And that, in her secret language of silences, was the same as a hug.

She turned to leave, but before crossing the threshold again, cast a look over her shoulder.

“There’s fresh tea, lavender bread, and blue-mushroom jam. I thought… maybe you’d want to have breakfast with me.”

She said it like someone offering a vision, not a meal.

There was a shimmering glint at the curve of her mouth — a trace of light that could’ve been sunlight, or magic, or simply Luna being Luna.

Hadrian hesitated for a moment.

Then, he caught the subtle aroma drifting from downstairs — a woody, sweet, and slightly strange perfume, like everything in that house — and felt something inside him quiet.

As if the universe had extended a gentle hand, just for a fleeting instant.

He answered with a hoarse murmur, almost an echo:

“Yes. I... would like that.”

The door creaked softly as it closed behind Luna, muffling the whispers of the wind that wandered over Lovegood Hill like curious spirits.

Hadrian released a restrained sigh and laid the clothing on the constellation-embroidered quilt.

He removed the pajamas he wore, revealing a thin body marked with scars beneath.

His frame was wrapped in the Mithril Chains — intricate and alive — filaments of fine silver tracing across his chest, shoulders, and back like enchanted rivers of silent light.

When exposed to the air, they shimmered faintly, as if breathing. One of the chains adjusted itself lightly at his collarbone, tightening like a protective hand. Another slid down to his side, where it coiled around an old scar etched into his skin.

The Gaunt crest now rested fused to Hadrian’s chest, entwined with the living mithril chains that wove across his skin like enchanted rivers.

The ancestral shield, once hung from a crude chain darkened by time, now seemed reborn — not as an ornament, but as a pulsing, almost living magical organ.

The silver shark that dominated the emblem — so strange for a noble wizarding house, so brutal and symbolic — moved slightly under the ambient magical light, as though swimming in invisible waters. 

Its gills seemed to open subtly with Hadrian’s breath, and its black stone eyes reflected flickers of awareness. It was no longer just a symbol: it was an awakened fragment of inherited soul.

The old forged-iron chain that once held it when Hadrian first discovered it had vanished without ceremony.

In its place, delicate spirals of mithril had extended of their own accord, wrapping around the crest as if recognizing something familiar — something necessary.

The magical chains rejected other weights or adornments. They had chosen, absorbed, and transfigured.

Hadrian looked at himself in the warped mirror in the room with a mix of awe and quiet understanding.

The crest was now part of the chains, like a central gem, and he felt — not thought, but felt — that the Gaunt lineage had become entwined with the chains like roots merging in the same soil of origin.

There was a new energy there. A warm, metallic brushing across his skin, like soft lightning touching bone.

The Gaunt magic, steeped in centuries of obsession and raw power, had found form in the mithril — and rather than repel or dominate, it shaped itself.

The icy fury of the Gaunts and the rigid heraldry of the Peverells seemed to be silently negotiating beneath his skin.

The sensation was strange. Deep.

Like having two hearts beating in the same chest.

As if the curse and the legacy were looking each other in the eye for the first time — and not fighting, but bowing, accepting one another.

Hadrian slowly ran his fingers over the crest. The shark responded, vibrating with a subtle warmth, as if it recognized him.

The mithril chains shimmered under his touch.

And then he felt something shift. Not in the object — but within himself.

Gaunt. Peverell. Potter.

The blood was reshaping, becoming one. Now.

The magic was a river of merged tributaries, gradually altering his lineage, and the crest… the crest was its mouth.

When his eyes met in the warped mirror, a jolt of strangeness ran through him — not because of his appearance, but because of the clarity that reflected back.

The absence of his glasses, which had always been there since childhood, felt like an abrupt ending — a silent transformation he hadn’t known was happening.

He had grown used to the slight blur, the gentle haze that softened the world before him.

The glasses he’d received at eight — a school requirement, an imposition from his relatives who had found them at a donation bazaar — had been the lens through which he lived, a buffer between him and reality that he had never questioned.

But now, without them, the world around him came into sharper focus — more vivid, more intense.

Every detail sprang forth in his vision with cutting clarity, as if he were seeing not just what stood before him, but what was forming around him.

And in that moment, Hadrian understood.

It wasn’t just the absence of the glasses.

It was magic — the magic of the Gaunt and Peverell lines, mixing, fusing within him, slowly changing him.

He felt as though his genes were being rewritten, redrawn — not entirely, but with the addition of those ancestral magics intertwining with his essence.

They would not erase who he was. They would not erase the Potters.

But everything around him was beginning to transform.

This wasn’t a change that erased him — it was an expansion.

Something was being added to his blood and lineage.

The mithril chains now felt like they flowed through his veins.

The Gaunt crest, more than a symbol, seemed to be a key to this inner metamorphosis.

He ran his hands over the chains, over the crest, and felt the power vibrating in his palms.

Something in his genetic structure was being reconfigured.

He was no longer the same — or perhaps he was beginning to understand who he truly was.

The chains had accepted his body. They had claimed their place.

The crest was not merely an emblem of old blood.

It was the mark of the new Hadrian.

The Hadrian who was now beginning to understand the weight — and the lightness — of the lineages flowing through him, mixed not in conflict, but shaping into a new form.

His body no longer carried only the Potter legacy; he was now the convergence of something far older, far more powerful.

With one last look at the mirror, Hadrian tilted his head slightly — as if greeting his own reflection.

Or the creature he was becoming

Picking up the clothes, Hadrian ran his fingers over the seams of the beige trousers. The texture was firm—almost earthen—but pliable. The root-shaped embroidery wasn’t merely decorative — it seemed stitched by hands that understood the language of trees.

He put them on carefully, feeling the fabric mold itself to the shape of his legs with an almost perfect fit.

Next came the yellow shirt. As he slipped it on, the fabric's touch felt strangely comforting, as if it absorbed the chill from his chest without disturbing the mithril chains. 

The tiny suns embroidered across it shimmered as the room’s light caught them — some with closed eyes, others wide open, always smiling.

Finally, he picked up the short cloak layered with leaves. Each layer — in various shades of green — had a different texture and weight: the first like eucalyptus leaves, the next like dried fern, the third like pressed moss.

When he draped it over his shoulders, the layers slid down with lightness, emitting a faint, vegetal sound. The hood was wide, and when he pulled it over his head, he felt the soft weight of the petal veil descend.

The enchanted flower petals arranged themselves in scale-like patterns over his face — red rose petals across his brow, orange tulip petals along his cheeks, tiny white daisy petals at the bottom reaching past his chin, fluttering as if caught in a breeze.

And even with his face covered, he could see everything. The petals created a slightly blurred view, as if seeing the world through hand-painted glass — more beautiful, more strange, more safe.

He slipped on the brown dragon-leather boots with a certain reverence. The material felt heavy, but molded perfectly to his step. When he tested his weight, the glowing patterns along the sides lit up, like eyes awakening.

Hadrian looked at himself in the warped mirror — and for a brief moment, saw himself as a creature out of some ancient forest, hidden and watchful, like a spirit with a human shape.

The reflection blinked back at him with a flicker of sarcasm, and he muttered:

“Definitely a Lovegood fashion.”

But he didn’t take anything off.

He adjusted the hood, let the veil hide his face, and left the room like a leaf deciding to drift with the wind.

Chapter Text

The morning light entered through the window at improbable angles, refracted by small crystals strung on twine along the sill. Fragments of rainbow danced across the curved walls of the kitchen–dining room, where time seemed not to follow a straight line, but rather an enchanted zigzag.

The table, long and irregular, began in dark oak—worn with age and carved with faded markings—and ended in a smooth, polished walnut plank, as if two trees opted to share a single trunk. The seam between the woods was encased in clear resin, within which lay a spiral of dried leaves and tiny golden feathers.

Each chair around the table seemed to belong to a different house: one wrought iron with a crooked back, another lavender-painted wicker, a third more like a garden bench cushioned in moss, and even a low armchair upholstered in emerald velvet—clearly out of place yet perfectly reconciled with its eccentricity.

On the table, round, deep dishes were hand-painted, and the animals on the rims moved silently: a deer peered through painted bushes; a black cat vanished slowly when the plate turned; owls blinked.

The cutlery was entirely mismatched: a knife ivory jade-handle, a fork bent with too-long tines, a spoon that tickled the hand when held—as though it possessed laughter of its own.

And the glasses—ah, the glasses...

Blown in soft-toned glass, they trembled slightly when someone reached for them, as if trying to escape—or animated by attention. One let out a shy “ting” when Hadrian touched it, then settled like an animal trusting a stroke.

The food was varied, aromatic.

Rustic thick-crust bread, still warm, releasing fragrant steam of herbs and garlic.

A pot of wild strawberry jam, harvested right on Lovegood Hill, glowed like molten ruby.

Beside it, a dish of scrambled eggs with mushrooms and edible flowers gave off an earthy delicate aroma, while tiny enchanted basil leaves floated slowly over hot butter in a deep ceramic bowl.

Luna sat in a chair crafted from marine bones braided with colored rope. She wore a pale blue tunic embroidered with stars in silver thread and smiled for no apparent reason while spreading honey on a slice of bread that seemed to breathe.

Hadrian occupied the emerald velvet chair, still wearing his new outfit. The petal veil already folded neatly across the back; the cloak layers rested on his shoulders like foliage after rain. The mithril chains under his shirt lay almost dormant, though they shimmered discreetly when he extended his arm.

He tried the jam first.

The flavor exploded on his tongue—strawberries gathered at dawn, the exact sweetness between wild and enchanted. There was something magical in it, a nearly musical note beneath his tongue—as if the fruit held an ancient song.

“If your plates keep staring at me like that, I’m going to have to talk to them,” he murmured, glancing sideways at the deer spying from his dish.

Luna laughed lightly, like wind-chimes, and handed him a glass of amber-colored juice. The glass trembled, then steadied under his touch.

“They don’t like being ignored.”

He drank. The juice was fresh, perfectly tart—maybe enchanted orange with mint infusion and some invisible fruit. It tasted like childhood mornings he’d never had—or perhaps had long forgotten.

For a moment, silence expanded between them—not a void, but a cloth woven carefully through time.

Luna sliced a piece of cheese that let out a faint hiss as the knife touched it, as though dreaming. She placed it on his plate with ceremonial delicacy.

“You feel freer with your face covered,” she said suddenly, with the simplicity of an absolute truth.

Hadrian lifted his eyes. His lips curved into a weary ironic half-smile.

“I’m starting to think this house wants to turn me into a shinier version of myself.”

“Maybe it does,” she replied without blinking. “Or maybe you’re just... blooming.”

The bread crackled under his fingers, butter melting slowly along its edges—and the mithril chains vibrated almost imperceptibly—as if they, too, smiled together.

The sky outside was pale at that early hour, tinted a muted blue over indecisive mist. Lovegood House lay silent beneath the faint haze drifting among the gnarled branches of the surrounding woods, while tiny enchantments glimmered lazily around the veranda—as though fireflies drunk on magic.

Hadrian leaned against the upstairs window sill, eyes fixed on nothing, fingers tracing distracted grooves of an ancient rune carved into the wood frame. It was a symbol of guidance—or perhaps distraction—he could not say. Maybe Luna knew. He preferred not to ask. Let the runes speak for themselves.

Then the owl appeared, cutting through the mist with ritual precision.

There was no sound. Only the subtle displacement of air. Its feathers were uniform dark chestnut, its beak sharp. But most striking were its tufted ears, bristling as though it listened to the world from the inside out.

It perched on the sill in front of him without ceremony, claws firm on wood. And it stared.

Not as a messenger. But as a guardian.

Clutched in its talons: a scroll sealed with deep red wax. The Potter family crest pressed into the seal: a galloping stag over a pot, encircled by golden willow leaves.

Hadrian did not move right away.

But his magic reacted before his fingers did:

The petal veil he wore vibrated softly over his face, and the mithril chains beneath his shirt trembled with something between reverence and irritation—as though strings plucked by an uninvited presence.

The seal pulsed with contained warmth, like embers under restraint. Potter magic wrapped the scroll in a mantle of flames and black clouds—thick and arrogant, yet playful joyous like a lion unaware of its own strength—deeply miffed at the tone of the sender.

One thing was clear: the House of Potter cared for him.

And now, even their magic protected him—sometimes against those who bore the name.

Hadrian broke the seal with a dry snap.

The wax cracked like broken glass. The parchment unraveled on its own, unfolding in midair like arms opening for a ceremonial address.

Then the letter spoke with its own voice, in lines of ink pulsing with their own intent:

Potter Manor, Yorkshire

Hadrian Potter,

We hope this letter finds you in good health and, naturally, in a frame of mind capable of understanding your significance.

We have been informed of your recent appearance and — more importantly — your recognition by the Magic of our House. Such an event, singular in nature, requires serious consideration and immediate dialogue.

We therefore formally invite you to luncheon at our residence next Saturday at precisely noon, to discuss matters pertinent to the name and responsibilities which, it appears, we share.

Your presence is expected. Your mother, whom we presume is a Lovegood, is also invited, as we deem it essential that all parties involved participate with clarity and good faith.

We trust you will understand the weight—and privilege—of such an invitation. The Potter line does not bend to impulse, but moves when destiny demands it.

Sincerely,

James Fleamont Potter

Lilian Evans Potter

Lord and Lady of House Potter

As the words unfurled, other magics rose around Hadrian—like creatures awakening from slumber.

The Lovegood magic whispered through the corners of the room in translucent gusts of wind, lifting papers, tugging at veils, making the hanging prisms spin like frantic sunflowers. It did not resist — it rejoiced.

Each grand phrase of the letter made it tinkle softly, like quiet laughter, its colors shimmering. Its breezes became shapeless filaments, spinning through the air, making Hadrian’s petal veil twirl around his head like a dancing crown.

But the Gaunt magic found nothing amusing.

It rose from the floor like ice cracking under pressure. The temperature dropped around the letter. The air turned dense, wet, oppressive — like the edge of an ocean storm. A layer of dark frost crept along the base of the walls, and the letter began to freeze at its edges, its words trembling beneath the weight.

It was furious.

Furious at the commanding tone.

Furious at the presumption.

Furious that his name was used with such casual familiarity.

A sharp crack echoed as the letter nearly shattered like ancient ice...

But before it could break, the Peverell magic awakened.

Silence.

The room stilled. The winds died. The frost receded. Even the light seemed to lose its color.

Shadows slid along the edges of the parchment. They did not invade — they observed.

Like eyes in stone crevices. Like echoes of a time that did not forgive mistakes.

The mithril chains across Hadrian’s chest tightened slightly, like protective serpents.

And the letter, now motionless, burned with contained fire, groaned with restrained ice, spun with curious wind, and trembled beneath the shadows — but did not destroy itself.

Hadrian, at last, heard the final words of the reading.

His eyes touched the signature.

James Fleamont Potter.

Lilian Evans Potter.

Lord and Lady of House Potter.

He said nothing.

But the way he exhaled was answer enough.

"At least they didn’t call me ‘our long-lost and noble heir,’” he murmured with a quiet laugh.

His veil danced like flowers giggling in the wind.

Hadrian took one step back from the window.

The morning stretched lazily across Lovegood Hill. From the top of the slope, the fields rolled in soft greens, as though the world itself were breathing in long, deep intervals. The sky was clear, but tinged with a golden haze that made the contours look like dreams dissolving.

Hadrian closed the door of the Hill behind him. He wore his new clothes — the leafed cloak whispered with the breeze, and the petal veil now rested across his face, softening his expression to the world, like a mask made of memory.

Luna stood at his side, her hair dancing as though touched by an invisible song.

"Will you come with me to Gringotts?" he asked, his voice low — the tone one uses with the gates of an ancient cemetery. There was no demand in it, only a thread of hope held between his teeth.

She smiled like someone who knew the question before it was spoken. Her gaze settled briefly on some faraway point, then returned to him with lightness.

"Today I return to Hogwarts," she said, in that serene tone that made every farewell feel like a protective spell. “But the house will be here... if you choose to return. Until you find your perfect place in the world, Hadrian, the Hill will be your resting home.”

Hadrian nodded. A brief gesture. Her words held the exact weight — they did not pull, did not bind, only offered.

He descended a few steps along the dirt path, scattered with small yellow flowers that opened at the brush of the wind.

And then he stopped.

In the distance, across a sunlit valley, the Burrow stood crooked and wonderful — like a heap of stubborn dreams that refused to fall apart.

The chimneys puffed gently. The garden was alive, and colorful clothes danced on the line. A laugh sliced through the air, high and thin, and the smell of baking bread seemed to cross miles just to find him there.

His chest tightened.

There were the windows he remembered. The half-slanted fence. The makeshift stair to the attic.

But that wasn’t the Burrow.

Those weren’t his Weasleys.

And this time, he knew how to silence the impulse before it took hold.

The longing came — as it always did — but it did not scream. It settled deep in his throat like a smooth, silent stone. No more thorns. Only acceptance.

One day, perhaps, he might feel something like it again. But not there. Not now.

He exhaled slowly.

And Apparated.

With a dry, brief crack, Hadrian vanished into the air. The leaves on the path spun in his place, falling gently, as though time itself had held its breath for a second.

Luna remained there for a moment, gazing at the empty space where he had stood.

The sunlight touched her hair with softness, and she closed her eyes, like one who sends a prayer into the wind without words.

Then she turned and returned to the house — the invisible veil of protection weaving itself once more around Lovegood Hill, like an ancient charm that recognizes those still searching for the place they truly belong.

The dry crack of Apparition echoed against the stones of the street like the spark of a withheld thunderclap.

And then Hadrian appeared — not in the middle of Diagon Alley, but directly before the steps of Gringotts — as though the bank itself had chosen to receive him there, sparing him the walk through the crowd.

The mist clinging to the stones had not yet fully lifted, and for an instant, his figure emerged from the fog like a creature of ancient myth.

The short mantle of layered leaves fluttered under a breeze that did not belong to that place. The green layers, of different shades and textures, echoed with a subtle, living rustle. Beneath the hood, the veil of enchanted petals fell over his face like a translucent mask of flowers — red, lilac, white, golden — each color pulsing in its own way beneath the dim light of dawn.

Dark hair escaped partially beneath the hood, and the mithril chains under his embroidered yellow shirt stirred — silver vibrations beneath the fabric, like enchanted serpents in a state of vigilance.

The façade of Gringotts loomed before him as it always had: white columns at a tilted angle, adorned with statues of dragons and clasps of aged gold. But what caught his attention in that instant was the presence of a goblin sentinel waiting for him at the top of the steps.

The goblin was no common clerk.

He wore a full suit of armor made of metallic scales, finely interlaced with strands of blackened silver, and a half-open helm rested on his bony head.

His amber eyes displayed no hostility — only total vigilance. The royal standard of Gringotts hung from his belt: two small axes crossed over a pile of flaming coins.

In his small hands — but with long, agile fingers — he held something wrapped in a cloth of grey velvet.

When Hadrian reached the top of the staircase, the goblin bowed deeply, a gesture of clear respect — but heavy with intention. It was the reverence given to a sovereign.

Not a client.

“Lord Gaunt-Peverell,” the goblin said in a raspy, ceremonial voice. “In the name of His Majesty, King Gravor’Kalth, Heir of the Silver of the First Stones, I bring you the gift that is yours — and the message from the throne.”

The goblin lifted the velvet cloth and revealed its contents: a small statuette of a griffin in flight, sculpted in iron, with wings of darkened old gold and eyes of bluish stone.

The piece pulsed faintly with compressed magic, a knot of power bound in sculpted form.

Hadrian extended his hand without a word.

The griffin trembled slightly at his touch, as if recognizing its new master. The mithril chains reacted instantly, sliding up his wrist to touch the base of the statuette, probing, withdrawing only when they found no threat.

“His Majesty said Your Lordship may communicate with Gringotts through the owl system,” the goblin continued, his head still slightly bowed. “It is not necessary for you to come in person, unless you wish to.”

Hadrian stared at the griffin in his palm for a moment.

Then, without lifting the veil, his voice rang out, low, controlled — with the precise tone of a promise:

“Tell your king… that soon I will come to claim my dragon.”

The words landed on the marble like contained embers.

He stepped forward, his eyes locked onto the goblin’s, and added:

“And then… I shall deliver the Brooch of Mithril.”

The goblin pressed his thin lips together, holding back an ambiguous emotion — perhaps greed, perhaps fear, perhaps recognition.

“The activation word for the portkey is Promise.”

Hadrian turned, already walking toward the center of the square in front of the bank. The mist parted before him like curtains drawn by invisible hands.

With the statuette firm in hand, he whispered the keyword.

The portkey activated.

The griffin glowed brightly, its wings opened with a subtle click of living metal, and around him a spiral of shadow and wind formed — first as light as dust, then as dense as a silent storm.

Hadrian vanished into the whirlwind.

Chapter Text

The landing of the portkey was silent, yet definitive.

The air shifted before his feet even touched the ground.

A subtle pressure on the eardrums. A chill that came not from the wind, but from the ancient presence of the place itself.

Hadrian emerged at the edge of a pale trail, marked by ancient slabs partially covered in lichen and roots that intertwined like veins beneath the earth.

The iron griffin, now inert, fell gently into his hand, the glow in its eyes dimming like embers overtaken by mist.

Before him, the valley opened like a silent sigh of moss and fog.

The citadel revealed itself slowly, as if unveiled by a natural enchantment — not because it was invisible, but because the world itself seemed reluctant to show its secrets all at once.

The surrounding trees, with twisted trunks and bark blackened by time, leaned in strange directions, as if they had grown trying to flee… or protect something.

And then… there it was.

It was not beautiful.

It was resilient. Ancient. Proud in its severity.

The craggy hill upon which it stood looked more like a stone ossuary. The citadel had been sculpted around and within it — as if it hadn’t been built, but summoned from the earth itself.

The walls, made of bone-grey uneven stones, were tall and thick, and seemed to have been stacked more by instinct than by technique. There were no visible reinforcement enchantments, but Hadrian could feel them — like a faint itch in his blood — layers of ancient magic seeping through the cracks like enchanted dust.

The towers, thick and unadorned, rose from the hill like the teeth of a sleeping beast.

None bore flags. None displayed crests.

Instead, some bore deep gouges in the stone, like scars left by forgotten spells — and on certain stones, Hadrian saw the faint glow of buried runes, so old they no longer appeared to the eye… only to the blood.

The entrance was a modest-looking stone arch, yet its presence alone pressed against the chest.

Above it, small vines with bluish leaves grew, blooming even without light — and along the arch’s edge, remnants of symbols still clung, now shrouded in silver spiderwebs.

Hadrian stepped forward.

His footsteps echoed in the inner courtyard like those of one who was not a visitor, but an heir — and the stones seemed to recognize his gait.

The courtyard was overgrown with wild herbs, but the growth was not chaotic: there was a forgotten order, a broken symmetry. As if, centuries ago, careful hands had shaped each bush, each moss path… and nature now imitated them in the absence of gardeners.

A trail of cracked stone meandered between ferns, blooming lavender, and flowers that opened only under the moon.

Wherever he passed, the mithril chains on his body vibrated softly — at times excited, at times on alert.

They felt the call of home. Or of threat.

The inner wings of the fortress could be seen through the arches in the wall: some completely collapsed, overtaken by ivy and thick roots. Others still stood, with blind windows and half-open doors.

There were broken spiral staircases, corridors swallowed by darkness, and buried galleries visible only by the sinking of the ground above them.

But what drew Hadrian’s attention most was the almost imperceptible slope of the terrain: the castle seemed to be sinking, as if gently pulled into the hill itself.

Or… as if it guarded something beneath, hidden for centuries by earth, roots, and oaths.

The scent of the place was of damp soil, cold stone, enchanted moss, and old ash — and something deeper: an ancient metallic scent, almost like oxidized iron… or magical blood, petrified with time.

Hadrian stopped before the main gate — a double door of blackened wood with grey-iron bolts, its frame carved in an ancient tongue full of angles and repetitions.

He didn’t know exactly what the words meant, but the mithril on his chest vibrated, recognizing the language as part of itself.

His gaze rose for a moment, contemplating the starless, dull sky above the citadel. A lone raven landed on the edge of the wall and stared at him with very dark eyes — almost human.

And then, with the hand that still held the griffin, Hadrian pushed open the gate.

The sound of the hinges was a dry, hoarse scream — like a secret refusing to be revealed.

He stepped inside.

The gate groaned one last time in protest before slowly closing behind him.

Hadrian stood still for a moment, breathing in the dense humidity of the ancient air.

The darkness was not total — a cold light, trickling in from narrow high slits in the walls, poured like spoiled milk between the wide stone columns.

The floor beneath his feet was uneven, made of massive blocks, worn smooth in the center by centuries of footsteps. In some parts, moss grew between the cracks, muffling the sound of his steps, making the space quieter than it should be.

Before him, the main hall opened like a military atrium — tall, with a vaulted ceiling supported by beams of dark wood hardened by time, some of them marked by claw-like gouges, or what seemed to be hastily carved rune incisions.

It was an austere space, with no tapestries or heraldry — made to endure, not to please.

The pillars, thick as ancient trees, vanished into the heights, where the light could barely reach.

There were remnants of what might once have been walkways — many of them broken, their steps long since rotted away.

Furniture, deformed by time, lay in the corners: what may once have been a grand table was now a warped heap of faded planks, draped in cobwebs and the dry husks of insects.

A broad hearth stood against the opposite wall, tall enough for a man to stand within — but it was clogged with stone and petrified coal.

The air smelled of dust, old ashes, moss and cold stone — and something else... an almost olfactory memory of metal and dried ink.

Hadrian ran his fingers over one of the broken benches — and the wood crumbled beneath his touch like stale bread.

The mithril chains across his chest quivered subtly, as though they sensed a whisper — but he ignored them.

He moved on.

Exploring the ground floor’s corridors, Hadrian passed through smaller rooms, each more enigmatic than the last.

One had rounded walls and circular marks on the floor, as if some kind of mechanism had once existed there. A pedestal stood at the center — broken in three — with symbols nearly faded away, and an unsettling sense that someone, at some point in time, had been waiting there for a return.

Another room was filled with bird nests, clustered high on a domed ceiling, as though the birds had refused to leave even when the world had forgotten the place.

The floor was strewn with dry feathers and fragments of old bones, and as Hadrian passed, a single royal raven crossed the chamber in utter silence — not flapping its wings, but floating.

In another chamber, he found what might once have been a dining hall or meeting room. Overturned benches, cracked goblets still resting atop stone where once, perhaps, something had been shared — and at the far end, a wall marked by projectiles or explosions, so old they had become part of the architecture.

Nothing there was beautiful.

But everything carried weight. Memory. Forgotten function.

The light faded further as he walked deeper through the corridors.

Flameless torches still clung to the walls in holders of corroded iron — the kind that doesn’t rust away completely, but instead turns into a metallic shadow.

Rotting fabrics in aged shades of dark green and scorched gold hung in tatters like lost banners.

Some bore symbols he didn’t recognize.

Others held crests long erased by time — or perhaps by the desire to be forgotten.

And then… he found the staircase.

It was half-hidden behind a narrow stone door without a latch, which opened under the light pressure of his fingers.

The air rising from the depths was colder. Older.

The staircase was narrow, spiraling, made of the same dark stone as the rest of the fortress — but the steps were worn only at the center, as though few had ever passed that way… but often.

No torch lit the descent.

No gentle enchantment guided the way.

Only the breath of the underground, whispering in a tongue no longer spoken above the surface.

Hadrian paused at the edge of the first step.

The silence was so complete he could hear his own blood.

He began to descend.

One step at a time.

With the shadows embracing his ankles,

and the history of the Peverells waiting in the deep.

The staircase led him down a path that seemed to descend out of the world itself.

There was no visible end — only the spiraling curve and the growing sensation that the air was getting denser, as if the memories accumulated there had condensed into every stone.

The sound of his footsteps was muffled — not by moss or dust, but by something older, as though space itself refused to echo, guarding the silence as if it were a sacred secret.

Then, without warning, the corridor opened.

Hadrian halted.

Before him, as if he had walked straight into the carved belly of the mountain, was the Library.

There was no door. No gate. Only a vastness designed with the reverence of a temple and the severity of a crypt.

The ceiling was high, vaulted in black stone flecked with crystals that caught the light of small blue flames floating without support.

Broad columns upheld the space, carved with names — names that shifted slightly, as if breathing beneath the stone.

In certain places, roots hung from the ceiling like petrified veils, embracing the higher shelves like ancient fingers of ancestral trees.

The first thing Hadrian noticed was the smell.

It wasn’t just parchment and time — it was denser.

A blend of aged leather, magical ink, burnt wax, old bone, and a faint note of dried blood.

A perfume of forbidden knowledge.

And then — the books.

They were there. Thousands. Perhaps more.

Thick tomes bound in magical creature leather, their clasps still gently vibrating as the air touched them.

Scrolls protected in cylinders of silver and bone.

Some books bound with living chains, whispering in silent runes whenever someone came too close.

And others — rarer, more dreadful — were bound in tanned human skin, pale, stitched in spirals or folded like cloaks.

Some still bore hair in places.

On one, Hadrian saw a closed eye beneath the leather. And he swore it trembled, as if dreaming.

The floor was cold stone, though some aisles had been lined with rugs embroidered with scenes of forgotten battles, mythic beasts framing the corners.

And though it was buried underground, the library felt boundless.

Each corridor opened into another — and then another — until Hadrian had the impression he was walking inside the mind of an eternal dead being.

Shelves of wrought iron, dark wood, and basilisk bone divided the wings.

In one section, the titles were etched in languages that refused to be read.

In another, the writing floated above the spines, shifting form as he passed.

Some books were half-devoured by fungi that still glowed faintly, as if time had tried to consume them — but somehow failed.

Others bore burn holes, as if someone had tried to destroy them by spellfire.

But they endured.

And there, at the heart of that vast sanctuary, stood a round reading table, carved from living stone, with chairs shaped directly from the ground.

At the table’s center, a cube rotated slowly, glowing with dull silver beneath the flickering light.

Hadrian stepped forward.

The mithril chains on his chest stirred, as if recognizing the place, whispering without sound.

He laid his hand upon the table’s surface.

Cold.

Alive.

Familiar.

The castle was asleep.

But the library —

The library was dreaming.

When Hadrian touched the table, a dull vibration rippled through the floor like a drum muffled beneath the stone.

Above the table, where the metallic-looking cube had floated silently, something awakened.

The cube, the size of a loaf of bread, appeared made of darkened silver laced with faintly pulsing violet veins — as though it carried enchanted blood.

Its faces were smooth — too smooth, as if not meant to be seen by ordinary eyes.

Then, slowly, the six faces began to move.

Not like gears — but like living plates, unfolding, rearranging, splitting apart and reforming.

With every new angle, an opalescent glow shimmered in the air, and lines of writing floated, suspended above the table — as if the cube itself were organizing its memories.

With ceremonial elegance, columns of translucent text appeared, updating with each rotation of the cube.

Hadrian watched, fascinated, as the cube moved without sound, yet with organic precision — as though every motion had been rehearsed for centuries.

And with each new title it displayed, Hadrian sensed something deeper:

The cube knew he was there.

For the first entries seemed random — but now… now the titles began to shift direction, aligning themselves with names he vaguely recognized, family branches, legends his magic whispered — ones no one else could hear.

Hadrian reached out and, by instinct, touched a line of light.

Immediately, the cube snapped shut with a soft metallic click, and a trail of light slithered through the air like an enchanted thread, guiding him between shelves, around columns, beneath roots invading the ceiling.

It was a magical guide, meant to lead the reader to the book requested.

Hadrian smiled for the first time since his arrival.

“You’re not just a library, are you?” — he murmured.

The library answered with silence.

But it was a living silence, one that invited him to explore.

And so he did.

Following the line of light — following the echoes of the blood running in his name, his inheritance, and now… his mission.

The light wove between dusty shelves and shy lichens, scaling cracked columns and winding beneath stone arches that resembled the ribs of a sleeping beast.

Hadrian followed in silence, feeling the faint magical hum it left in the air — like a forgotten song, whispered by an ancestor.

The path led to a deeper wing of the library — where the shelves were denser, lower, tighter, as if space itself were trying to hide what it held.

The light slowed. And then, stopped — blinking softly over a wide, grimy volume, dark-covered and wrinkled like aged leather, placed on an isolated shelf between two scrolls bound with strands of silver hair.

Hadrian reached out.

The texture was rough, uneven — like aged skin stretched over curved wood.

At the center of the cover, a symbol was branded in fire: a closed eye, encircled by seven inward-facing spirals.

The title, written in old script, slowly revealed itself — as if waking from a dormancy charm:

"From the Veil to the Echoes — Practices of Soul and Body Separation"

Compiled by Saelthorn of the Nine Bones

Authorized copy by Eloria Peverell, year 91

Hadrian opened the tome carefully.

The pages crackled like dry leaves unfolding after centuries of waiting.

Its scent was a heady mix of ancient mold, oxidized iron, and a persistent note of burnt incense.

The illustrations were painted with inks that seemed to hold a life of their own — strokes that moved subtly, pulsing beneath the parchment’s skin.

Diagrams of conjuring circles, ethereal anchors, instructions for preparing the physical body, warnings about creatures lurking between worlds.

Hadrian left the library with slow steps — as one who departs a place that had listened.

The mithril chains on his chest whispered in unison with the thick silence that reigned through the fortress’s halls.

The cube still hovered above the central table, spinning softly, its blue glows dipped once more in magical twilight.

As the arched door closed behind him, the darkness of the corridor seemed thicker.

As if the knowledge held within that library had breathed inward, drawing in the air around it.

The citadel, now even more silent, seemed to observe him—not with eyes, but with the cracks in the stones, the veins in the walls, and the muffled echo of footsteps stepping on floors that sagged slightly with each meter traversed.

He had returned to the ground floor, by less-familiar paths. The castle’s layout did not follow human logic. Staircases ended where they once seemed to begin.

Doors led to rooms whose ceilings had collapsed, or to internal gardens taken over by moss and damp shadows. 

It was a place that resisted time—but made no concessions to it.

As he walked, Hadrian felt the air change. Not in temperature or sound—but in density. A strange weight gathered around him, as if being watched, not by something alive, but by memories. 

Stories too ancient to be remembered by any living mind, yet still… present.

He found it by chance. A curved wall of darkened stone at the end of a corridor too narrow to have been a main thoroughfare. 

He had passed it twice before, without noticing. The pale blue glow of an illumination spell revealed not a door—but a subtle division.

At that precise point, the stone carried a nearly imperceptible notch, like an old scar too ingrained to be seen. Only from a specific angle did the fissure form a perfect arch, outlining a doorway—one that did not wish to be opened, yet would not resist if someone saw it.

Hadrian approached, pressing his fingers against the cold edges of the crack. The touch was enough. 

With a muffled snap, as though the air sighed, the wall turned inward in a soft yet solemn movement. No creaking. No dust.

The darkness beyond was not merely an absence of light. It was the absence of presence.

A hidden chamber that did not conceal itself with magic—but with forgetting.

Hadrian stepped forward, and the air seemed to contract around him. Dampness, silence, and an ancient energy enveloped him. The floor angled downward slightly, as though he were entering the very womb of the mountain.

The hall into which he entered was dark—not for lack of light—but because of the density of the shadows that dwelled there. It was as if the stone itself had absorbed eras of silence and held, in every crack, echoes of words once whispered in that sacred place.

The vaulted ceiling arched above like the interior of a forgotten cathedral, held up by wide, severe columns—unyielding and undecorated. No stained glass. 

No gilded icons. No intricately carved altar.

Yet still, it was a temple.

Not to glory. Not to hope. But to the past.

The air was dense, motionless, smelling of ancestral dust, damp stone, and a metallic tang—like the taste of ancient magic.

At the center of the hall stood a black stone table, taking the place of an altar. It was cracked in the middle, as though struck by lightning in ages past.

Upon it lay a veil of cobwebs so fine they seemed mist, draping even broken relics. A rusted chalice. A disc of tarnished silver. A piece of bone carved with runes now illegible. None had been moved in centuries.

Hadrian moved slowly—his footsteps barely echoed. The silence was too thick. On the curved walls there hung no tapestries—only the living, worn, ancient stone.

And there, almost eroded by time and shrouded in haze, was the crest.

Not behind tapestries. Not hidden by spells. But hidden 

by time itself.

Carved directly into the curved rear wall, dressed in years of decay, rested the ancestral Peverell crest—as though it had always been there, and as though it never would part.

It was not golden. Nor bright. No paint had endured. Only stone upon stone, carved with such precision and detail that, even worn, it still conveyed its essence with chilling clarity.

The creature at its center did not roar. Did not leap.

It watched.

And unlike most heraldic beasts—chaotic symbols open to interpretation—this figure was crystalline. Terrifying in its clarity.

It was a Thestral. But not like those Hadrian had seen in Hogwarts’ skies.

This one was solid. Sturdy. Its muscles seemed tense beneath a hide of living shadow—not dark like ink, but like the absence of light.

Its eyes had no color. Yet within them—Hadrian could almost swear—moved images. Deaths. Pacts. Broken promises. Vengeance consummated. Births amidst whip 

and blade.

Its muzzle was elongated, horse-like, but its jaw wide as a predator’s—lined with serrated obsidian teeth in two symmetrical rows, razor-sharp.

Its wings, folded against its sides, appeared made of rigid feathers, sharp as blades. Even at rest, they suggested imminent movement—as if a word would be enough. A gesture. A breath.

Its tail was long, thick, plated with bone and feathers like articulated blades. It shifted—Hadrian couldn’t tell whether by enchantment or illusion—like a serpent sensing before a strike.

But the strangest feature: its mane.

Not hair. Not feathers. But a spine exposed, entwined with live mist—bones and shadows oscillating like a macabre mane, pulsating an energy that did not belong to this world.

And despite all—its implicit strength, its contained menace—the creature was serene. Upright. Observing with eyes too ancient for haste.

It was not a symbol of conquest. It was a warning.

Hadrian stood before it, heart hammering, but mind calm. He felt something vibrating within his magic—as if a part 

of him, always silent, had been called by name.

This crest did not say “glory.”

It said “presence.”

A reminder that the Peverells were not merely old. They were primordial. That even death, before them, waited—cautiously.

And under that gaze carved in stone, Hadrian did not feel small.

He felt seen.

Part of something never made to shine—but to watch.

And to wait.

Chapter Text

When Hadrian climbed back up the ancient stairs, leaving behind the silent hall and the crest that still burned in his mind, he felt like someone emerging from a dream—or a tomb.

The air grew less dense as he ascended, more vivid, as if the world above breathed differently from what was buried beneath stone and time.

Crossing a narrow gap in the upper corridor, a shaft of golden light surprised him. It was warm, gentle, leaning through a narrow opening in the ceiling, revealing dust motes dancing in the air. He looked up.

It was past midday.

The slanted sunlight said afternoon was nearing. The sky, visible through a crack high above the collapsed atrium, was tinted a dull blue, scattered with lazy clouds drifting like old sailors across the firmament.

The realization brought a slight discomfort to his stomach—hunger, perhaps, or simply the awareness of time slipping away between ancient stones and forgotten symbols.

Guided by a need as human as any magic, Hadrian followed a new corridor—one of the few where light seemed to seep in more generously.

The architecture became more open, with softly carved stone arches and less severe columns. There were signs of former daily use—or what remained of it: dark marks on the floor where pots might once have rested, rusted hooks in the ceiling, and the faintest memory of smoke embedded in the stones, as though the scent of food cooked centuries ago still lingered, waiting.

The kitchen.

Or what was left of it.

The stone ovens, monumental, still stood. Two great structures of darkened brick, with openings wide enough to roast an entire deer—or two. The vaults above the forged mouths still held the petrified ash of forgotten wood.

On a cracked stone counter rested what once might have been enchanted cutting boards, now reduced to warped shards twisted by damp. Forged iron shelves clung to the walls, some still bearing rusted utensils dangling from ancient hooks.

But it was the dry sound of his footsteps that drew him to the side of the room—to a door of dark wood, remarkably well preserved, its enchanted hinges not even creaking.

It was a cellar.

Upon opening it, a dense and multifaceted aroma escaped like an ancient breath: fermented fruit, damp oak, magical herbs—and something more. Something deeper. Almost… mythical.

Stone steps spiraled downward, and at the end, a small ethereal sanctuary was revealed.

Wine racks carved directly into the walls wrapped the room, filling it with a reverent sense of order. And within them... wines.

Hundreds of bottles—intact, protected by ancient enchantments and preserved with charmed labels, each glowing softly as he passed his fingers over them.

Faerie wines, stored in amber glass flasks, sealed with silverleaf and names that chimed when spoken: Equinox Song, Tears of Saelith, Green Dawn’s Glimmer.

Goblin wines, in denser, darker tones, housed in volcanic stone bottles etched with sharp runes. The labels bore no poetry—only grit: Scrap Iron 1190, Scalded Blood, Abyssal Terracotta.

Centaur wines, in clay vessels marked with lunar symbols, sealed with blue wax and constellations stamped on the neck. Said to be brewed during total eclipses, fermented with roots harvested under absolute silence.

And even...

Giant’s wine.

These came in containers nearly the size of barrels, wrapped in runic leather, sealed with carved bones. The contents were of a color between deep gray and sullied amber, and a small inscription in trembling runes shimmered in the light, as if the wine still pulsed:

 “Do not drink without remembering the sky can fall as well.”

Hadrian stood there for a moment, the sweet, pungent scent surrounding him, the bottles like silent witnesses to a time when magical banquets were real, and ancient kings still toasted beneath stars that perhaps no longer shone.

He touched one of the faerie bottles, feeling a slight hum beneath his fingers.

The citadel had not merely resisted time. It had waited.

And now, it fed him—not with bread, but with the echo of centuries.

Hadrian ascended from the cellar with slow steps, still immersed in the ancient echoes of that ethereal sanctuary. The scent of the bottles clung to his senses—fermented fruits, enchanted roots, herbs soaked in forgotten enchantments. 

But as silence reclaimed the corridors of the citadel, a more mundane discomfort began to rise beneath all the ancestral dust and the weight of centuries: hunger.

It wasn’t sudden, nor violent. It was persistent. A growing void that made his stomach twist as if protesting against centuries of silence.

Hadrian passed through the abandoned kitchen once more, his eyes now analyzing every detail with renewed focus. Now that his body demanded sustenance, the darkened stones, the rusted hooks, and the warped wooden remnants took on another dimension. 

A sigh escaped him as he paused before the colossal ovens.

"Useless," he muttered, staring into the dark mouths like empty caverns. "Without anything to roast, they’re just stone."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a response echoed.

“…useless…”

The word came back, identical but distorted. Not spoken by him—but repeated. A hoarse, rasping voice, inhuman, as if the very stone had spoken. Hadrian spun around instantly, wand raised, heart pounding.

The corridor was empty… until he saw it.

Perched on the stone floor, just a few meters away, was a raven. But not an ordinary one. It was colossal—larger than any bird Hadrian had ever seen, save perhaps a phoenix.

It was the size of a full-grown vulture, with feathers that gleamed like polished obsidian under the dim light. Its eyes were deep, a dark shade verging on blue, and within them was a calm, observant intelligence. Its beak, long and sharp, seemed carved from razor-edged onyx.

The raven tilted its head slightly, the neck feathers ruffling, and repeated, with disturbing precision:

“…useless…”

The voice was the same as before. Harsh, dry, echoing like stone grinding against stone. Hadrian took a deep breath, keeping his wand firm. Ravens could mimic voices—he knew that.

But this… this was no ordinary creature. And in the Peverell Citadel, any anomaly was a sign.

He didn’t lower his wand.

The raven took two slow steps and leapt into the air with a powerful beat of its wings. The gust of wind scattered dust across the floor, and Hadrian instinctively stepped back.

The creature did not attack. It simply landed beside the ovens. With a short croak, it spread its wings again, revealing an impressive wingspan. The feathers, in motion, seemed to reflect lights that didn’t exist in the room—bluish and violet glows danced between the shadows, as if piercing a magical veil.

That was when Hadrian felt it.

The Peverell Magic—that ancient presence that had wrapped around him since he first set foot on these stones—vibrated. It stretched. As if an invisible, curious tendril reached out toward the bird. A tongue of power, slithering through the air with anticipation.

The raven seemed to feel it. Its eyes glowed more intensely, and its own magic—yes, Hadrian could feel it now, as distinct as a signature spell—responded.

Not with submission. Not with confrontation.

With recognition.

The energy surrounding the raven expanded like a dark halo, intertwining with the tendrils of Peverell magic.

For a moment, Hadrian stood still, watching the encounter as one might witness an ancient ritual unfolding before their eyes. The fusion was slow, but harmonious. Magic touching magic, probing, accepting.

Then, a soft reverberation coursed through his body. A sudden warmth at the base of his neck. A shiver climbed up his spine to his shoulders.

The raven’s magic… touched his.

Not violently, but with curiosity. And when it was touched, Hadrian’s magic—the same that had danced among ancestral wines and forgotten crests—responded.

There were no words. No vows.

But Hadrian knew.

It was a bond.

Like a thin, invisible thread, made of mutual acceptance and shared magic. A bond of essence.

The kind of connection that sealed pacts between wizards and familiars—but older, wilder. Not conjured by wands or incantations, but recognized by forces buried in bones, blood, and memory.

The raven stepped closer. Its movements were heavy, yet graceful, and the sound of its talons on the stone echoed with solemn weight. It stopped half a meter from Hadrian, tilted its head slightly, and released a low, guttural purr—a note of contentment.

Hadrian finally lowered his wand. Slowly.

His heart was still racing, but there was something… peaceful in the air now. As if the entire kitchen—the silent ovens, the crumbling shelves, the shadows in the corners—had fallen still to witness this acceptance.

The raven took another step forward, its feathers shimmering under the faint light. A fragment of its shadow seemed to merge with Hadrian’s.

The bond was sealed.

Not with blood, nor promises.

But with the silent gaze of a creature whose memory was as old as the stones beneath their feet.

And for the first time in days, Hadrian did not feel alone.

He felt whole.

The raven that had bonded with Hadrian was now flying around the kitchen with surprising excitement.

Its wings beat with a subtle force, creating a deep, resonant sound in the air, as if the very space around the bird was vibrating with ancient, pulsing energy.

It cawed loudly and animatedly, its call echoing off the stone walls in a nearly festive way — a boisterous celebration of the newly-formed bond.

Then, answering the first raven’s call, a wave of responses emerged.

Suddenly, as if drawn by an invisible spell, two ravens appeared at the kitchen's entrance, then two more, and four after that — until a true cloud of ravens materialized in the space around Hadrian.

They weren’t as imposing as the first one.

Smaller, with less luminous feathers, but still, there was something about them — something that made Hadrian’s skin prickle.

The sound of their wings, like the murmur of old secrets, filled the space around him.

They were fast, agile, like an extension of shadow itself.

Yet there was a clear hierarchy, and the larger raven, the leader, seemed to be the center of all movement.

They perched on the remains of iron shelves, the broken arches of the kitchen, the edges of the ovens.

They had arrived like soldiers summoned to their commander’s presence.

Hadrian, still in awe, felt a wave of understanding rise within him.

He realized there was a connection to all of these ravens.

Not just with the leader — though that one was strongest — but with all of them. Fainter, yet potent. A bond, an invisible web stretching between him and each bird.

It wasn’t simply magic — it was a thread of shared awareness.

He could feel the ravens, almost instinctively, as if they were part of his own essence.

The Peverell Magic, which had lived inside him since the day it chose him, now pulsed like an extra heart — restless, enchanted.

It didn’t just recognize the ravens — it embraced them.

As if a piece of it had already been within them, scattered, dormant, and now was being gathered once more through Hadrian.

Trying to adapt to the strangeness of the bond, he bent slightly, a little self-conscious, and said with a timid smile:

"Hello..."

The response came immediately.

A chorus of hoarse, unsynchronized voices echoed back almost mechanically:

"Hello... hello... hello..."

Hadrian couldn’t help but smile — a genuine smile.

It felt like being greeted by a multitude of ancient souls, an echo from time immemorial reverberating between the stones.

He ran a hand through his hair — a simple gesture — but upon touching himself, he felt the Peverell Magic react.

It was still there, intertwined with him, like an invisible current that followed wherever he went. He realized that, in some way, this magic followed him not passively, but with silent obsession — with eternal vigilance. It seemed to crave everything he touched, as if every small gesture of his was a rite worthy of reverence.

"Well, at least I have company," he said, chuckling to himself.

He raised a hand, as if inviting the ravens to come closer.

"You wouldn’t happen to know where to find food, would you?"

The ravens, as if they understood the question, repeated the word food with unexpected clarity, their small, bright eyes reflecting an intelligence that seemed to surpass their nature.

They glanced at one another, their heads tilting in unison, as if discussing something in silence.

Then, as if everything made sense, one of the ravens stepped forward and nodded toward Hadrian.

It was a simple motion, but charged with meaning that he couldn’t ignore.

Hadrian laughed, surprised.

"Of course you understand me..." he murmured, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

He looked around, once again feeling the weight of ancient magic surrounding him.

"Well then, show the way, please."

He looked at the flock of ravens now gathered around him.

With a powerful beat of its wings, the lead raven lifted into the air, followed by the others.

They flew toward the corridor, their bodies dark as shadows gliding through the dim light.

Hadrian followed, sensing he was being guided by a force he barely understood — but that now filled him with a strange, unwavering confidence.

The ravens led him through the corridors of the citadel like a silent ritual.

Each wingbeat seemed to echo through the stones, the magic of the place pulsing in rhythm with his own.

The journey wasn’t rushed — it was a slow walk filled with meaning.

As if every step Hadrian took was a silent affirmation of his presence in that ancient world.

They led him away from the entrance, toward a courtyard he did not know.

The path felt carpeted with moss, the stone walls lower, as if the sky itself were closer here.

When they arrived, Hadrian saw that the courtyard was surrounded by dense vegetation, and in the center stood a structure that stood apart from the rest: a greenhouse.

Not like the ones at Hogwarts — this was made of enchanted iron and thick glass, covered in condensation and dust.

Plants twisted within, visible in green silhouettes against the stained panels. Some were flowering. Others moved. And there were… fruits.

It was a place unlike anything Hadrian had seen within the citadel.

All around, exotic and unknown plants intertwined, with flowers that glowed faintly in the dim light, as if hiding secret truths within their petals.

The ravens, after a final look at Hadrian, perched on the edges of the greenhouse.

The lead raven gave him one last glance, as if waiting for something.

Hadrian smiled, feeling a wave of gratitude and curiosity flood through him.

"Alright, let’s see what we can find here."

And with that, he stepped into the greenhouse — knowing the path ahead still held many mysteries, but for now…

he was no longer alone.

Chapter Text

The greenhouse rose before Hadrian like a skeleton of glass and iron, a ruined reliquary that still pulsed with traces of life.

The metal framework, once perhaps elegant and delicate, had been twisted by time and abandonment.

Large glass panes had vanished entirely, while others remained only as jagged fragments, hanging dangerously from rusted supports.

The stone floor was covered by a thin layer of damp soil and rebellious roots that spread like pulsing veins beneath his feet.

But what truly caught the eye inside wasn’t the decay — it was the life that endured, strange and exuberant.

Just to his left stood a tall tree, with a trunk so dark it seemed to absorb the little light that filtered through the broken panes.

Its leaves were a pale blue, almost translucent, shimmering like wet silk at the slightest breeze. The fruits hanging from its branches looked like apples at first glance — round, glossy — but with a deep coppery-red hue, almost metallic.

Hadrian approached with caution, extending his hand. The skin of the fruit was cold to the touch, firm. When he bit into it, a thick juice ran down his chin — dark red like fresh blood.

The flavor surprised him: it resembled apple, yes, but it was less sweet, earthier. There was a depth to it, something dense and metallic, as if it carried the echoes of ancient, powerful soil. 

A taste that lingered on the tongue like a memory difficult to forget.

While he chewed, the lead crow cawed contentedly from an exposed iron beam. The other crows — about two dozen — had landed nearby, as if waiting for him, winged sentinels.

Some pecked at small fruits from another plant, and Hadrian observed them before approaching as well.

It was a low shrub, leafless, with branches covered in silvery scales and thorns that emitted a faint greenish glow.

The fruits hung in clusters — small green spheres that gleamed like cut gems. One of the crows pecked at one with visible delight. Taking it as a sign, Hadrian picked one and brought it to his mouth.

The skin popped under his teeth, revealing a cold and surprisingly juicy interior. The flavor was intense — acidic, with a hint of sweetness, and a slight effervescence that made his tongue tingle.

He felt a gentle heat rise through his throat, as if he had just swallowed a gulp of invigorating potion.

Then, the lead crow leapt down from his perch and landed with a heavy flap beside a third plant.

This one, Hadrian hesitated to approach. The tree was short, with a gnarled, twisted trunk, and its fruits hung heavily from the branches as if their very flesh dragged them toward the ground.

Because that’s exactly what they were — flesh. The “fruits” had no skin or visible rind. They were organic masses, dense, pinkish in color, crisscrossed with bluish veins, pulsing faintly as if still alive.

Hadrian swallowed hard.

The crow pecked one of them with its curved, strong beak, making it sway. It then nudged the fruit toward the boy, insistently. 

Hadrian, reluctant, extended his hand.

Upon touching it, he had the impression of holding a still-fresh internal organ — soft and warm. The texture reminded him of raw liver — something he knew all too well from times he had to cook for his relatives.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a bite.

The flavor was... complex. Salty, earthy, with a strange sweet undertone. There was something visceral about it, a taste that spoke of blood and sap, life and death entwined.

The magic within him reacted, shivering — and for a brief second, Hadrian almost saw roots of energy extending from within him, touching the soil, connecting with that living flesh as if recognizing a forgotten inheritance.

The crows cawed in unison around him, as if celebrating his acceptance.

The Peverell Magic, always present and intertwined with his senses, responded in spirals of warmth, satiated, vibrating with primal satisfaction. 

And Hadrian... he smiled, his lips still stained with the metallic apple juice and the moist fibers of the flesh-fruit.

“Good...” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I guess this counts as dinner.”

The birds replied with a simultaneous, hoarse and resonant echo:

“Dinner.”

Hadrian chuckled softly, running a hand through his tousled hair, his eyes glowing with a mix of disbelief and awe. He was no longer alone — and something told him this was only the beginning.

Hadrian carefully picked a few more of the glowing fruits before leaving the greenhouse. His fingers were still stained with the apple’s thick juice, and he wrapped the freshly harvested fruits in a cloth he had transfigured from some leaves.

The pale-green fruits pulsed faintly, as if holding a living spark inside, and the fleshy “pears” exhaled a subtly sweet scent — like fresh meat seasoned with marjoram and magical dust.

Hadrian made an involuntary grimace upon touching them — their texture resembled freshly extracted viscera, moist, viscous, and surprisingly warm to the touch.

As he returned to the silent manor interior, he still felt the presence of the crows flying overhead, their wings slicing the thin air like blades of shadow.

A curious silence hung there, broken only by the occasional creaks of ancient metal succumbing to moisture and time.

Hadrian wiped his hand on the fabric of his robe and turned to the crows — especially the largest among them, the leader, who watched him with silent intelligence and eyes like living obsidian.

“You don’t happen to know… where the protection stone is, do you?”

The crows stirred, as if pondering the question. They looked at one another, some heads turning at almost unnatural angles. 

Then the leader let out a deep caw and began tapping its beak against one of the stone walls of the hall — opposite the staircase Hadrian had previously descended.

Hadrian approached, examining the spot where the beak insistently struck. There was nothing there but stone.

But when he placed the palm of his hand on that exact point — cold as ancient ice — a faint glow spread across the surface. 

An outline appeared, like cracks filled with liquid gold, and a passage began to take shape.

The hidden gates opened with a deep, ancient groan, and before them emerged a new staircase — narrower, darker — dizzying like an endless spiral.

The lead crow leapt ahead, its wings nearly brushing the damp, moss-covered walls. Hadrian followed, his steps steady, though he felt the increasing weight of magic around him.

The other crows followed as well, creating a kind of silent, restless procession.

The descent seemed endless. The air below was dense, heavy with history and forgotten murmurs. Each step echoed like a whisper in the void.

The Peverell Magic, restless ever since Hadrian had bitten into the first fruit in the greenhouse, now stirred like a creature coiled around his limbs.

It coiled around his wrists and ankles, slid down his neck like living ink, ran through his hair like invisible, obsessed fingers. It vibrated with a feverish anticipation — as if it recognized the fate of this journey.

The Potter Magic, by contrast, remained contained. Silent. But it burned beneath the skin like hidden embers — alive, alert, ready to ignite at the slightest provocation. A silent fire waiting for a spark.

The Lovegood Magic drifted freely among the wings of the crows, brushing against them like enchanted breeze.

The veil of petals on his face shimmered with this magical breath, but it was stained now — the once bluish or pearlescent petals at the edge now tinged dark red by the juice of the greenhouse fruit.

The stain was spreading, but it seemed organic, natural — as if the veil too were alive, transforming.

And then there was the Gaunt Magic. Silent. Watchful. It didn’t try to impose its presence, but Hadrian felt it like a beast asleep beneath ice.

It lay dormant within the locket on his chest, and its magical tendrils dragged across the mithril chains Hadrian wore. It was no threat — not yet. It was an omen.

As if it waited. As if it longed. As if it whispered: change will come. And it will be irreversible.

They kept descending, each step deeper, colder, older.

And in the distance, like a ghostly drum, Hadrian began to hear... a pulse.

The protection stone still lived. But it was waiting.

Waiting for him.

Chapter Text

The staircase ended abruptly before a circular stone door, with no handle or visible hinges.

The chief raven landed before it and pecked three times at an almost imperceptible carving on the wall — a circle within a triangle, etched in low relief. Hadrian stepped closer.

His hand instinctively found the symbol. At his touch, the stone seemed to tremble beneath his fingers and slowly rotated, revealing the hidden chamber.

What opened before him was a perfectly circular room, as if carved from the womb of the world.

The walls were smooth, made of polished black rock that faintly reflected the amber light emanating from the ceiling, though no torch or visible spell lit it.

The floor was paved with dark slabs veined in gold, and the air carried the ancient weight of something sacred, immaculate, yet expectant. It was as if time itself held its breath here.

Three black stone altars rose from the ground, forming an equilateral triangle at the chamber’s center.

Upon each rested a floating stone the size of Hadrian, suspended a few inches above the altar, rotating slowly on its axis with a faint sonic vibration, as if singing in frequencies only magic could hear.

To the right stood a massive angrite, a meteorite of deep red-purple hues, streaked with patches of pure black.

A fusion crust clung to it like glassy scales, bristling like obsidian thorns, glistening in the amber glow from the ceiling.

Within, when Hadrian looked closer, its structure revealed a blue birefringence — frozen specks refracting light into cold, kaleidoscopic tones. It seemed to hold stars trapped at the instant of collision.

To the left, upon the second altar, rested a pyrite of impossible beauty.Its perfect cubes emerged from one another at flawless angles, as if some ancient architect had set down the formula of order itself.

But its color was strange — instead of the typical gold, it shone with metallic iridescence, a rainbow of enchanted rust: petrol green, steel blue, rose gold. Light danced on its polished faces, revealing reflections that multiplied and bent like magical mirrors.

At the final point of the triangle lay a bloodstone.

It pulsed faintly, its dark red and moss-green specks shifting beneath the opaque surface as if the stone were breathing. It was alive, and its colors were almost identical to those Hadrian had seen during the initial invocation of Peverell Magic, an echo of the choice made, or perhaps the fate sealed.

The Peverell Magic, until then silent in its obsession, stirred with an intensity never felt before. It reached in every direction, like a living mantle trying to enfold the three altars.

It seemed to weep and cry out in joy, coiling fervently around Hadrian’s body, caressing his hands, his face, his hair — sliding along his ribs like fingers across an instrument. It was warm, possessive, encouraging. And it hungered.

Hadrian stepped forward.

And the chamber seemed to wait with him.

He took another hesitant step, guided by the almost suffocating insistence of the magic curling around him like tendrils of smoke, gently pulling him toward the center of the triangle.

The ravens had fallen silent, watching from their perches in the chamber’s shadows — their eyes glinting like living obsidian.

The floor beneath his feet was made of a dark, nearly black stone, polished enough to reflect the distorted shapes of the three floating stones.

The magic around him grew denser with each heartbeat — no longer a whisper, but a persistent, deep murmur, like a drum buried beneath the layers of the world.

When Hadrian stepped onto the exact point between them, the air seemed to freeze.

It was then that he felt it.

As if crossing an invisible threshold, as if plunging into a lake without a surface, the fortress’s magic surrounded him. Not like a wave — but like a vacuum. It was like walking through deep space, where there was no sound, only the weight and presence of infinity.

As though diving into a lake of liquid glass, Hadrian felt the surface of the world dissolve around him.

The chamber, the stones, the ravens — all seemed to recede, obscured by a haze of light and shadow.

A pressure filled his lungs. But it was not suffocation — it was fullness.

And still, there was warmth.

An ancient, secret warmth that recognized his bloodline.

The magic of the Peverell fortress was not a living thing like the magic within him — it was an eternal spell, planted and tended by hands long vanished.

It reached toward the magic Hadrian carried, like hungry roots seeking long-lost nourishment.

It was shadow, silence, and waiting.

Made to guard, made to protect.

Made to obey.

And now he had come.

Its Lord.

Its Master.

Its Peverell.

Hadrian gasped, staggering beneath the weight of the bond being restored. His own magic seemed to swell to receive it — the chain upon his chest grew heavier, his fingers clenched, and he fell to his knees at the exact point between the stones.

The floor trembled beneath him, as if the fortress were acknowledging its new heart. His eyelids fell, but the world did not darken — instead, it blazed.

Lines of gold, deep red, and dark green light emerged from the floor, from the air, from the stones around him, linking the three altars to him.

The three great stones pulsed in unison, in tones that reverberated through Hadrian’s skin like notes too deep to be heard — only felt.

His mouth opened. But it was not his usual voice that spoke — it was his magic, carried by blood, by lineage, by essence.

“The protections must be raised again.”

The light thrummed.

“They must guard. Protect. Guide.”

The words inscribed themselves in the air with invisible fire, marking the chamber.

“Only those We approve shall pass.”

Silence.

The fortress’s magic did not hesitate for even an instant before answering — not with words, but with a silent roar that filled everything.

The three altars shook.

The stones spun upon themselves, rising slightly, and the beams of light binding them to the ground erupted into arcane symbols.

The fortress accepted.

The bond was sealed.

The magic of lost generations now acknowledged him.

Hadrian, still kneeling, panted as if every breath were made of sparks and mist. The magic stirred around him — the veil stained with red now floated without wind, the chains chiming with a sound like distant bells.

And in the silence between the beats of his heart, he knew: The fortress was alive again.

And he was its core.

Reality rippled.

The fortress’s magic had recognized him.

And now, it was drawing closer.

Not like a wave, but like a deep breath drawn from the earth. It rose through his legs in dense, icy spirals, touching his skin like liquid hands, then like cold flames. 

The layers of his soul, one by one, were pulled outward—then filled.

There was heat and cold at the same time.

Torpor and lucidity.

Pain and a sharp pleasure like fractured crystal.

The fortress’s magic was not a passive energy—it was a being, an ancient, colossal entity, shaped by old oaths, sealed by extinct bloodlines. And now, that entity was merging with him.

It coiled around his bones, as if seeking every trace of Peverell blood that belonged to it. It touched his heart—and made it tremble. It slid into his throat, his tongue, his eyes. It saw with him. Breathed with him. Was him.

Hadrian arched his back, his neck exposed toward the heights as if receiving an invisible anointing.

His body shook—not from weakness, but from overload. Every nerve felt electrified, every cell danced as though a thousand sparks were racing inside him.

His own magic reacted in ecstasy, opening like a flower before the sun, fusing with that greater force now filling him from the inside out.

He could feel the fortress’s stone on his skin.

Its history in his bones.

The forgotten voices of the bloodline murmuring in his mind.

And at the same time… he felt everything.

The wall breathing.

The roots of millennia-old trees shifting beneath the earth.

The water hidden in cisterns, the threads of energy binding each enchanted stone of the citadel.

Hadrian was not merely inside the fortress.

The fortress was inside him.

He wept without tears, gasped without air.

There was something almost sacred in that moment, something no human word could contain—the instant when a soul touches something too ancient for language, too deep for comprehension.

And then, he felt the core. It was like falling into himself.

The fortress’s magic pulled him in, and he dove.

He crossed layers of his soul he had never dared to touch—memories of childhood, hidden fears, unhealed scars. The magic moved through it all, and did not hesitate. It accepted him entirely. The blood, the name, the truth.

And in the deepest place, it anchored.

It fixed itself to his magical core with a muted snap, like an arrow burying itself in the flesh of the world.

Hadrian gasped—not from pain, but from intensity. His body could not contain so much. Every vein seemed to pulse with light, every rib vibrated with an invisible note.

The chain on his chest chimed like a sacred seal, and his shadow stretched behind him, twisting.

He was fused.

He was the fortress.

And it was him.

And Hadrian, kneeling, eyes half-closed, felt the fortress finally withdraw inside him—not as something departing, but as something curling up, sealing itself.

At the center of the triangle, he was now more than Hadrian Kelos Gaunt Peverell.

He was a living inheritance.

A soul entwined with a forgotten sanctuary.

The conscious core of an ancestral magic that had begun to pulse again.

And it pulsed with him.

Hadrian’s legs could barely hold his weight. The magic still throbbed in his blood like a solar storm contained beneath his skin—too hot, too dense, too alive.

Every step was a drag, a struggle against the place’s ancestral gravity.

He moved away from the epicenter, his fingers clawing at the polished stone floor, seeking a slow escape from the convergence, like a man emerging from a raging sea.

The sensation of magical drowning was, at last, beginning to ebb. The vastness of the fortress’s magic, once as all-encompassing as the universe itself, now seemed to retreat respectfully, leaving him space to breathe.

Hadrian let himself collapse onto his side, shoulders curling with a ragged sigh, his face pressed to the cold stone of the floor.

He was breathless, each inhalation drawn as though it were air after a long dive.

The Peverell Magic, awakened and anchored, was still there—more alive than ever, more present than it had ever been. It purred around him like an enchanted mythical creature, rubbing against his insides with possessive tenderness.

It was heat and cold at once. It was silk and stone. It coiled along his magical spine like ancient ivy seeking the light, and sank deep into his core, burrowing into the center of his soul with fevered intimacy. Hadrian shivered.

His forehead damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open as if he had just emerged from a trance. It was ecstasy and surrender. It was power.

And he was not alone.

The Gaunt magic made itself known first, like a briny, icy presence, creeping around the fortress’s magic like a cautious predator. It lingered at a distance for a moment, tasting, testing, measuring the depth of that ancient power.

And then, in silent acceptance, it entwined—with its shards of rage, its bitter waters, its dried blood. The contained fury of the depths joined the magical walls of the fortress, reinforcing its defenses with a drowned whisper from the abyss.

The Potter magic came next, like a warm breath against Hadrian’s exposed skin. It probed his body like a loving healer, searching for wounds, before curling around the fortress’s magic like a golden flame.

It was inherited strength, honor, and persistence. In accepting the fusion, it poured itself into the protective stones like a shield forged of memory, bravery, and ancient blood.

And finally, the Lovegood magic danced. It had been there from the moment Hadrian set foot inside—unseen, eccentric, effusive.

Now, it became visible in floating lights and colored shadows. The air shimmered with psychedelic tones: greens that sang, violets that flickered like dream-bubbles.

Hadrian’s flowered veil quivered in the enchanted winds, the ravens’ feathers around him bristled in response.

The Lovegood magic laughed in pure delight, leaving traces of itself on the stones like magical paint poured over millennia-old runes.

There, lying amidst forces that fused and separated, Hadrian was no longer merely an heir. He was a catalyst. A link between what had been lost and what now was reborn.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling it all—the heat, the cold, the weight and the lightness. His breath still trembled, but there was an almost imperceptible smile on his lips.

Hadrian remained there, lying on the cold stones of the ancient floor, for long minutes. His lungs burned as if he had swum to the ocean’s depths and come back to the surface in a single breath.

The fortress’s magic had finally receded, the waves of power that nearly drowned him now turned into gentle ripples, soaking into the contours of his being like moist mist that refuses to dissipate. Still, the Peverell Magic stayed alert, coiled in his bones and muscles, purring under his skin like a jealous cat.

He could feel the other magics—distinct, yet already intertwined with the citadel’s ancient force.

The Gaunt magic moved slowly around, testing boundaries, savoring the fortress’s textures like a beast finally accepting the territory as its own—and, in doing so, giving part of its savagery to reinforce the invisible walls.

The Potter magic melted across his skin like liquid gold, subtle and protective, probing his body for damage before pouring into the stones with steady quietude.

The Lovegood magic danced, free and radiant, stirring gentle whirlwinds that shook the veil of flowers on his shoulders and the dark feathers of the ravens, tinting the air with psychedelic colors that wavered between reality and illusion.

The citadel had accepted. The protections were raised. And Hadrian was the core.

With a ragged sigh, he let his eyes close for a moment, feeling the magical layers settle, rest within and around him. The world seemed to pulse to a slower, deeper rhythm.

At last, he pushed himself to his feet with some effort, his knees creaking faintly under the weight of exhaustion and the arcane satiation still filling him.

“That was… intense,” he murmured, his voice hoarse—almost comical in contrast to the solemnity of the ritual just completed.

He ran a hand through hair damp with sweat and magic, then looked around. The protective stones still glowed faintly, pulsing with the echoes of the offering made by each lineage’s magic. But the heart of the citadel, the true power, was now anchored in him.

“Okay… so, where are the bedrooms?” he asked aloud, gently prodding the fortress’s awareness, as if pinching a living wall.

The air trembled. A soft shiver ran down his spine as the answer came not as words, but as a sensation. A subtle tilt of energy, an almost imperceptible pressure to his left side, as if the space around him had bent to point the way.

“Right, got it,” he muttered, shrugging with resignation and the trace of a tired smile.

The crows cawed around him, excited, taking short, circling flights before positioning themselves ahead like impatient guides.

Hadrian followed them, his steps slow at first, his muscles still trembling from the magic he had absorbed. They climbed the winding stone stairs again, leaving behind the triangular hall and the sacred stones, now sleeping in silent watch.

They reached a landing lit only by old lanterns, which ignited on their own as they approached.

The next steps led upward, to the upper floors of the citadel — uncharted territories, where perhaps ancestral memories lay in beds of stone, in tapestries veiled by time, or in echoes of names long forgotten.

Hadrian climbed, the Peverell Magic still nestled against his skin, as if refusing to let him go even for a moment.

He belonged here. And the fortress knew it.

Hadrian noticed the darkening only as he ascended the final steps of the staircase. A pale, bluish light filtered through the broken gaps in the upper walls, bathing the ancient stones in an almost ethereal glow.

Outside, dusk was giving way to night without haste, as if time itself respected what had happened below, in the heart of the fortress.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he felt the citadel’s magic again — not as overwhelming as before, but still attentive, curious, and now… respectful.

With each step, it seemed to slide along the walls like living moss, whispering, sensing, accompanying.

He walked through a corridor partially overtaken by dry roots and shimmering cobwebs, the crows clearing the way ahead with cheerful calls, hopping between door lintels, broken frames, and gaps in the beams.

One of them, its feathers a dark, deep blue, turned its head to look back at him for a moment before flying to a half-open door at the end of the hallway.

There, Hadrian stopped. The wood of the door was chipped, darkened with age, but the instant he touched it, he knew — not through words, but through a silent whisper deep in his chest — that this was the Lord’s chamber. The Lords’. Those who had come before him.

He pushed the door open with a soft creak, and the room revealed itself. It was wide, spacious, yet heavy with emptiness. The stone floor was covered in a thin layer of silvery dust, like ashes forgotten by time.

There was a ruined fireplace, a wardrobe collapsed against the wall, and a narrow window through which the first starlight streamed. The arched ceiling gave the room the feel of a desolate cathedral, sacred even in its ruin.

Hadrian looked around and walked to a heap of broken wood — the remains of an old bed. With a slow, focused wave of his wand, he murmured a transfiguration spell.

The planks began to vibrate, twisting, then reshaping into a slightly crooked bed, its gray fabric poorly stitched but firm enough.

He lay down on it, sinking into the imperfect mattress with a deep sigh. His bones still ached from the earlier intensity, but now his body was all relief, as if he had left part of himself in that chamber below, fused with the stones and the memory of the fortress.

He stretched slowly, his neck cracking, his arms reaching above his head, and said with a tired smile:

“There’s a lot to fix and clean before this is a proper home… but it already feels like one.”

The night breeze drifted through the broken window, and Hadrian reached into the inner pocket of his cloak. He pulled out two of the strange fruits he had picked in the greenhouse — one still stained with bluish pigments that pulsed faintly.

He bit into the fruit with restrained hunger. The juice ran down his lips, warm and thick, tasting metallic and sweet at the same time, quenching a thirst he barely knew he carried.

He closed his eyes, feeling the fruit’s warmth spread through his throat and stomach, while the magics — all of them — lazily curled themselves around him.

The Peverell Magic stayed closest, still purring in his bones, woven between his breath and heartbeat, almost like a living blanket wrapping him in silent pride.

The fortress’s magic, meanwhile, resonated in the stones below, connected but quiet now — satisfied, a guardian once more.

The Gaunt magic murmured in the shadows, like a sleeping beast lying in wait — accepted, but never tamed.

The Potter magic warmed the air around him, protective, probing with tenderness.

The Lovegood magic spun in invisible spirals, making tiny psychedelic lights twinkle on the darkened ceiling like enchanted fireflies.

And, lulled by that silent chorus of ancestral magics, Hadrian let himself go. His heavy body sank into the crooked mattress. His breathing slowed. His fingers, still sticky with fruit juice, drifted into sleep with him.

He didn’t know the exact moment when he fell asleep — only that the magics, now his companions, remained there, keeping silent watch, cradling him in ancient, forgotten dreams.

Chapter Text

The mist hung thick over the hills, steeped in the damp scent of earth and moss that clung to the crevices of ancient stones.

Hadrian watched it all as though he were truly there — not with the eyes of the body, but with his full awareness, plunged into time like one sinking into a dark, ancient river.

The lands around were wild, still untamed, with twisted trees and tall grass whipped by winds that carried the whispers of those who had come before.

Yet there were signs of civilization: crude fences, worn paths, tools abandoned on hardened soil.

A village emerged before his eyes. It was primitive, ancient, built with techniques that seemed as natural as breathing.

The houses were circular, their walls of dried wattle and daub, some draped in moss, others blackened by the constant smoke of indoor fires.

Thatched roofs sloped low enough to nearly touch the ground on some sides, hiding their entrances like mouths waiting to be crossed. The air was thick with woodsmoke, human sweat, and something else — something ancient, sacrificial.

About fifty people walked in solemn silence along the dirt-packed paths, moving toward the largest of the round structures.

No word was spoken. Their eyes were downcast, or fixed upon the figure standing before the great central house of the village. A man. A shaman. A Lord of Magic.

He wore a mantle sewn from the hide of some extinct magical beast — something between wolf and dragon, its texture still faintly smoking in places, with teeth fastened to the hood like trophies, and iridescent feathers hanging like silent bells. Beneath the mantle, rough wool and leather, worn by time and ritual use.

In his right hand, he held a staff of darkened, gnarled wood, its tip crowned by a jagged amber stone, as if shaped by claws.

Tied to the staff were thin bones — human phalanges, perhaps — and feathers from a magical bird whose colors shifted with every angle of the gaze.

The crowd stopped.

The man turned without speaking, his presence dragging the air as if pulling the very winds with him.

He walked to the edge of the village, where spiraled markings had been carved into the earth with ritual precision.

Inside that circle, seven gaunt men were bound with thick ropes, dirt-streaked, their eyes wide, mouths open in hoarse, desperate screams.

They were held by other hooded men, silent, as though the act they were about to witness was far too sacred for protest.

The shaman knelt with solemnity, drawing from within his mantle three objects: a lump of dark flesh, still faintly pulsing as though alive; a milky crystal, veined with inner cracks that seemed to form shifting runes; and a blue-violet feather, glowing softly as if absorbing the very light of the scene.

He placed them around the prisoners, forming an invisible triangle. Then, lowering his head, he murmured words in a tongue so old that even the Earth itself seemed to have forgotten it.

A dry sound echoed against the stones, and then the objects began to glow.

The screams intensified.

The shaman raised the staff.

And the world exploded in red.

The bodies were torn not by blades, but by invisible forces that ripped the prisoners apart as though the will of the land itself had decided to break them.

Entrails burst forth like wet serpents leaping from their caverns of flesh.

Bones snapped and were wrenched at impossible angles, their cracks ringing out like dry thunder.

Hearts were ripped free and flung against the ground, where they vanished into openings that swallowed them whole.

Tongues and eyes rolled across the dirt between torrents of thick, hot blood, splattering the shaman’s mantle and the bare feet of the watching crowd, who did nothing — only watched, solemn.

The smell was unbearable. Blood, waste, fear, and magic. Smoke seemed to curl in upon the scene, as though even the air refused to flee.

Then the earth trembled.

From the blood-soaked soil, a wall began to rise. Ancient stones lifted slowly, forming a perfect circle around the village, greedily drinking the blood that streamed down.

The stones seemed to drink, pulsing like throats sated by the land’s ancestral thirst.

The barrier closed.

And the village was safe.

Hadrian watched it all — and for a moment, he was certain he was truly there, that he could feel the viscous heat of blood splashing against his skin, taste the metallic tang in the air, sense the vibration of the ground answering the ancient magic.

The Peverell magic in his chest vibrated in recognition, not judgment. This was not cruelty. This was power. This was alliance with the land. This was sacrifice.

This was memory.

Hadrian awoke with a jolt, chest heaving as though he had run for miles.

The scent lingered — the hot copper of fresh blood, the earthy incense burned with bone, the ancestral breath of living magic.

It clung to his nostrils, beneath his skin, within his veins. The image of hearts pulsing atop the earth still trembled in his vision.

But here, in the waking world — if such a place could still be called that — there was light.

And it was not only the light that roused him.

It was the pressure of living magic.

Sunlight filtered through the high dome of the citadel, golden and thick as warm honey.

The light touched the stones and made them gleam like ancient amber — and there, the Peverell magic stirred, waking with him, within him, through him.

It did not merely exist — it pulsed. With a rhythm of its own, entwining with the beat of his heart. As if it, too, lived within his veins.

When Hadrian sat up, the ravens stirred, but it was the magic that thickened around him like an opalescent golden mist.

It slid down his spine, into every rib, every nerve, like a beast of liquid darkness and millennia-old memory. And he yielded to it.

His breath came ragged, deep, rapturous.

It was like being kissed by something older than the world — a touch of divinity and damnation at once.

The Peverell Magic did not merely wrap around him — it sank into him, tore him open with care, fused with his blood, carved itself into his bones.

It knew his limits — and ignored them. It knew where it hurt — and touched there with reverence and mastery.

He gasped.

His skin prickled, the hair on his arms stood on end. His mind expanded — then shrank — then expanded again, as though the space around him was breathing in time with him.

The entire citadel seemed to inhale with him. Exhale with him.

The Peverell Magic sang. Without sound. Only vibration.

And the other magics answered.

The Potter Magic trembled first — warm, traditional, forged of honor and embers. It rose around Hadrian like a golden shield, trying to guard him from the overwhelming vastness of the older magic.

But it withdrew with respect, recognizing not an enemy, but an elder heart. It accepted the new dominion. Became support.

The Lovegood Magic swirled softly, yet with fear. The Peverell Magic was terribly lucid — and the Lovegood, made of chaos and intuition, could not bear such clarity.

It drew back with a nervous laugh, then returned, edging closer like a child enthralled by a forbidden fire. It played at the borders of the magical eruption, curious, delighted, alive.

The Gaunt Magic, in turn, growled like a leviathan. It felt the deep call of the Peverell and answered with pride, with hunger. The black waters of Gaunt fury rose at Hadrian’s heels, climbed to his stomach, and merged with the golden heat radiating from the older magic.

It did not yield — it bowed. In recognition. In sleeping war.

But the Peverell Magic bowed to no one. It was the temple, the altar, and the sacrifice.

It was what guided the ravens. What opened the halls. What sealed the chambers. What had chosen Hadrian.

And now, as it merged with him, it made him vibrate from the inside out.

He lay back down again, not from tiredness—but from sheer awe.

The energy poured through his hands, through his teeth, down his spine.

His tears came without warning, and they were not of pain. They were born of something nameless: ecstasy, ancestry, destiny, rebirth.

The soft morning light spilled through the arched window of the citadel, painting the stones in pale gold.

A gentle breeze carried the scent of plants from the shattered greenhouse—a fragrance of wet leaves, strange fruits, and the faintest trace of magical dust.

The chief raven croaked low, perched only a few inches from his head, its black, gleaming eyes fixed on him like the sentinels of sleep.

Hadrian startled with a small jump, but the tension dissolved into a rough laugh that escaped before he could even think.

“Good morning,” he murmured, still breathless, with a tired smile.

The raven answered with another low, almost mocking croak, and soon a chain of soft echoes rippled through the citadel—ravens waking, stretching their wings, cooing like curious shadows.

Hadrian stretched lazily upon the bed of stone draped in embroidered mantles. Every muscle felt lighter, as if magic itself had massaged him in his sleep.

And, in a way, it had.

The magics rose with him.

Like invisible blankets, they coiled around his ankles, around his arms, combed through his disheveled hair with fingers made of warm, pulsing energy.

He felt the enchanted wall breathe with him, the stones murmuring in silence, like a living house greeting him good morning.

A thread of shimmering energy ran along the ceiling and spilled down the wall to his left, forming brief symbols before dissolving into gentle sparks.

Hadrian laughed again, this time with genuine lightness.

“Good morning to you too.”

A chorus of croaks replied from outside, rising from the towers and ledges of the citadel, as if the entire flock had understood.

Some beat their wings, others glided along the wind currents streaming through the windows, following the magical vibration in the air. Their joy was contagious.

It was, perhaps, the happiest Hadrian had felt since arriving in that world.

He rose with a light hop, his bare feet touching the cold floor of enchanted stone.

The magics adjusted around him like garments of golden smoke and liquid shadow, rippling with his movement. A whirlwind of energy wrapped around him for a moment, only to caress his skin like a fond hand before dissipating into the walls.

Stretching his arms above his head, he yawned.

“Let’s go find breakfast.”

A brief laugh escaped him when he heard the ravens’ echoes repeating the phrase—distorted, but recognizable.

“Breakfast.”

“Let’s.”

“Find.”

And as he walked through the ancient corridors, surrounded by echoes, feathers, and invisible smiles, the magic nestled in him as though it were part of his soul, pulsing with the rhythm of his blood—alive.

And he smiled like someone finally beginning to belong.

Hadrian crossed the threshold of the old wooden door with its enchanted hinges, his steps still silent upon the polished stone floor, cold beneath his bare feet.

Morning light filtered lazily through the pointed-arch windows of the corridors, in golden, slanting beams that danced upon the floor with the slightest stir of enchanted dust motes.

The citadel seemed to breathe in silence with him—alive, awake, and… serene.

The magics curled around his body with the drowsiness of sleep.

The Lovegood swirled around him like silk caught in the wind, light and joyful, whispering wordless songs in his ears;

The Potter spread in a warm shield over his shoulders, still on guard even at rest.

The Gaunt remained in heavy silence, like a tide contained beneath the skin, and the Peverell… the Peverell was the void that seeped into every shadowed corner of the corridor, like an absent whisper, like an invisible eye that saw all.

It did not stir—it waited.

The ravens followed him, croaking softly, almost like muffled laughter. The chief raven flew just above his head, its black feathers gleaming in the filtered light, eyes intense and watchful.

Turning right from where he had passed the night before—skirting the partially ruined greenhouse with its surreal plants, now lit by the sun and even more vivid—Hadrian noticed a trail of ancient stones, half-covered in magical moss that pulsed beneath his feet as if alive.

It was a narrow path, flanked by bluish-leaved vines and flowers that turned to follow him, as though recognizing him.

The vegetation was thick but not oppressive. Ancient trunks of magical trees arched gently over the path, forming a natural arch from which drops of glittering enchanted dew fell onto his shoulders with a faint hiss, as if whispering a welcome.

Scents of ripe fruit, dry leaves, magical blossoms, and enchanted wood perfumed the air with an earthy, sweet intensity, almost intoxicating.

To his left, he could see part of the citadel’s walls draped in living ivy, with small luminescent flowers blinking softly.

To the right, the vegetation gradually opened to reveal a sheltered orchard, hidden beneath the shade of ancient, strangely twisted fruit trees—some of which glowed faintly under the sunlight.

There were apples with golden veins, pears translucent as crystal, and vines of black fruit that pulsed with subtle magic, like hearts dangling from the branches.

The grass underfoot was cool and damp, speckled with colorful mushrooms and broad leaves that closed gently at a touch.

A fresh breeze wound between the trunks, tugging lightly at the hem of his robe and his unruly hair. The citadel whispered around him—it greeted him, watched him, and protected him.

Sunlight filtered in golden beams through the twisted trees. The orchard was unlike any other—each tree seemed a living entity, its trunk sculpted by time and magic.

Some wept silver sap, others bore impossible fruits: blue-skinned apples, pears pulsing like freshly cut flesh.

He brushed his fingers over a black plum, cold as stone. He was about to raise it to his lips when a harsh, sharp cry rang out.

The chief raven croaked louder, a raspy, cutting sound that shattered the calm of the place like a blade slicing silk.

It dove suddenly toward a shadowed spot between two moss-covered shrubs, its wings flaring in a movement both elegant and predatory.

Between tall leaves and gnarled roots, there was a shape. Something moved there—quick, but with the grace of something ancient, forgotten. Black wings struck the air with force. The sound of claws on earth.

The chief raven fell upon the creature like a blade.

Hadrian approached slowly, his heart pounding in his ears. And then he saw.

It was a Third-Eye Hare.

Nearly the size of a grown cat, its dense fur shimmered under the light—deep browns, reds, and bronze, blending into the soil like a living shadow.

Its black eyes gleamed, two on either side of its face, the third set in the center of its forehead: small, unmoving. None of them blinked.

Its six legs trembled beneath the restrained body. The forelegs, smaller and quick, shifted as if reaching for leaves—or perhaps something else. The hind legs, long and powerful, kicked hard, trying to escape.

The thin ears twitched with alarming precision—like split blades cutting the air in silence.

“Breakfast,” said the chief raven, in a voice rough as scratched wood, its claws firm on the creature’s back.

Hadrian hesitated. His heart still raced.

That was… impossible. Third-Eye Hares were extinct. Timid, rare creatures, they once lived in regions near unstable magical currents.

Perhaps starting the day by eating an extinct magical creature wasn’t the best idea.

Chapter Text

The sun shone through the leaves of the trees, the wind whispering among the trunks, drifting through that standoff, ruffling Hadrian’s cloak, as he broke the impasse.

He crouched down, extended his hands.

“You’re all right… we’re going to let you go, okay?”

The hare froze. The eyes stared at him—all three of them. For a moment, Hadrian had the strange sensation of being measured. Weighed. Judged.

Then, with impossible speed, the creature twisted, forepaws shooting forward like blades, retractable claws snapping out, aimed straight for Hadrian’s face.

He had no time to react.

But the fortress did.

Something cracked in the air.

Before the claws could touch his skin, the rabbit’s head was torn away with a dull sound, followed by a grotesque snap.

The spine came with it—trembling and exposed—like a gleaming cord of flesh. Blood burst in a crimson arc, striking Hadrian’s chest with force.

A viscous heat covered him, running down his robes—already stained and now drenched—soaking his skin in thick, metallic liquid.

No veil of petals. No hood.

The blood hit his face, sliding down his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. It drenched his lashes and stained his lips. Warm. Thick. The dampness and iron, the intense perfume of flesh and death.

The severed head fell with a dull thud onto the roots.

Hadrian remained on his knees, frozen for an instant.

The magics stirred with a sudden whisper.

Potter magic swelled in his chest, like a shield of paternal warmth—ready to expand and protect him.

Lovegood magic shimmered with sudden tension, spiraling around him in a glittering coil, attuned to the break in balance.

Gaunt magic hissed, like a raging sea about to swallow—but stilled, satisfied.

And Peverell magic narrowed.

As if savoring the blood.

As if it recognized the taste.

It coiled around Hadrian like a cold, hungry mist, whispering between the spaces of flesh. There was no fear in it. There was silence. There was acceptance.

Hadrian swallowed.

The chief raven croaked softly, perched atop the root that held the severed head.

The other ravens cawed in reply.

Hadrian wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing the blood further across his skin.

The decapitated body of the Third-Eye Rabbit lay still among the gnarled roots of a tree with grey bark and blue lichen, its three eyes still open, glazed, staring into the void with a spectral gleam that had not yet faded.

Its fur was thick, matted with the freshly spilled blood—deep red with golden undertones—still warm, still pulsing with residual magic.

Hadrian stepped closer. The chief raven watched from a twisted branch above, wings slightly spread, as if testing the heir’s reaction.

There was something solemn in that moment. The world seemed to hold its breath.

He knelt. Looked at the small body, noting the head lying only inches away, its magical eyes still faintly glowing.

He felt no disgust, no pity—only the recognition that there was something valuable here. Sacred, because it had been life, and now it was death.

“If it died… I can’t waste it,” he thought. His inner voice did not sound entirely human, but something between reason and instinct.

He took the rabbit’s body in his arms, feeling the lingering warmth against his fingers.

Then he walked through the orchard, carefully picking a flesh pear—its surface smooth, pinkish, faintly warm, like living muscle.

Next, he tore off a small cluster of orange grapes hanging from a vine intertwined with silver thorns—they were small fruits, warm to the touch, releasing a pungent aroma between citrus and spice.

Lastly, he plucked two black plums from a tree whose branches hung like old fingers. When he pressed one between his fingers, the skin yielded, revealing a viscous white interior like the pulp of a lunar tomato.

With the ingredients in hand, Hadrian returned to the citadel, crossing the silent path, the ravens still croaking softly as they flew above.

The entrance to the ancestral kitchen creaked open, revealing a wide hall of stone and wood, shrouded in shadows and traces of old enchantments.

The central table was coated in enchanted dust that dissipated at his touch. There were empty hooks, rusted stands, and shelves that still held jars of dried herbs, shrunken roots, and pots sealed with magical seals corroded by time.

He set the ingredients on the rustic table.

It was then that he faced the rabbit’s body—and hesitated. He didn’t know how to skin. Never had to. Never needed to.

For a moment, he stood still, fingers resting on the blood-matted fur, feeling exposed in his ignorance.

But then Gaunt magic rose within him like a cold, inevitable tide. It climbed his spine like liquid serpent, coiling through flesh and bone, and, reaching his mind, merged with the Peverell—and the whispers came.

Ancient tongue. Shattered. Fury and precision.

“Exvoro sil’en draak.”

The words came like a prayer torn from the depths of the ocean.

His wand moved on its own.

The rabbit’s skin came away with surgical perfection, as if opened by unseen, experienced hands. The flesh pulsed with a faint pink glow. Hadrian watched, unblinking.

Magic floated around his shoulders like a spiraling veil. The skinned body levitated lightly under his command, and with a delicate gesture he traced lines in the air—clean-cutting spells dividing the carcass into exact portions. Bone, muscle, fat. He banished the entrails and filth.

He transfigured some smooth stones from the nearby wall into a deep container of dark clay, where the pieces of meat fell gently with soft, wet sounds.

Then, he sliced the flesh pear into thick wedges and placed them alongside the rabbit meat, the dark-red juice staining the bottom of the vessel.

The orange grapes were carefully crushed between his fingers—the thick golden juice running out with a scent that burned the nose and warmed the throat, spreading like a spicy oil over the meat.

Finally, he cut the black plums, scooping out the milk-white pulp and letting it fall in chunks over the mixture.

Turning toward the center of the kitchen, he faced the stone stove. It was ancient, carved with worn runes, its edges blackened by years of use. For a moment, he only stared, uncertain. How did one light it?

He ran his hand along the block’s side. Felt, with the tips of his fingers, an inscription in low relief, almost hidden under dust and layers of dormant magic.

At his touch, the rune glowed in deep amber.

With a muffled sigh, the fire ignited—blue and gold flames dancing beneath the grate like calm, living creatures, hungry yet patient.

Hadrian transfigured an old dented copper pot into a heavy, solid black iron cauldron, placing it over the magical fire.

The heat rose like an invisible perfume, making the ingredients react with soft bubbling sounds before even touching the pan.

He poured in the mixture carefully, watching it begin to cook—the meat absorbing the grapes’ spicy juice, the plums’ white pulp releasing a thick broth, the flesh pear exuding a dense, earthy, salty aroma.

The smell was… strange.

He stirred the broth with his wand, tracing slow spirals above the cauldron as if working a potion.

For the first time in countless years, the castle’s ancient kitchen breathed with life again.

The cauldron rose smoothly from the mouth of the stove, hovering in the air as if wrapped in a discreet magical mist, sending out soft waves of heat and a thick, enveloping aroma.

Hadrian guided it toward the stone table with a lazy gesture, the wood of the chair groaning under his weight as he sat. He didn’t bother conjuring a plate—there was only him, and the cauldron looked large enough to hold more than a single meal.

With a brief movement of his fingers, three pebbles lying loose on the floor began to change—their edges softening, their surfaces smoothing until they took on defined, imperfect shapes: a short-handled, wide-bowled spoon; a knife with rustic teeth; and a fork with slightly crooked prongs, its texture rough like volcanic rock.

He drew them toward himself, inspecting them briefly with a satisfied smile before plunging the spoon into the broth.

The scent that rose was intoxicating—warm, earthy, faintly sweet, with a metallic note that made the mouth water.

The meat of the Third-Eye Hare had changed color as it cooked—from a dark red, nearly black, to a golden-amber at the edges, the center still pink and succulent, releasing a thick fat that mingled with the other flavors.

The smell called back to a time before the industrialization of food—like a feast prepared by calloused hands in an enchanted home.

The flesh-pear had kept its rosy color, like muscles still alive. Cooked, it revealed tender fibers, almost like strands that fell apart at the touch of the spoon. Its taste was strong, dense—like roast meat with crushed roots and leaves at the bottom of the pot—a flavor that spoke of silent forests and sacrifice.

The orange fruits, which looked like grapes but pulsed with inner warmth, had partly dissolved into the liquid, releasing a peppery note—not searing, but invigorating, like a heat that filled the lungs and awakened the senses.

The soup steamed gently, each spoonful warming his throat like a protective charm.

The black plums, their skins wrinkled and flesh thick, had turned translucent. Heat had revealed their snow-white interiors, now tinged gold by the surrounding juices. They tasted faintly of wildflower honey, yet held enough acidity to cut through the richness of the meat. The viscous drops that escaped from them gave the broth a pearly shimmer that seemed almost ethereal.

Hadrian ate slowly, savoring each mouthful as if absorbing not just the nourishment but the stories of the creatures and plants now melding within him.

He felt fed not only in body, but in magic—in something that could not be replicated anywhere else in the world.

Then he heard the subtle scrape of claws against stone.

The ravens.

First came the smaller ones, pecking at the floor with hungry, piercing eyes. Then the lead raven landed beside him, staring at the cauldron with one glassy eye and the other gleaming. Hadrian chuckled lightly.

“Eat,” he said, voice warm and affectionate.

As usual, the echoes of the ravens answered, twisting the word into hoarse croaks:

“Eat. Eat.”

He snapped his fingers, murmuring a transfiguration spell, and more pebbles shifted with a pale glow into small, misshapen bowls.

They were deep, crooked, awkward—but magical enough to serve. With care, he divided the broth into portions, leaving whole pieces of golden meat and translucent fruit for the ravens.

The birds dipped into the bowls with a kind of reverence, pecking with precision as if they understood the ritual weight of the meal.

The magic of the citadel, awake and watchful, seemed to observe them in silent approval—as though the act of sharing the food with the ravens wove another layer into the bond between Hadrian and the living heart of the fortress.

And for a moment—wrapped in warm steam, contented croaks, and the beguiling scent of meat, fruit, and fire—Hadrian felt exactly where he was meant to be.

He let himself drop to the stone floor of the kitchen with a satisfied sigh, knees bent, bare feet stretched out before him, arms loose at his sides.

The transfigured chair—fashioned from a single elongated shard of stone and branches bound with magic—groaned under his weight, but the cold, solid stone of the floor felt more welcoming, as though the citadel itself accepted him there.

The fire’s warmth still pulsed in the stones of the nearby walls, and the soft light filtering through a moss-covered window gave the space an ancient, green-tinged calm.

For a while, he simply breathed. The aroma of the meal still hung in the air: the sweet blood of the Third-Eye Hare, the warm perfume of the spicy orange fruit, the earthy scent of the cooked flesh-pear.

His belly was warm, and his mind—for the first time in a long time—was quiet.

With a thought, he extended his magic like a thin, curious thread, gently prodding the unseen structure around him.

The response was immediate.

The citadel’s magic rose around him like a great serpent roused from deep sleep—it climbed through the cracks between the floor stones, coiled along rune-covered walls, slid across the ceiling in invisible, ancient filaments. Alive.

It touched his magic with care—and with recognition.

“You must have a name,” he murmured to the stones, to the air, to the living presence pulsing around him. “You can’t always have been called Castle Peverell. That would be… reductive.”

Peverell Magic stirred at the thought, as though a veil had been torn, as though a memory was about to surface.

He felt it slide along his spine—cold and hungry—shadows and emptiness curling over his skin like living ink, like dust from dead stars.

Then the name came. Not as a sound, but as a weight. A whisper murmured from the stone’s core, an echo in the walls:

Draumrholt.

Fortress of Dreams.

Hadrian blinked. The name thrummed in his chest. Ancient. Deep. Real.

“…it suits you,” he whispered, reverent.

And the citadel—Draumrholt—seemed to smile. Its magic enveloped him, filling his body, spirit, and soul in a gentle, comforting wave.

For a brief moment, it was like floating in still waters, where dreams themselves folded protectively around him. Then all grew calm again. The magic withdrew, content.

Hadrian turned his head. The lead raven still perched on the stone table, its glossy feathers stained with the dried blood of the magical hare.

Its eyes shone like wet coal—keen, intelligent.

“You need a name too,” Hadrian said softly. “I can’t keep calling you ‘lead raven.’ It’s unworthy of something like you.”

A memory of an old book on children’s names came to him—those hollow readings in the long nights when no one wanted him near.

A name surfaced, as if drawn from memory and affirmed by something deeper:

Hywel.

A Welsh name meaning “eminent.” A king’s name.

He spoke it aloud.

“Hywel.”

The raven spread its wings in a majestic sweep, as if the name clothed and defined it. It tilted its head and croaked—not as a mere bird, but as one who accepted the baptism.

Hywel.

The other ravens stirred, flying in low circles, their wings beating with restrained excitement. This was a ceremony. A name had been given, and it mattered to them.

Hadrian laughed—a true laugh, light, loosening his shoulders.

But when he brought a hand to his face, he felt the sticky crust of dried blood. His skin was stained dark red, his hair clumped in places, his clothes stiff where the hare’s blood had struck.

“Hywel…” he began, looking at the raven who now watched him closely. “Do you know if there’s cloth anywhere? An old tapestry, sheet, anything. It’s better to transfigure clothes from real fabric… And somewhere I can wash.”

Hywel spread his wings, gave a single croak, and took off in an elegant curve. The other ravens dispersed in silence.

Hadrian rose with one last look at the warm kitchen, the stone table, the crooked bowls now empty.

Then he followed the raven, his bare feet treading the cold floor, toward the unknown.

Chapter Text

Hadrian’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of the ravens’ wings as they flew.

The group advanced through the silent corridors of Draumrholt, beneath stone arches that closed overhead like ancient ribs.

The walls, covered in silver lichens and filigrees of dark moss, seemed to breathe in tune with the magical presence surrounding them. It was as if the citadel was awake, watching—not with hostility, but with an old curiosity held for centuries.

Hywel cawed once and flapped his wings, veering down a corridor to the right. Hadrian followed, attentive to the whispers of magic dancing around them like invisible veils.

The door they reached was made of dark wood, almost black, marked with deep veins like scars. It had a dull bronze handle shaped like a twisted vine.

When Hadrian reached out and touched the metal, it warmed beneath his fingers as if recognizing his presence. The door opened with an almost respectful whisper.

The room beyond was astonishing.

A massive circular structure dominated its center—a colossal piece that seemed part cabinet, part altar, carved from black wood gleaming like wet onyx. It rose nearly to the arched ceiling, curving gently at its top as if imitating the shape of a crown.

Ancient carvings and deeply etched images covered its entire surface, depicting scenes Hadrian didn’t recognize: night hunts beneath twin moons, ritual dances around floating embers, mirrors where eyes watched from within.

The room smelled of ancient cedar, enchanted dust, and a subtle hint of magical lavender—the kind of scent born only from the millennial coexistence of enchanted wood, arcane fabrics, and solemn silence.

The light there was soft and golden, filtered through enchanted crystals in the ceiling, creating diaphanous beams that danced like living dust.

The air had a welcoming density, as if every fiber of the walls absorbed echoes of the past, cradling Hadrian in an invisible embrace, both reverent and intimate.

He approached the first door of the gigantic circular furniture. The surface reflected subtly—not like a common mirror, but like the memory of a reflection on a dark lake under moonlight.

The dark wood—perhaps ebony or some type of oak from vanished forests—had carvings that seemed to shift shape as he neared: ancient symbols blinking in his vision, as if recognizing the lineage of whoever awakened them.

As he slid the door open, a soft whisper escaped the cabinet—not air or wind, but a murmur of fabric against fabric, as if garments long resting had stirred with a sigh.

Hadrian stepped back, surprised.

“How… in Merlin’s name are these clothes still intact?”

And then, as if answering his thought, Draumrholt itself stirred within him.

It was a silent but firm response. It did not come in words, but in sensations flowing like an invisible river down Hadrian’s spine: pride, zeal, obsessive care.

A warmth at the base of his sternum, as if something pulled him into the very heart of the fortress. And then the idea formed in his mind, complete.

Those clothes were not merely garments. They were living relics. Each thread sewn with protective spells, preservation enchantments, ancient runes repelling time, moth, and curse.

Even if someone cast an explosive curse straight at their chest, the clothes would not burn.
Nor would they fray.

Inside lay a meticulous arrangement of acromantula silk shirts. Each piece seemed alive.

The black ones gleamed like still-wet ink in soft light. The gray ones oscillated between lead and silver, depending on the angle of view.

There were bone-white ones, but without the coldness of death—they looked like clouds under a full moon.

And then, the boldest: a blood-red shirt that seemed to pulse with its own life; a golden one reflecting torchlight as if woven with molten gold flakes; and an emerald green so deep it evoked a cursed forest at dusk.

The embroideries were another universe entirely. Golden, silver, or even glossy black threads traced arabesques, ancient runes, spirals reminiscent of galaxies or enchanted flowers—almost like maps of spells stitched by hand.

Many of these laced shirts displayed carefully planned transparencies, not vulgar but with a charmingly indecent aesthetic—as if the Lord who wore them knew exactly the impact of revealing power through beauty.

Some had extravagantly wide sleeves; others, high collars with enchanted threads that quivered faintly when Hadrian approached, as if testing his magical affinity.

Nearby was another section where magically woven wool shirts and trousers occupied space. The texture was visually dense, thick, and cozy but without heaviness.

Some pieces bore patterns of faded clouds floating over deep purple backgrounds—like eternal twilights. Others, in dark blue, showed delicate spots of lilac and light turquoise, as if the fabric had captured pieces of the sky in different seasons.

Each of these clothes seemed to hold a trace of the beast that provided it, a primitive memory. Hadrian’s touch on one sent a faint shiver down his arm, like an old lupine instinct silently recognizing its new master.

Continuing his exploration, Hadrian opened another door, and the scene changed drastically: here were entire pieces made from dragon leather and extinct reptiles, carefully preserved.

There were shirts appearing carved from the scaly hide of a Hungarian Horntail, radiating warmth even untouched. Others, green with triangular patterns, recalled creatures that hadn’t walked the earth since before the age of wizards—beings whose hardened skins now served as garments of war and luxury.

The trousers, tight or loose, revealed the same texture variety: some smooth and polished, others rustic, with visible scales catching light in a subtle metallic gleam. Some had silver clasps shaped like fangs; others had edges etched with runes carved from enchanted bones.

Then came a section that nearly made him recoil—not from fear, but reverence: furs.
A long coat made from the immaculate pelt of a nundu hung like a cloak of lost royalty—thick, elegant, exuding lethal magnetism.

There were smaller pieces, no less impressive, made from the golden mane of a Nemean lion, its legendary resistance preserved by sewing spells that still vibrated faintly with raw energy.

A more delicate jacket, made of unicorn hide, had a pearl-golden tone, almost impossible to look at directly—as if protected by an enchantment preserving its purity. The touch of the fabric made Hadrian shudder; the magic there was sad, gentle, and ancient. A tribute to something beautiful that no longer existed.

The citadel seemed to watch him silently, its walls vibrating softly with the resonance of a time when dressing was a declaration of power, passion, and legacy.

Each piece was a fragment of the eccentric and overwhelming spirit of the ancient Peverell Lords—artists of existence itself, whose clothing was more than ornament: it was enchanted identity.

Hadrian lingered for long minutes, hungry eyes, eager fingers, and a racing heart. He knew, with certainty, he hadn’t even touched the cloaks or jewels yet. But even among the common clothes, he already felt surrounded by echoes of a history too powerful to be forgotten.

The cloak section revealed itself as a silent altar to the eccentricity and power of the ancient Peverell Lords.

Each piece rested isolated in its own compartment, as if mere proximity between them could cause magical friction—or perhaps jealousy, Hadrian thought with a slight smile.

Opening the first compartment, he felt a subtle perfume, made of ancient incense, enchanted dust, and feathers that should never have resisted time.

The first cloak seemed made of dawn. It was entirely composed of carefully aligned feathers, each from rare and protected magical birds.

The blue-pink feathers of the Diricawl—a plump, eccentric bird known to vanish in clouds of feathers when threatened—covered the base of the fabric like gentle waves of an enchanted sea.

Overlapping them, white and golden feathers of the Thunderbird—a majestic creature that controls storms and whose wingbeats generate thunder—shone like lightning trapped in fabric.

The hood, wide and rounded, was lined with softer plumes, giving the ensemble an air of ritual mystery. When Hadrian ran his fingers over the feathers, they stirred lightly, as if still remembering the sky.

The second cloak was wilder in design, almost ethereal. Made from Occamy and Fwooper feathers, it carried a volatile aura.

The iridescent feathers of the Occamy—a winged serpent that changes size according to space—shimmered in silver, green, and blue tones, creating a cloak that seemed always on the verge of mutation.

Alongside them, the feathers of the Fwooper—a tropical bird with a maddening song—added bursts of tropical colors: deep orange, electric lilac, acidic yellows.

Instead of sleeves, elegant side cuts allowed the arms to emerge, making the cloak dance around the body like a bird in full flight.

But it was the third that made him catch his breath.

Kept in a niche lined with enchanted black silk, lay the phoenix feather cloak. It was like looking at the eternal twilight between life and death. The feathers, perfectly symmetrical, ranged from fiery red to burning gold, each resting on white acromantula silk with the lightness and precision of a forbidden spell.

The hood was ample, worthy of a hierophant, and lined with shorter inner feathers, like a nest of ancestral warmth.

The cloak’s interior was embroidered with the finest lines of pure gold, forming phoenixes in full rebirth: wings spread, eyes closed, flames climbing their outlines. Each embroidery moved slowly, as if caught between two heartbeats.

Along the sleeves and hem, golden flames danced silently, immortal and perpetual, as if the fire rested only between one cycle and the next of destruction and renewal.

Hadrian stood still for long seconds, absorbing the cloak’s aura. It was not just a garment. It was a relic. A vestige of power, pride, rebirth, and ancestral madness.

A reminder that the Peverells did not fear the forces the world declared absolute. On the contrary—they wore them.

Hadrian stepped back, eyes rising automatically to the silver-live carved sign above the first section. Ancient letters, with fine strokes and organic curves, danced in the chamber’s dim light.

Enda Peverell.

The name seemed to reverberate in his mind like an echo from immemorial time—the Lord who wore feathers as if they were coats of arms, who crossed battles and rituals wrapped in living plumage.

There were other feathered cloaks behind translucent dividers, as lavish as the first, but Hadrian moved away with the reverence one grants a temple.

There would be time to study them. Now, it was as if something else was calling him forward.

The gallery’s second section was shrouded in an almost intentional gloom. Not from absence of light, but from its absorption.

Approaching, Hadrian felt the temperature drop slightly. It was like entering a petrified celestial vault.

The first piece hung motionless, like a veil of ancestral darkness. Made of silk from an extinct and ancient species—perhaps a long-lost predecessor of modern acromantulas—the fabric was black as a moonless sky but with a supernatural delicacy.

At the slightest touch of light, the surface revealed blue and violet reflections, like the mist covering the eyes of the dead.

Scattered across the fabric, tiny diamonds had been embroidered in galactic patterns—not random, but arranged like true spiral galaxies, star clusters, and even black holes represented by meticulously calculated empty spaces.

The cloak’s cuffs were militarily precise, fastened with multicolored pyrite buttons that seemed to contain prisms within prisms, a fusion of old gold and rainbow in stone. There was something reverent and eternal in that piece—like wearing the night, taming it, and keeping it close to the body.

The second cloak, at first glance, seemed silver. But Hadrian soon realized the subtlety: it was made of the same magical silk, layered finely.

Each layer bore constellations embroidered with different precious stones—some familiar, others Hadrian would not know how to name.

The outermost layer shone with white and green opals, like a sky of frozen auroras in time.
The layer beneath bore garnets red as dying stars, and deeper still, dark emeralds outlined unknown constellations that seemed to form living patterns, slowly rotating.

The hood was also layered, like the shell of an ancient planet, giving the piece an almost mythological presence.

There were others. Each cloak seemed to contain a piece of the firmament. One bore amethysts pulsing like distant nebulas; another seemed to hold star sand embroidered with platinum. All magnificent. All untouched by time.

But at the center of the wall, beneath a magical dome of enchanted glass, rested the piece that seemed made from the very absence of everything.

The cloak was composed of a fabric Hadrian had never seen. Neither silk, wool, nor leather. Its surface was so black it reflected no light. Instead, it absorbed everything around it, as if made of liquid void.

It was like staring into the interior of a black hole, the antimatter of creation. Yet it moved slightly, like a living fluid. The folds slid over each other like shadows in a breeze no one else felt.

The embroideries were almost imperceptible at first glance, but Hadrian saw them when the light tilted at a specific angle: ultra-fine lines made of unicorn hair—silver, pure, slightly iridescent—stitched astral symbols and rituals of containment, protection, and dominion.

At the center of the chest, held by a brooch as dark as the cloak itself, was a fragment of meteorite—made of the same enigmatic ore as the citadel’s protective stone.

The rock’s inner glow seemed to pulse in harmony with Hadrian’s heart, as if something ancient recognized his lineage.

Above that section, carved in living silver on the dark stone, read: Tadgh Peverell.

A name sounding like muffled thunder, like a spell contained between worlds.

Hadrian felt a presence around him. As if, in that moment, Tadgh’s spirit watched him. Not with hostility. But with expectation.

For a moment, Hadrian imagined that Lord walking the citadel’s corridors, wrapped in a cloak that swallowed light, as if made from living night itself.

Moving carefully, his eyes were drawn to other equally imposing compartments—each marked with a different name, separated as if each Peverell Lord deserved their own altar.

It was a sanctuary of garments and arcane vanities, where each piece seemed to hold the essence of its wearer.

But then, as he reached to open another compartment, something more mundane pulled him back to reality: the wet, viscous touch on his sleeve.

He lowered his eyes.

Blood.

Darkened stains slowly drying on the fabric of the shirt he had barely noticed wearing. Dirty, hardened, almost black under the soft light of the enchanted room.

His eyes scanned the surroundings for something practical. And then he noticed: a small ancient rune, discreetly carved on the side jamb of the cabinet, in the shape of a spiral crossed by a diagonal line. It pulsed gently, almost imperceptibly, with amber light.

Hadrian reached out and touched it.
Draumrholt’s magic responded immediately—whispering through a warmth rising up his arm and resonating to his chest. He closed his eyes, guided by instinct.

“Travel clothes,” he murmured, low and firm.

The gigantic cabinet responded. A slight tremor ran through its base, like the creaking of an ancient trunk stirred by the wind.

The doors spun with an almost imperceptible whisper, as if the woods moved on enchanted cushions. When it finally stopped, a new dark wooden door stood before him, smooth, unadorned—only a small leaf-shaped carving.

Hadrian pulled the door carefully.
Inside, there were clearly practical clothes, although no Peverell Lord seemed capable of giving up eccentricity and opulence, even in simplicity.

The piece he chose was a brown silk shirt, made from a rare magical silkworm variety cultivated in southern Asian forests, recognizable by its subtle shine and fresh touch. The silk was thick, firm, but as light as an autumn breeze.

Copper embroidery drew oak leaves and intertwined branches, and a delicate round lace collar softened its appearance. It was perhaps the most discreet piece he had found so far.

Below it, a pair of heavy cotton trousers, almost black, hung pleated on an ebony hanger. The hem was reinforced, and on the inner waist, runes embroidered by hand in silver thread bore charms against cold, dampness, and even magical insects.

The cotton had a velvety touch and was woven in a spiral pattern barely perceptible to the eye.

He found no shoes—apparently the Lords preferred to conjure them when needed. But what caught his attention was a side drawer.
He pulled it with a soft click.

Inside, neatly folded men’s underwear. He picked up a pair of plain black cotton briefs, smooth and comfortable. Turning them over to examine, he almost laughed out loud: several protective runes were embroidered around the waist and back—some to repel curses, others to absorb impacts.

With a look both amused and astonished, Hadrian thought this piece probably offered more protection than some goblin armors.

Carrying the clothes carefully away from his body, so as not to stain the clean fabrics with blood or soot, he turned toward the ravens.

“Show me a place to wash, please,” he said softly.

The ravens stared at him for a moment, as if judging him silently. Then Hywel spread his wings and flew out the door, the others soon following.

Hadrian followed, his steps firm on the polished stone floor, the clothes cradled like a sacred treasure in his arms.

Hadrian followed Hywel and the other ravens in silence.

The corridors grew taller and wider, the arches resembling the ribs of a sleeping creature, and the air seemed denser with each step. Silver lichens and thick moss still adorned the edges of the walls, but now polished stone columns stood with almost faded engravings — ancient names, silent vows.

They reached a large dark wooden door studded with silver. The ravens stopped. Hywel let out a short, hoarse croak, as if announcing something solemn. Hadrian pushed the door slowly open.

The first room, lined with light stone, resembled a royal bathroom — surprisingly functional.

There was a basin carved from beige granite with copper details, an aged mirror framed with ornate bronze ivy leaves, and a white marble toilet — luxuriously strange.

Its edges were adorned with aged gold, and Hadrian almost laughed upon seeing the delicately carved runes around the base and on the inside of the lid.

A combination of protection, purification, and… safe disposal of magical substances, perhaps.

There was plumbing. And it was magical.

Still fascinated by the absurd detail of ceremonial runes on a toilet, Hadrian passed through the inner door to the bathing chamber. There, silence embraced him once again.

It was a vast, almost reverent hall where architecture bent to function like sculpture. The bathtub was actually a pool of polished black marble, inset into the floor like a silent mirror.

The rim was rounded, carved with aquatic spirals and arcane symbols almost worn away. The high ceiling held a blackened vault, dotted with tiny crystal inlays resembling extinguished stars.

On the walls, hooks and benches were sculpted directly from living stone, as if the citadel had molded its own innards for the comfort of the Peverell.

The metals present were a bluish-gray tone — probably runed steel, resistant to heat, humidity, and living magic.

The taps took the shapes of magical beast heads: dragons with dull ruby eyes, long-beaked phoenixes with metallic feathers, and creatures Hadrian had never seen before. They stood inert, like sleeping guardians.

He approached the carving on the floor, an ancient rune partly hidden by golden moss. The Magic of Draumrholt pushed his perception toward it — a gentle gesture. He extended his hand, letting his magic flow in a warm whisper.

The beasts came to life.

Hot water began to gush from the magical mouths, bubbling and spraying in controlled jets. Steam rose like a thick, aromatic curtain — the scent of wet stone, ancient resin, and something sweet like crushed spring leaves.

The warmth filled the room, caressing Hadrian’s tense muscles.

With a tired sigh, he removed his tunic and bloodstained shirt. He grimaced as the fabric stuck to his skin — the blood of the Three-Eyed Rabbit was dark, thick, and partially clotted, with a faint golden shimmer.

Finally, he took off his dirty pants, left wearing only the mithril chain.

The steam’s light touched it, and the links floated lightly, as if rejecting the heat of the world. The chain was silver with a moonlit gleam, but there was something ancestral in it — as if it belonged more to the world of tales than to that of men.

It did not weigh him down. But its presence was constant, solid, like a vow.

The Gaunt crest, fused as part of the clasp, seemed to have absorbed the moisture and gained color. The shark at the center of the black circle moved subtly, as if floating in invisible water now filling the air. The crest’s background seemed to breathe under the warm light.

The magic within it pulsed — proud, icy, ancient as the ocean.

Hadrian then stepped into the pool. The water awaited him, inviting. Upon entering, he felt every drop penetrate his skin like a healing ointment. The temperature was perfect — neither hot nor warm, but enveloping.

He submerged slowly. The mithril chains floated around him like silver serpents, and the Gaunt crest shone beneath the water, even more alive, as if it had found the habitat where it was born.

The water filling the stone pool had a milky greenish hue, but there was no moldy or dirty smell.

On the contrary, a light mineral and fresh scent — almost like rain freshly fallen on ancient rocks — hung in the air. The steam was thick but not suffocating.

It moved slowly like enchanted veils, wrapping Hadrian’s body with a warm, welcoming softness.

Submerged up to his shoulders, Hadrian let out a long sigh. The warmth of the water penetrated deep into his muscles, loosening invisible knots of tension and exhaustion.

He watched, fascinated, as dark strands of blood ran from his skin and slowly dissolved — then vanished completely as they blended with the enchanted water. As if the bath not only cleansed but devoured the blood.

For a moment, Hadrian searched for soap — instinctively looking around for bottles or bars — but there was nothing. No glass bottles, no ceramic pots, no scent of herbs or perfumes.

Resigned, Hadrian dipped his fingers into his own hair. The texture was stiff, sticky in some parts. He frowned.

He began rubbing the strands under the flow of water from the dragon-shaped tap and soon felt the water running darker — brownish-red — between his fingers.

The natural foam forming there was not white but a dirty beige, containing small residues that made him shudder. Tiny bits of flesh. A whitish thread that could have been a tendon. A flake he recognized as part of the Three-Eyed Rabbit’s hide.

Nausea almost came. He breathed deeply and kept rubbing.

His hair was so tangled the process was almost painful. The enchanted water helped, but he had to pull, tear some strands, insist.

When he finally felt clean enough, he rose from the water slowly. It ran off his body in hot, heavy streams, and his skin shone with a new paleness, almost ethereal.

Hadrian emerged from the water slowly, warmth still tingling under his skin, the mithril chains sliding gently in lazy spirals around his chest and arms.

The room was cloaked in mist, steam drifting in opalescent swirls, and for a moment he simply stood there, breathing.

Droplets slid from his tousled hair and pale skin, tracing down his collarbone, following the curve of his ribs until they dripped onto the dark marble.

He noticed, with a faint expression of disappointment, that he had not conjured even a towel. He raised an eyebrow, resigned, preparing to improvise — when the crest engraved on his chest, where the mithril chains rested, glowed.

A subtle pulse of deep blue light, ocean-bottom dark, silently echoed from the Gaunt emblem. The shark symbol, carved with ancestral precision on the metal surface, seemed to spin on itself, alive.

The chains responded, sparkling like living silver. And then… the water simply slid off his body — as if repelled by the very nature of the magical heritage he carried. Within seconds, Hadrian was dry.

Surprised but not shocked, he lowered his eyes to the crest and placed his fingers on it, feeling the cold, pulsing surface as if the metal breathed.

The Gaunt Magic awoke at his touch. It was not an explosion — it was something deeper, sinuous and dense, like the tentacles of a kraken waking in the depths. It wound around his skin, traveled up his spine, coiling inside him, possessive, instinctive, dark as the night sea.

Hadrian smiled, a light, intimate, almost conspiratorial smile.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his hoarse voice soft against the damp stone.

With his body dry and magic silent around him, he moved toward the clothes he had carefully left on a carved bench along the wall.

He first took the black cotton underwear, soft and firm, marked by small protection runes discreetly sewn on the waist and sides — more protected than many armors, as he had thought before.

He dressed naturally, feeling the magic adjust to his body like a second skin.

Then, he lifted the magical silk shirt, made from the rare enchanted silkworm variety.

The fabric was velvety brown, with subtle shades of burnt amber, and almost imperceptible embroidery of leaves in bronze and old copper winding along the sleeves and hem. The round collar was adorned with a slight darkened lace, like enchanted webbing, soft to the touch but resilient. As he wore it, he felt the fabric shape itself to his body with magical precision, molding to his skin as if made to measure.

Finally, he picked up the nearly black cotton pants, thick and well-cut, with a firm and comfortable texture. Inside the waistband, ancient runes were embroidered with silvery-gray thread, arranged in spirals — protections against cold, heat, humidity, and sudden weather changes.

The pant legs fell straight but elegant, fitting Hadrian’s body without losing their rustic and practical look.

Barefoot on the still-warm marble, he looked like a living shadow of an ancient lineage — the mithril chains now resting silently, the Gaunt crest still gleaming with contained pride at the center of his chest.

Hadrian left the bathing chamber with calm steps, the air still thick with vapor behind him. The torchlight danced on the wet stones of the corridor, casting golden reflections on the black walls of Draumrholt.

The mithril chains on his wrists — now clean, shining, and fitted to his skin with the precision of something alive — tinkled softly with every movement.

Hywel waited for him at the threshold, his black feathers still damp and his golden eyes alert. The other ravens gathered silently around Hadrian, and together they proceeded through the corridors toward the kitchen.

Upon entering, the room still carried the scent of old wines and magical earth. The kitchen seemed swallowed by time, and for a moment, Hadrian simply contemplated it.

The blackened stone floor and the aged wooden furniture exhaled silent stories. He chose a spot between two fallen pillars, pointed his wand, and whispered:

“Scourgify.”

The spell crackled softly, magical soap bubbles blossoming in smooth, translucent spirals. They spread out, cleansing the impurities and revealing the rustic shine of the stone beneath centuries of dust.

When the place was clean, Hadrian sat right there, crossing his legs with an almost ritualistic serenity.

With careful movements, he touched two smooth stones beside him and, with a murmur of transfiguration, turned them into a slightly faded sheet of brown paper and a simple, slightly crooked pencil, its tip sharp and dark as charcoal.

Holding the pencil firmly, he began to sketch out:

List:

— Check if Draumrholt already has ingredients for the ritual, or if I’ll have to buy them.

— Explore and catalog the citadel’s rooms. Prioritize central chambers.

— Provide permanent furniture. Transfigured pieces are unstable.

— Prepare the visit to the Potter house.

— Buy paper, quills, and ink to write to Luna.

— Acquire everyday objects: plates, cutlery, towels, buckets, soap.

Satisfied with the organization, Hadrian exhaled slowly. He was about to put away the paper when a sudden wave of tension reverberated through the stone beneath him — a silent but clear warning.

Draumrholt was alerting him to an intruder.

Chapter Text

He rose at once, the paper still in his hand, his body awakening like a blade drawn from its sheath.

He did not need to speak — Hywel was already beating his wings, taking flight with a harsh caw. The other ravens scattered, beaks open in raucous cries of alarm.

Hadrian followed, his feet almost gliding across the stone floor.

Anger rose swiftly, thin and hot, like liquid venom.

Hadrian reached the citadel’s entrance like a storm held in check.

The gates stood half-open. Before them, dozens of black ravens formed a circle, wings slightly spread, heads lowered, eyes gleaming.

At the circle’s center, a small tawny owl trembled, feathers puffed in fear. It tried to take flight, eyes fixed on Hadrian — but was continually grounded by two larger ravens, one on each side, pecking at its wings with care yet without mercy.

Hywel, imposing, stood at the front, wings slightly raised, head bowed. His gaze was a silent judgment.

Hadrian stepped closer.

The owl gave a faint hoot, its head twitching toward him. In its talons, clutched tightly, was a letter — sealed with red wax bearing the crest of Gringotts.

Hadrian arched a brow, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Gringotts…”

He drew nearer to the owl, still trembling beneath its ruffled feathers, and reached out slowly, as one handling a fragile artifact on the verge of shattering.

The bird froze at his touch, stiffening completely as the mithril chains — alive as serpents — began to move. They slid slowly down Hadrian’s bare arm, catching the light of the ancient torches, until they coiled with glacial precision around the owl’s thin legs.

One — bolder than the rest — touched the bird’s breast with its ethereal tip, as though tasting the aura and origin of its magic. It felt it. Weighed intentions. Searched for any trace of treacherous sorcery. And only when it found nothing but a faint layer of tracking and protocol charms did it retreat in silence, vanishing beneath the sleeve of his silk shirt.

The owl, still petrified, gave a short, tense hoot — as if in thanks for having survived.

Hadrian took the parchment, sealed with the dark red wax of Gringotts. Snapping the seal with a dry crack, he unrolled the letter and read, his eyes tracing each word with surgical precision:

‐‐‐

To the bearer of the Lordships of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Peverell, and of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Gaunt,

As stipulated in the Blood Treaties between Gringotts and the Wizarding Nation of Britain — signed in iron and flaming runes in the year 1253 of the Draconic Era — we hereby inform you that the Supreme Wizarding Court, the Wizengamot, has been formally notified of the magical activation of your blood titles.

It is therefore expected that Your Lordship will be present at the deliberative session next Monday, to be held in the Grand Magical Court of London, for the formal declaration of your intentions regarding the hereditary seats under your rightful claim.

Furthermore, by goblin protocol and magical secrecy clauses, Gringotts is not obliged to disclose to the Wizarding Nation the identity of the one who received the Lordships, only the confirmation that they have been claimed and recognized by blood, magic, and lineage.

May your enemies tremble before your rise.

With due respect,

Thurvak

Account Manager for the Gaunt and Peverell holdings

Keeper of the Pacts of Gold and Blood

---

Hadrian read the letter once. Then again. And once more, his eyes fixed on the words as if expecting them to shift before him.

But the meaning was clear. The political wheel of the magical world had begun to turn in his direction.

The Wizengamot — the highest court of magical law, composed of elders, lords and ladies of ancient houses, judges, masters of arcane law — a millennia-old relic of a feudal order dressed in the veneer of wizarding civility.

He remembered the books. Knew that, in his world, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot was Albus Dumbledore — at least before the war.

Thinking of Dumbledore was like thrusting a hand into burning coals.

Gratitude — yes. For the protection in dark years, for the attempt to save a world that seemed determined not to be saved. For dying for him. For making hard choices.

But gratitude was a fragile thread compared to what seethed beneath: anger.

For having deceived him.

For shaping him as if he were a weapon to be honed.

For not trusting him enough to tell him everything.

For letting him be thrown to the lions as a child.

For condemning him to be a legend.

The magic around him responded as though his fury were a chant:

Potter Magic glowed beneath his skin, embers burning against the flesh, sparking with fierce protection and unspent grief. Hadrian’s muscles tightened, his breath grew heavier. It was the anger of a father who had failed to save his own child. It was the fire that ignited justice.

Lovegood Magic whirled around him in slicing winds. Invisible bells chimed, dangling from threads that existed only in the space between worlds. Sharp winds, almost laughing, circled his head. The air shimmered with shades of acid green and incandescent pink. The magic whispered malicious secrets.

Gaunt Magic roared. It did not merely stir — it snarled. Tendrils of dark, salt-laden energy coiled around him, like a leviathan twisting beneath the waves, ready to shatter ships with a single lash of its tail. The Gaunt crest upon his chest chilled, touched by an ancient fury. It whispered archaic incantations — spells to corrode bone, dissolve flesh, turn blood to venom and lungs to salt.

Peverell Magic, however, did not roar. Did not burn. It weighed. With the same inevitability as gravity pulling the soul downwards. It seeped into his skin, bones, and thoughts, merging with Draumrholt like a possessive lover. It was the hand that gripped the scythe, the final judgment that does not shout — only decrees. It promised that Albus Dumbledore would never set foot upon the stones of the citadel. It promised vengeance with the coldness of eternity.

Hadrian stood still, the letter still in his hand. The mithril chains now wrapped firmly around his wrist like living bracelets. The ravens had returned to perch around him, Hywel atop a stone, gaze fixed toward the overcast sky.

The Wizengamot session was drawing near.

And the wizarding world would soon begin to learn what it meant to wake forces long forgotten by generations.

Hadrian breathed deeply.

The air filling his lungs was cold and heavy, laden with the same ancient energy that pulsed through the black stone walls of the fortress, through the dormant vines of the orchard, through the unseen roots trembling beneath his feet.

But what truly filled him — what coiled like liquid serpents through his bones and nerves — was magic. Living magic. Ancestral magic. Magic in restrained fury.

He felt it stir within him like an army poised to march—and also beyond himself, brushing against his skin, his aura, his soul. As though the world around him was no longer made of stone and earth, but of veils of energy whispering in tongues that did not belong to this time.

He closed his eyes.

And let go.

He let his own magic—still young, yet carrying scars and depth—rise from his core and intertwine with the others.

The contact was not gentle—it was overwhelming. Like falling into a raging sea and discovering the sea wanted you. His entire body shivered. His hair stood on end. An involuntary tremor ran down his spine as he became a bridge for those vast, ancient forces.

The magics of the Bloodlines—Potter, Lovegood, Gaunt, and Peverell—were there.

Potter burned like a red storm behind his eyes, offering embers of courage and protective fury, the battle cry of generations who had risen even when everything urged surrender. It was ancestral flame and sacred thunder, embracing Hadrian with promises of unyielding loyalty—yet always with a trace of sorrow, as if the bloodline still mourned every son lost in wars that should never have been theirs.

Lovegood came as an enigmatic gale, its ungraspable colors dancing at the edges of perception. It was magic of thresholds, of doors between worlds, brushing his skin like living paint and murmuring secrets with the taste of delirium. It was the most chaotic, yet also the most curious. It did not seek to possess him—it sought to understand him. And that was far more dangerous.

Gaunt was another matter entirely. It came as the muted roar of black tides. It coiled around his heart like a kraken around a sinking ship. It was salt, it was dried blood, it was a scream drowned beneath the waves. It wanted to brand him, to claim him, like an empty throne demanding its king. It whispered spells of ruin, of bones snapping beneath flesh, of eyes torn out in the name of honor. And yet, for some reason, it held back. It waited.

And Peverell—oh, Peverell magic was an abyss of shadow and purpose. It was the absence of light in the hearts of dead stars. It was the void with a will of its own. It did not embrace him—it consumed him slowly, as if shaping him in secret. It wanted everything from him—not only his body or power, but his fears, his desires, his very essence. There was obsession in it. There was devotion. But there was no haste. It knew he was inevitable.

These magics, these forces, wanted him. And still, they restrained themselves.

Only thin strands of power seeped into his core, whispers of strength caressing his magical center with the promise of something greater, more definitive. A fusion. A coronation. A ruin—or an ascension. Perhaps both.

His body trembled. Lightly breathless, Hadrian had to summon conscious effort to seize the reins. He was not merely a vessel. He was will as well.

With an inaudible whisper, he calmed the magics. One by one, as if taming mythical beasts with the touch of an emperor. The fortress seemed to breathe with him, as though the very stone had become flesh. He opened his eyes.

The owl was still in his hand—rigid as a branch, eyes wide, aura shattered from resisting the closeness of the magics. The mithril chains around Hadrian’s wrist still held a faint life, like metallic serpents filled with arcane curiosity.

Hadrian loosened his fingers. The owl let out a rasping, broken hoot, shook its feathers as though trying to shake off a nightmare, and lurched into the air, vanishing beyond the treetops.

He lingered for a moment, feeling the wind against his face, the damp breeze still carrying the scent of burnt leaves and ancient sap.

Then he turned.

And with steady steps, he entered the fortress once more, his garments still weighing faintly upon him, the mithril chains now silent—but present, like living scars.

There were decisions to make. Plans to weave. And old names to confront.

‐‐‐

The letter now rested upon the kitchen counter, beside an empty goblet and a forgotten apple — half-eaten, half-browned. The Gringotts seal still seemed to thrum with a vestige of goblin authority, but Hadrian ignored it for now.

He leaned against one of the great black stone ovens, slowly crossing his arms. The surface was warm, radiating an ancestral heat that seemed to come from invisible embers deep within the citadel, not from any common fire. It was a dry, comforting warmth — like the breath of a dragon that merely observes.

Hadrian lowered his head slightly, eyes fixed on the carved stone floor. Thinking.

The Wizengamot. There was still time until the session, but even if there hadn’t been — he would go. He would not run. He would not allow the wizarding world to decide his future without him. 

This was a chance few were ever given: to shape laws, to restructure the rot-eaten foundations, to rescue justice from the decayed skeleton of tradition.

He had ideas. From where he had come. From that broken world.

Would they work here? Perhaps. But he had to try.

Werewolves… his thoughts dragged heavily over that word. There was pain bound to it. Old memories, faces broken by prejudice, injustices carved into law.

If the legislation here was anything like before — and everything suggested it was — he would change it. One night a month should not condemn anyone to a life of exclusion and fear. One night. One instinct. It was not enough to brand someone a monster.

And the Muggle-borns?

Hadrian frowned. Without Voldemort to fan the delusion of purity, the situation might be better. But the hidden hatred, tucked behind smiles and “neutral” laws, was harder to confront. More viscous. Stickier.

More dangerous.

He would lay everything bare. With patience. With focus. But never alone — never alone. He knew that.

He ran a hand through his still slightly damp hair, disheveling it in an unconscious gesture. 

Picking up the list he had left on top of a pile of enchanted plates, he rolled the parchment firmly, studying it for a moment. A note in dark ink caught his eye: “Dead fairy wings (intact).”

Hadrian exhaled slowly.

Closing his eyes, he gave a faint nod to himself — a gesture mixing determination with irony — and reached out with his mind.

He prodded Draumrholt’s living Magic gently, like one might tap the shoulder of a sleeping creature, and asked silently:

"Are there dead fairy wings within the grounds?"

The answer came as an electric caress.

The Magic curled around him with an intimacy that made him shiver from heel to nape. It nuzzled against his core like a cat rubbing against its master’s legs — provocative, curious, content. Tiny sparks of pleasure flared beneath his skin, glittering under the bone. It was as if the very air around him grew lighter, more golden, and denser all at once.

Then it pushed him.

Not violently, but with firmness — like an arm wrapped in velvet, guiding him toward a specific direction. His feet moved without thought, already following the magical pull. Above him came the beat of wings.

Hywel.

The lead raven was already flying ahead, followed by others. They had perched upon the high lintels of the kitchen, but now they dove in sweeping arcs, as if they too had heard the question. As if they shared in the hunt.

The third raven twisted midair before following, as though dancing.

Hadrian felt the air in the kitchen change. Something had been set in motion — a route, a summons. The citadel murmured beneath his feet, pleased, almost proud.

And he, list in hand and heartbeat steady, followed the ravens through the broken doorway that led into the damp darkness of the stone corridors.

Hadrian descended the winding staircase, the same that led to the living library. The steps, worn by centuries and marked by the footprints of countless generations, creaked faintly under his bare feet.

The mountain’s cold stone exhaled moisture, as if it breathed. A soft, steady wind rose up the spiral, carrying the scent of dried ink, aged leather, and moss wedged deep into the rock’s fissures.

A narrow corridor revealed itself between the stair arches, hidden by the very geometry of the citadel. He hadn’t noticed it before — a small opening, as if it hadn’t existed until now. 

The crows did not hesitate; they dove through it, black wings brushing against the edges of the gap.

Hadrian followed them.

The corridor was short, but the air felt denser within. The floor grew rougher, the walls more damp. And then, emerging from the narrow passage, he found himself in a new chamber: the old Potions Laboratory.

It was not as vast as the library, but still impressive. The ceiling arched in black stone ribs, like the bones of some colossal creature. The mountain’s rock formed the floor and walls, carved directly from the very flesh of the world.

But there were scars: scorch marks, blackened areas, greenish stains of corrosion, acidic splashes that had eaten through the stone as if it were living flesh. Time, and the mistakes of those who had dared to experiment there, had left their memory behind.

Ancient cauldrons lay abandoned in one corner — their structures twisted, corroded, partly fused with the ground. There was a heap of melted, warped metal against the far wall, where wild magic had clearly broken free of control.

An old sense of danger lingered in the air, as though the very place remembered the muffled screams of some unwary alchemist.

But what dominated the space was the wall to the right.

From floor to ceiling, like a pagan cathedral, it was covered with shelves densely filled with potion ingredients. Jars, vials, glass boxes, runic trays — each containing some substance, or part of something, carefully labeled in an ancient, angular, precise hand.

Hadrian approached. Most common ingredients had been reduced to dust or dissolved into greyish liquid. Withered flowers had become shadows of themselves. Roots once alive seemed to crumble at the mere touch of time.

Some jars were empty, as if they had drawn the very essence of their contents into the glass itself.

But not everything had succumbed.

Roughly a tenth of the ingredients still retained their power. Substances heavy with magic — essence of mystical creatures, organs claimed in rituals, parts of beings whose very existence was unstable — remained there, inert yet dangerous.

Hadrian held his breath.

He saw dried Augurey tongues, their nerves preserved in amber oil. He saw troll eyes, clearly taken while still alive — the orbs still carrying a faint greenish glow, as though some lingering rage kept them alert. There was a griffin fetus, floating in a thick golden liquid, its tiny body only half-formed, with embryonic wings like wrinkled petals.

The magic of Draumrholt thrummed within his core, calling him forward, as if it knew exactly what he sought.

Hadrian followed the pull.

He passed shelves of crushed bones, translucent snakeskins, jars of black liquid that reflected his own face in distorted forms. Until, finally, he reached a section clearly cordoned off by warning runes.

There were about twenty shelves, each the height of a wardrobe, separated by runic tags marking the categories.

They were ingredients sourced from fairies.

The eyes came first: tiny, multicolored, floating in a translucent liquid. Faceted like living gems, each gave off a faint luminescence, like imprisoned stars.

The teeth were organized by diet. The carnivorous ones were sharp, needle-thin, white as freshly carved ivory. 

The herbivorous ones were broader, hollow inside, with veins of green running through them.

Fairy heads — eyeless and tongueless — were stored in individual jars, with labels noting age, origin, and magical type. Their hair still shone in metallic hues: jade green, liquid silver, deep amber.

The bodies came next — dried, shriveled, wingless. Fragile as autumn leaves.

And then, the wings.

Laid out like paintings in a perverse gallery, each was a work of art. Iridescent, translucent, with unique patterns of color and light that shifted as Hadrian moved. Some resembled stained glass from elven cathedrals, others the inside of sea shells.

But something was wrong.

The labels — carefully etched on silver plates — revealed their origin: most had been torn from the fairies while still alive. The magical cruelty left visible traces: the wings did seem more vibrant, yes, but something in them pulsed with violence, like a memory of pain.

Hadrian felt a shiver.

Pushing aside the most beautiful, the crows aiding him in silence, he found at the back a small jar of thick glass. Sealed with black wax and preservation runes, it seemed far more discreet.

The wings inside were less lustrous — a mossy, muted green, almost modest — but beautiful in their own way. Palm-sized, slightly curved as if they still remembered how to fly.

The label read simply:

“Wings — Sylvan Fairy — Death confirmed prior to extraction.”

Hadrian took the jar with reverence.

The magic of Draumrholt fell silent, satisfied.

He moved through the laboratory with cautious steps, feeling the thin, rarefied air hum with the faint energy still steeped into the place. The magic followed him like a living shadow — Lovegood magic, restless, awakened by his quiet intent.

When he shaped the wish, still wordless, to gather the necessary ingredients for the ritual, a shiver ran down his spine.

The air stirred in response: a faint wind swept through his damp hair, trailing in cool caresses down his neck and chest, guiding him onward.

It was not a precise direction, but an emotional whisper that slid over his skin, guiding him through corroded cabinets and shelves.

He stopped before a set of black glass display cases, reinforced with ancient spells. There lay an unnameable collection: parts of phoenixes.

It was not the feathers that drew his attention—though they were there, gathered in long bundles tied with golden thread. It was the organs. They were arranged with clinical, cruel precision.

There were phoenix hearts lined up in small translucent containers, suspended in amber liquid that pulsed faintly. Each heart gave off a soft golden glow, as if still capable of igniting into flame if touched.

The labels bore ancient dates, names written in magical ink—and Hadrian noticed, with a knot in his throat, that some dated back centuries.

Above them, phoenix brains floated like pale masses inside gelatinous jars. They had a whitish color with faint pearlescent sheens, fragile in appearance, as if touching them would profane something divine.

The viscera were separated on different shelves, organized by function: ochre-glowing livers, translucent kidneys laced with golden veins, blackened and shrunken stomachs, dried spleens and intestines, all preserved in magical solutions. Each container exhaled a distinct aura—an ethereal note of power, pain, and rebirth.

Then he saw the tears—four vials, set side by side upon a stone altar carved with runes. The crystal containers emitted a constant pearly glow, almost like lunar liquid.

But it was not their beauty that made him hesitate. It was the pain. Each vial vibrated with raw sorrow, exhaling a melancholy almost unbearable. These tears had not been given. They had been taken—wrenched directly from the tear ducts of a creature that is reborn through fire, but not without feeling.

Hadrian swallowed hard, thinking of Fawkes. His stomach churned at the idea that perhaps, one day, someone might have wished to take his tears for a ritual. With hands almost trembling, he picked up one of the vials and placed it carefully alongside the fairy wings inside the transfigured bag he had conjured.

The whisper of Lovegood magic returned, colder this time, a breeze climbing his spine, raising gooseflesh on his damp skin. The magic wanted more. It guided him toward the opposite wall, where the section dedicated to unicorns rested.

The shelf was vast, organized with almost obsessive precision. Silvery hairs were bound into bundles much like the phoenix feathers, long shimmering strands held by enchanted iron rings.

The horns were laid side by side like relics: each different, some small and slender, others long and spiraled, but all labeled with name, age, and location of collection.

There were also whole hooves, polished and gleaming like worked silver, some cracked, others perfectly intact. 

And then the organs: unicorn eyes floating in dark liquid, the globes far too large, with dilated pupils and silver irises that seemed to weep eternally. They held a calm glow, but something inside them screamed of stolen innocence.

Shriveled hearts and lungs, tongues arranged in carefully separated rows, alongside intestines and stomachs edged in pearl. Even pieces of flesh—of legs and haunches—were stored in runic wrappings.

And further on, he saw them: the silver jars. There were five of them, sealed with magical wax and containment runes. Heavy, imposing, each shimmered with the silvery, viscous contents within. Unicorn blood.

Dense as mercury, it slid in slow, hypnotic movements inside the jars. The energy it emanated was unnatural. Nothing in that blood had been given willingly.

Hadrian approached in silence, feeling a hollow open in his stomach. He was surrounded by fragments of beings that should dwell in sacred forests and be reborn in fire.

The weight of magical heritage, of responsibility, and of the ritual he wished to perform, pressed down with force. Even so, he knelt, chose one of the jars, and touched it. 

The metallic cold burned his fingers for an instant, and he did not hesitate. He placed the third item in the transfigured bag.

Three ingredients. The wings. The tears. The blood.

And a sepulchral silence hanging all around, as if all the creatures there—dead, torn apart—were waiting to see what he would do next.

Chapter Text

Hadrian left the laboratory in silence.

The stone door slid shut behind him with a dull, cavernous sound, and the dense darkness of the corridor swallowed him once more. But it wasn’t the darkness that weighed on him — it was the smell of blood, of preservative fluids, of organs precisely removed, of phoenix eyes still glowing faintly on the shelves. 

It was the memory of fairies with their wings torn away, of unicorn bodies split open in silent ritual.

He knew.

He knew it wasn’t his fault.

He knew the ancient Peverells had another way of seeing the world.

He knew that Peverell Magic was like them — indifferent, absolute, choosing its protected ones as death chooses the living: without justification, without remorse.

He knew, and yet, the sack of ingredients seemed heavier than stone in his hand.

The stairways echoed under Hadrian’s bare footsteps. The air in the citadel was cold here, brushing against his skin still damp from the bath, raising gooseflesh along his arms. Each step seemed to pulse with the dormant life of the place — as if Draumrholt were watching him in silence. Not with judgment. But with a quiet pain.

When he reached the ancient kitchen, still half-ruined, the soft light of enchanted embers in the chandeliers flickered faintly. He approached the great stone table, its surface darkened and scored with marks, and set the sack of ingredients down with a dull thud, as if the contents themselves sighed in relief upon being put down.

He was about to step away when the list of ingredients called him back.

He reached out his hand.

The parchment crackled under his fingers.

And then he saw it: beside Unicorn Blood, a note written in faintly glowing ink:

“Must be given willingly.”

Hadrian froze.

The air seemed to thin for an instant, as though the castle itself were holding its breath.

The jar he had carried — carefully sealed, filled with that silvery, vividly alive liquid — was now useless.

The blood inside… had been taken by force.

Sacrificed.

Killed.

It would not serve.

He stood there, staring at those words for long minutes.

The wavering light danced across the parchment, but Hadrian did not move. The list now seemed more alive than before — as if the ritual itself were judging what was acceptable.

At last, he let out a long, tired sigh, and said to the empty room:

“Looks like I’ll have to go find unicorns in the Forbidden Forest…”

His tone was a blend of sarcasm, resignation, and mild exasperation.

He nudged Draumrholt’s magic with his own — like giving the castle a magical elbow.

“You don’t happen to have a spare unicorn lying around, do you?”

He expected a dry silence, or perhaps a subtle jab in return. But what came was something else.

A wave of sorrow.

It rose through the walls, slid down the pillars, seeped through the enchanted beams. Draumrholt’s magic responded as though it had heard an unjust accusation, but not with anger.

With guilt.

With a grief so deep Hadrian felt his throat tighten.

The citadel was sad.

Sad that it could not offer him what he needed.

Sad that, even with all its power, there were limits.

Sad for having allowed so much innocent blood to be spilled in other times.

Hadrian closed his eyes for a moment and, without a word, let his magic pour from his skin, his bones, his core — let it flow like warm water and wrap around Draumrholt’s.

They blended.

Like interlaced fingers.

Like a silent caress.

Like comfort.

And he spoke, softly:

“It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to.”

The sadness wavered, softened — but did not vanish.

Instead, Draumrholt seemed to hesitate… and then something else stirred.

An ancient, deeper thread.

Peverell Magic.

The two currents touched like rivers colliding.

And Hadrian was pulled.

Not violently — but with the inevitable strength of a tide.

As if the fortress’s memories were swallowing him in reverence.

As if the ancient echoes were drawing him to see something forgotten.

Something that would speak of unicorns.

The kitchen air swirled, dense as a veil.

And Hadrian plunged.

…

The memory unfolded like spiraling mist, and Hadrian found himself once more in the potions laboratory… Yet not that laboratory. Not the place darkened by time, consumed by centuries of abandonment and the brutality of past experiments. This was the same space — and yet, it wasn’t.

The walls of the mountain’s living rock were still there, towering and cold, but now polished, reinforced with fine lines of silver inlaid into the natural veins, forming runes that pulsed softly in bluish tones. The floor, once coated in soot and burn marks, was clean and gleaming, a deep gray with a faint sheen.

The shelves, once decayed, were full, utterly overflowing, with vibrant, living, potent ingredients, each jar labeled in a firm, elegant hand. The scent here was strong, but not unpleasant: a pungent blend of magical earth, wilted flowers, and alchemical components, alive, pulsating.

In the center of the room, her back to him, stood a woman.

Tall, her posture as rigid as a spear planted in the ground. Her lightly wavy brown hair was intricately braided into a crown that seemed as much an adornment as a ritual protection. 

Her skin was pale as freshly cured parchment, except on the left side of her face. There, something had done its damage: from eyelid to jaw, the skin looked corroded, as if acid had once streamed down it long ago.

Over her cheek and part of her jaw, filling the void of lost tissue, was a whitish metal structure — almost like an artificial bone, moonlight-pale, perfectly molded to her face. Along the edges of the metal, real teeth were visible when she breathed deeply, as though part of her face remained exposed.

Her eyes were a bright, glassy gray, full of knowledge, power, and contained pain. They caught the ambient light and returned it with greater intensity. She wore thick black and red leather garments, clearly enchanted — visibly marked with runes of containment, protection, and magical sealing. Heavy, reinforced leather gloves encased her hands, with crystals embedded on their backs like catalysts or amplifying sigils.

Before her rested a cauldron made entirely of aged gold, its thick handles carved into the shapes of winged serpents, its base supported by three talon-like feet.

The woman inhaled deeply, then reverently lifted a mask — made of the same whitish metal as her face. She fitted it carefully. The piece covered her entire face and seemed molded to her features, with two opaque lenses where her eyes would be, made of reflective glass, and a front projection vaguely reminiscent of a short, smooth snout — not truly animal-like, but functional, a respiratory channel.

With a swift flick of her wand, she lit the enchanted flames beneath the cauldron. They were green, silent, winding as though alive.

The woman moved with flawless precision, picking up a thick glass jar filled with a white-gray liquid.

Milk of the shadow-throst ewe.

A creature extinct, according to history — and here was its essence.

The liquid hissed faintly as it poured into the gold cauldron, bubbling irregularly, forming small pockets of air that burst without leaving a scent. She did not hesitate.

Taking a bundle of lily-of-the-valley — exactly ten — she cast them in with precision, one by one, swirling them clockwise with her wand without touching the liquid.

The potion changed almost instantly: the grayish hue faded, giving way to a pure white, dense as fresh cream.

From the side, she took a small crystal vial containing a silvery, faintly pearlescent liquid. She poured it sparingly: hippogriff saliva.

The effect was almost explosive. The mixture in the cauldron began to quake, bubbling violently, rising and falling as if trying to escape.

But the woman did not retreat. Calmly, she lifted a woven wooden basket, removing from it twelve mandrake roots, each carved and cleaned, still moist.

She placed them in pairs, reciting silent words, her lips moving behind the mask. Each addition altered the potion subtly, until it began to glow faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the flames.

She then took a spoon of pure gold, its edges carved. Stirring slowly in a circular motion, she coaxed the ingredients into full integration. The liquid resisted, trying to escape complete union — as expected.

The woman waited, patient as one who had done this many times before.

She let the potion ferment.

Meanwhile, she moved to a small ceramic bowl and retrieved a vial of shimmering powder — ground fairy teeth, so fine it seemed to shine with its own life. 

She lifted the vial delicately, pouring its contents in a light circular motion, forming a silver veil that drifted onto the potion’s surface.

The effect was immediate.

The cauldron shuddered, the flames died out on their own, and the potion began to solidify.

A thick paste, pale pink and luminous, formed at the golden bottom of the cauldron, its texture velvety, almost ethereal. The woman studied it for a long moment, then gave a slight nod of approval.

She moved to the nearby table, unrolling a parchment and lifting a self-inking quill. In precise calligraphy, she wrote:

---

Paste to deceive the senses of unicorns.

Creates an illusory aura simulating childlike purity.

Apply to skin before any attempt at approach.

Duration: approximately thirty minutes.

Contraindications: do not use with predator-creature blood in the body.

—

Hadrian watched with restrained fascination.

The woman never looked at him — she was, after all, a memory — but her presence dominated the space.

She was practical, direct, powerful. And there was pain there, an old pain that the metal on her face did not hide. A pain that time had not erased, that alchemy had not solved.

But she went on.

Preparing a potion not to fool enemies…

But to deceive creatures of purity.

…

Hadrian returned to the real world like one surfacing after a very deep dive — eyes blinking, lungs hesitant, fingers clutching at reality as though holding on to an anchor. His hand braced against the edge of the dark stone table, cold to the touch, as solid as the ground beneath his feet.

His head spun faintly, a brief whirl of imbalance caused by the sudden shift in perception — as if the world around him were momentarily shallower, smaller, slower than the deep realm of magic.

The list floated before his eyes—written in a hand that seemed as ancient as it was inevitable. Names of ingredients pulsed with magical weight, echoes of forgotten ages. His gaze halted on one item, disbelief growing in his chest:

Milk of the shadow-throst ewe.

A creature extinct for centuries. Rare, wild, feared for its elusive nature and strange temper. And now he would have to find one. And milk it.

Hadrian let out a sigh that was almost a nervous laugh—a sound trapped between despair and irony. His shoulders sank slightly, and he ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the page as if it might change its mind if he looked long enough.

That was when he felt a gentle nudge against his leg.

Hywel was pecking at him with an eager, almost insistent rhythm, like one calling for an urgent walk—or perhaps an inevitable adventure. 

The raven’s garnet-red eyes gleamed with anticipation, and there was a youthful excitement in his stance that contrasted with his sleek, solemn plumage.

Hadrian arched a brow, still half skeptical.

“You’re joking… There’s actually a shadow-throst ewe around here?”

The answer came without words. A warm whirl of emotions wrapped around him—pride, joy, that breathless thrill of discovery about to happen. The citadel seemed to smile in every stone, every shadow, every echo.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was a short, surprised laugh, light on his lips. The citadel’s joy was contagious—a vibration that spread through his muscles, dissolving any lingering hesitation.

“Onward, then,” he said, still smiling.

The word had barely left his mouth before it was repeated, multiplied, turned into an echo.

“Onward,” croaked Hywel, his voice rough as ancient thunder.

“Onward. Onward. Onward…” came the others, an ancestral chorus crossing the corridors of time.

And Hadrian walked. The cloak moved around him as though it had a will of its own, and the ravens followed, flying low or hopping between the citadel’s stones. Bright eyes, sharp beaks, feathers dark as omens.

The living citadel unfolded before him—enchanted, proud, assured—and with every step, Hadrian felt certain he was heading in the right direction. Even if it meant seeking an extinct creature, even if the destination was uncertain.

He had a mission.

And he was not alone.

Hadrian followed the steady steps—and the black wings—of Hywel and the other ravens, crossing silently beyond the walled limits of the fortress into the outer lands of the citadel. 

The sound of his boots echoed softly on the uneven stone ground, overgrown with moss and petrified roots, as if time had tried to swallow it whole, but failed by a breath.

The Lovegood Magic brushed against his heels with tenderness, sending out delicate, almost shy gusts of wind that stirred his still-damp hair from the bath.

The surrounding buildings seemed carved from the same green-streaked stone as the ground—as if they had sprouted from the earth itself, raised by hands that shaped both stone and life with the same touch. 

Some houses were nearly intact, save for the rooftops, where broken tiles had slid into the dead gardens below. Others were half-collapsed, their windows covered by shriveled magical leaves that trembled faintly with the presence of ancient magic still within.

Soon, they passed a broader, flatter building nestled in a clearing littered with enchanted leaves. Hadrian peered through a shattered window—inside lay the remnants of stone-and-wood desks, magically reinforced. Shards of slate on the walls hinted at what had once been a classroom. 

The Lovegood Magic swirled suddenly there, whipping up dust and ashes. Children’s laughter echoed for a fleeting moment around him, so vivid that a shiver crawled up Hadrian’s spine—ghosts of a distant time, preserved only in magic’s memory.

As they went on, he spotted, far ahead, glass greenhouses rising like glimmering skeletons beneath the gray sky. There were at least four of them. Twisted metal frames still tried to contain the magical plants within.

Some seemed to move on their own—fugitive shadows passing between leaves that looked like eyes or slender hands. One greenhouse in particular had a wide crack in its roof, from which a thorny purple vine slowly wound itself around a nearby tower.

They crossed a narrow stone bridge over a stream of crystal-clear waters. Enchanted fish swam beneath their feet—slender, silver creatures, almost invisible, their transparent scales revealing their organs and tiny sparks of magic coursing through their veins. The sound of the water flowed like a low, serene melody, as if singing an ancient lullaby in a language Hadrian did not know. In the distance, he could see where the stream spilled into a dark lake, ringed by floating-root willows.

They followed a trail flanked by broken columns and faded runes. They passed old forges—dead embers, soot-stained ceilings, shelves bearing the nearly vanished shapes of tools. There was the smell of rusted iron and rotted ingredients. A half-collapsed laboratory exhaled the faint scent of burnt feathers and dried asphodel root.

Then, the walls were behind them.

Hadrian felt the magical pressure shift—not as though he were leaving the citadel’s protection, but as though he were entering another layer of it—older, wilder. 

The wards stretched as far as the eye could see, their layers of enchantment almost tangible in the air. A few gnarled, ancient trees seemed to bow ever so slightly as he passed, their trunks creaking as if they recognized the lineage in his blood.

And then, among the ivy-smothered hills, he saw it.

A monumental dome rose ahead, half-hidden beneath the thick canopy of magical trees. It was made of glass reinforced with veins of black stone and enchanted metal plates, fused like a gothic spiderweb. The dome’s top was partly cloaked in magical moss, but the windows still caught the filtered light from the sky.

Thick, carved basalt pillars supported parts of the outer structure, each etched with runes of containment and care. Around its base were small towers with barred windows—ancient watch or observation rooms.

From within came a warm breeze, carrying the unmistakable scent of enchanted straw, animal musk, and pulsing magic.

Here were the stables and the bestiary of the Citadel Draumrholt.

Chapter Text

Hadrian approached that vast, silent dome, his bare feet sensing the damp texture of the moss that crept into the cracks of the ancient stones. The ground beneath seemed to breathe against his skin, as though the very earth acknowledged his presence.

The protections stretched from his robes down to his bare ankles, sliding along his skin in warm spirals of magic, like invisible fingers whispering safety.

Around what he assumed to be the bestiary lay an old stone fence, thick, veiled in moist, heavy moss. The runes carved into its surface were nearly imperceptible, eroded by time and lichens, yet they still pulsed with living magic—Hadrian could feel the subtle vibration, like the low hum of a sustained note in the air. There was something sacred there, something ancient.

The weeds around had grown tall and wild, reaching almost to Hadrian’s shoulders. Thick grasses and sharp-edged leaves danced in the wind with a hissing sound, as if a thousand voices slithered among them. It was living vegetation, dense, protected by the citadel itself. Only the stone path—broad and winding—remained clear, as though Draumrholt itself kept it free, drawing the trail for its Lord.

Suddenly, a Third-Eyed Hare darted across the path with the swiftness of a shadow, its multiple eyes gleaming like polished gems. Its dark fur melted into the brush, yet Hadrian caught sight of at least half a dozen kits scampering behind, their many little feet nearly soundless on stone. They were as surreal as they were enchanting.

Hadrian stared, wide-eyed. In the outside world, such creatures were thought extinct—decades gone, perhaps centuries. And yet, here they were, running free, healthy, protected. The implications were staggering. If anyone knew… they would be taken, hunted, dissected. Just like the books in the library, the rare ingredients. But here, they endured. Untouched.

Draumrholt’s magic answered before he could even form the question. It rose from the earth like hot vapor, from the air like a whisper at his nape, sinking into him with a heavy, indescribable feeling. Certainty came like a truth planted directly in his soul: only Peverell blood could’ve stepped here without being torn apart. A living ward, cruel in its exclusivity.

Hadrian nodded slowly. That explained everything.

He walked on, feeling his feet sink slightly where the moss grew thicker. Above him, crows circled in wide arcs, their black feathers glinting against the dim sky of Draumrholt like liquid ink stains on an ancient gray canvas.

Soon, he reached the doors of the bestiary.

They were colossal—broad enough for a giant to pass through, or perhaps something greater still. The wood was dark, of the same sacred, stone-like kind as the fortress’s main gate, yet here carved with mastery into forms that nearly breathed. Chimeras entwined with winged serpents, hydras of many eyes glared at dragons with spread wings, griffons watched in silence. And among the familiar beasts, others Hadrian did not recognize—creatures with crystalline shells, beings that seemed wrought of solid shadow or mirror-like skin.

Yet none of them looked feral.

Even the most monstrous stood depicted with serenity, like slumbering guardians, not threats. There was beauty in the grotesque, and wisdom in the wild. The door itself seemed to pulse with a consciousness of its own. Waiting.

Hadrian drew a deep breath.

Then he stretched out his hand, ready to touch the wood and enter.

The doors of the bestiary swung open at his approach, not by his push. They moved on ancient hinges with a muffled groan, gliding smoothly—as though the very structure recognized him.

Inside, the air was warm and damp, heavy with the earthy scent of living soil and dry straw, tinged with a mineral note, perhaps from the enchanted iron bars that marked the inner pens. The ground was layered with soft earth and tufts of low grass sprouting irregularly.

As Hadrian stepped further in, the crows that guided him dispersed, alighting gracefully on the stone-and-metal fences that divided the space into vast enclosures—each larger than an entire floor of the Dursleys’ house.

But all were empty. No beasts. No sound, save the whisper of wind through high openings, the occasional rustle of wings, and the muffled rhythm of his own footsteps.

Then the silence broke.

From behind a stone partition draped in purple vines, Hadrian heard short, soft steps on earth. Instinctively, he raised his wand toward the sound, muscles taut, eyes narrowed. Magic surged with him, like an electric breeze, though Draumrholt’s aura remained calm, protective.

The creature that emerged was… strange. A bird the size of a turkey, with feathers shimmering in mutable shades of green, copper, and deep teal. It had three sturdy legs well set beneath it, and two distinct heads, each with hooked eagle-like beaks and restless eyes that swiveled in opposite directions, turning as if they beheld different dimensions at once.

It waddled closer with a gait almost comical, one head lifting inquisitively while the other inspected the ground. Upon reaching Hadrian, it sniffed through the slits of its beaks, and the two heads glanced at one another as though sharing a wordless secret.

Hadrian held still.

The bird uttered a guttural note, a doubled, entwined warble, then walked past him, uninterested. He exhaled slowly, then—driven by impulse—chose to follow.

They wandered through silent corridors and pens still unoccupied, each kept clean by some passive enchantment: no droppings, no stench of neglect. It was as if all was… waiting.

At the corridor’s end, the bird entered a broader chamber, its ceiling higher, lit by a circular aperture in the living stone above. There, the cooing and pecking of others echoed.

Dozens of similar birds roamed the packed-earth floor, some clustered together, others scraping at the ground, others lying over dark hay nests woven with strands that glinted like tarnished silver. Some laid eggs with a wet, heavy sound, dropping them carelessly before wandering away, as though maternity were a forgotten rite.

Those brooding upon eggs flared their feathers as Hadrian approached, the extra eyes upon their heads watching him with suspicion. Yet none struck. None pecked. They only… watched. Their feathers bristled slowly, like small hidden blades unsheathing for caution, then eased back again.

At the far wall of living stone, partly cloaked in lichen and faintly glowing moss, hung what looked like an ancient bronze plaque bound to the surface by magic. Time had corroded it, yet the letters still gleamed, etched by hand in an elegant script:

GALINHARDAS

(Gallus Gemmadus Bicornis)

Bred by Faolan Peverell, beast-tamer, gem-alchemist.

This unique lineage was forged through magical fusion enchantments and interspecies crossbreeding. 

Their feathers resist heat; their eggs contain greater nourishment than any known.

Red eggs with green stripes are fertilized.

Red eggs with yellow stripes are edible, laid and discarded by the Galinhardas.

Caution: during laying season, they may turn aggressive, especially toward those without authorized blood.

Hadrian traced the letters, feeling the old magic pulsing within, almost forgotten. The words “authorized blood” shimmered briefly beneath his touch.

He smiled faintly.

The creatures knew. Draumrholt knew. The citadel did not see him as an intruder, and that made everything feel stranger. And, somehow, truer than anywhere else in the wizarding world.

They were his inheritance, his ghosts, his beasts.

And now, they were beginning to awaken him.

Hadrian moved on through the circular hall of the bestiary, his slow steps marking the rhythm of his thoughts. The soft light from enchanted skylights spilled across the earthen floor, warming stone and setting the dust motes to dance like tiny golden fireflies. The crows, now quieter, circled higher above, as if paying respect to the moment.

The hall ended in an arched passage leading to a broad pasture. The living-stone fence stretched beyond a gentle slope, moss dripping like lichen among its nearly hidden runes.

Crossing the threshold, Hadrian was struck by a deep sensation of presence—as if the field itself lived with an ancient, pulsing, but peaceful magic.

And there, grazing under the mild sun, they stood.

Nearly thirty shadow-throst ewes.

Scattered across the wide pasture, the massive animals moved with a grace that defied their colossal size. Each was as large as an elk, their bodies dense, muscular, perfectly attuned to rocky terrain and hidden valleys.

Filtered sunlight through the warded skies made their bone-metal horns glimmer in soft, ethereal hues, like aged silver or smoked glass.

Their dense wool fell in heavy waves, in shades as dark as human sight could grasp: opaque black, charcoal gray, burnt brown, and an ashen blue that appeared only when the sun struck at certain angles.

In the breeze, tufts swayed, exhaling a moist, earthen scent—like enchanted moss after rain—warm, alive, reassuring. Hadrian inhaled deeply, the fragrance clinging to his throat like an ancient memory.

Each beast bore four triangular ears, moving independently, catching distant sounds, magical whispers of wind, perhaps even Hadrian’s own steps. For a moment, the upper pair turned toward him in silence before resuming their subtle dance. Beneath them, the main eyes—large and opaque—seemed absorbed in grazing; yet it was impossible to ignore the secondary eyes scattered over their bodies, blinking, swiveling in odd directions, some hidden in wool, others visible in uncanny places like near the hip or above the tail. Those eyes, Hadrian noted, never ceased.

One of the Shadow-throst ewe, as it tore up a tuft of tall grass, opened its mouth in four sections—like the petals of a dark flower. Inside, flesh gleamed moist and pale, and a forked tongue flicked briefly before vanishing under a steady, wet chew. The sound was organic, hypnotic, laced with small cracks, as if the enchanted plant resisted before yielding.

Hadrian stopped, wonder-struck, as a female bent gently to let her calf stumble toward her legs, nestling beneath her wool. The calves were awkward, frail-bodied, their coats patchy and pale gray. Small, smooth blue buds of horn were just sprouting upon their heads. One gave a soft bleat, almost a sigh, and warmth swelled in Hadrian’s chest. If there were calves… there would be milk.

He smiled to himself. It was not yet time to try milking, nor did he know if such a creature would allow it. But to know they lived, in peace, thriving in secret—that alone changed the tone of his day.

He walked to the pasture’s edge, where a stone plaque lay half-buried under moss and vines. Brushing a branch aside, he read:

---

Shadow-throst ewe.

(Ovibos Umbraviris)

Origin: Acquired by Faolan Peverell, directly from the wild.

Conservation Status: Extinct in the outside world. Thriving under protection.

Hadrian’s fingers traced the name “Faolan Peverell” engraved at the plaque’s base. He had read it before—the same who bred the Galinhardas. Faolan was more than a breeder… he had been a curator of the impossible.

With a calm heart and keen mind, Hadrian turned, ready to continue his exploration of the bestiary. There was still so much to uncover in that reliquary of forgotten creatures.

But the tranquil sound of Shadow-Rams chewing beneath Draumrholt’s enchanted sun would echo in his memory for a long time.

Hadrian followed the soft curve of the circular hall, his footsteps a quiet rhythm against ancient stone, until a new opening revealed an inner orchard.

The light there came from no visible source, yet it was golden, warm, like sunset filtered through green leaves. The vegetation was more orderly, patterned in symmetrical rows—yet no less surreal.

He recognized some fruits from the outer garden: the flesh-pears, hanging in clusters like succulent organs from the arched boughs of spongy-trunked trees.

They were plump, pinkish, throbbing faintly with inner warmth. Scattered among them, groups of edible mushrooms rose like sentinels, each larger than a basket, their hues venom-bright—blues mottled with black, phosphorescent greens, blood reds. But nothing struck him as much as the creatures grazing among them.

They were massive.

Hadrian halted, brow furrowed. For an instant, he thought them lumps of animate fat, grotesque even—but then saw they were living beings—living, docile. Their rounded bodies resembled pigs, yet amplified: easily two or three times larger than any boar, their thick flanks pulsing with slow breath.

The smooth skin was a pale yellow, mottled with opaline pink spots that seemed to shimmer faintly under the touch of magical light. They bore no fur. They were… bare. Strangely soft to the eye, like flesh wrapped in warm silk.

Its broad legs ended in cloven hooves that split at the knees, and Hadrian watched as one of them bent to sit with deliberate slowness — the hooves folding shut like petals of stone, supporting its whole weight effortlessly. The movement was hypnotic.

What most caught his attention, however, was the tail. Long, muscular, like that of a monkey, it ended in a small cartilaginous claw that curled to pluck a fleshy pear straight from a branch. 

The creature brought it to its mouth with serene sluggishness, chewing without haste. Its enormous ears dragged across the ground with every step, brushing against stone like thick fabric — a muffled, constant sound.

He watched for long seconds, entranced by the contrast: an animal bred for abundance, for sweetness and repose. A symbol of excess and peace. And yet, at the same time, undeniably, a magical aberration.

His attention shifted to a plaque fixed to the side wall, carved from polished black stone, the letters hand-etched and filled with dark ink. He read with curiosity:

 TRILVARGO

(Sus Alchemicus Peverell)

Bred for noble consumption.

Flesh may be eaten raw.

Viscera edible and restorative.

Hadrian blinked, one brow arching in a mix of incredulity and amusement. The ancient Peverells who had built all of this — the same who had designed rune-traps, living libraries, and ancestral inheritance chambers — had also bred giant magical pigs for luxury meat?

He let out a quiet huff, laughing to himself.

“To create an entire species just to satisfy one’s own palate? That is… unmistakably something a Peverell would do.”

The nearest creature turned to regard him with large, expressionless eyes, then went back to chewing its fleshy pear, tranquil and serene as a sated monk.

Down the silent path, lit only by faint fungi and thin shafts of light seeping through high cracks, Hadrian and the crows walked on. Their steps echoed lightly, muffled by moss that had gathered in the corners of the stone floor. Rounding a bend, he came across a small side opening, a kind of ancient warren.

Inside, the air was fresher, faintly sweet with the scent of magical roots and enchanted leaves. There he spotted a group of Third-Eye Rabbits — their six legs darting in frantic motion, three eyes wide — who watched him for only a brief instant before scurrying away into a tunnel burrowed through the stone wall, dark and winding. Now Hadrian knew where they came from. Those little dwellers had spread, surviving in secret beneath the citadel.

But what truly surprised him came next.

The corridor opened, suddenly, into a space vast as a crater — a colossal inner courtyard, so large Hadrian needed seconds to grasp its scale.

The ceiling was made entirely of thick glass, aged with moss and dust yet still resilient, allowing pale surface light to filter down in white, diffuse beams. The place held a brightness unlike the rest of the citadel — a light that was alive, natural.

The stalls surrounding the space were larger than houses, with walls of enchanted stone and gates of twisted black iron. Each seemed built to hold creatures of monstrous size, reinforced walls and protective enchantments still pulsing faintly in the air. An earthy scent lingered, mixed with faint traces of fur and old smoke.

But what drew his gaze most were the massive doors at the far end of the courtyard — doors as great as those of the citadel’s main entrance, carved of stone reinforced with magical alloys, opening outward.

Hadrian felt, more than saw, that beyond them lay the world outside — the citadel’s fields, the enchanted forest, the soft slopes leading to the lake… And beyond that, the wards, the living boundaries of magic stretching for dozens of kilometers in every direction.

He knew, in that instant.

This would be the dragon’s home.

A wave of realization swept through him, almost painful — as though a silent promise was finally being fulfilled. The pale, exhausted creature from the goblin caverns would no longer be a prisoner.

He could free it, not merely in body, but in spirit. Here it would have space to fly, to hunt, to rest beneath the sun. And it would not be able to cross the enchanted boundaries, not by restriction, but by protection.

Hadrian closed his eyes briefly, drinking in the sensation. The citadel seemed to whisper within his mind, pleased with his choice.

He opened his eyes.

It was time to bring the dragon.

Hadrian crossed the corridors of the citadel until he reached once again the Wardrobe of the Lords — that circular hall, half hidden among the living stones of the fortress.

The light was soft, emanating across the domed ceiling, casting warm and shifting reflections on every surface.

The garments were still there, suspended on finely carved stands that resembled twisted branches of some ancient tree.

Each piece was a testament to the old opulence of the Peverell lineage: rare fabrics, magical materials, textures impossible to reproduce by ordinary hands.

There were cloaks made of black feathers from creatures that might no longer even exist; tunics embroidered with threads of gold, silver, and even the silk of lunar spiders; and enchanted pieces that whispered in forgotten tongues when fingers brushed across them.

Hadrian looked over all of it with a mixture of reverence and quiet resignation. Still no shoes — apparently, the ancient Peverell Lords preferred to walk barefoot inside the citadel, feeling the living stone beneath their toes.

Or, he thought with one eyebrow arched, perhaps they simply found footwear unworthy of sacred stone.

He was wearing, for now, a shirt of magical silkworm silk, velvet-brown with subtle shades of burnt amber, its nearly imperceptible embroideries of bronze and old copper leaves winding along the sleeves and hem.

The round collar was trimmed with a faint dark lace, like enchanted webbing — soft to the touch yet resilient — and his trousers were of thick cotton, in a darker shade, comfortable and discreet.

It was clean, luxurious, and presentable, yet something in his reflection within the enchanted mirrors made him seem unfinished. He needed something more. Something that covered, concealed, but also proclaimed.

That was when he felt it.

The Magic of Draumrholt rose in silence, yet decisively. It surged up his legs like the warm water of a bath, reached his thighs, his back, his shoulders — and then wrapped his body like a firm embrace. It was a force without voice, yet full of intention.

It guided him, wordlessly, tugging lightly at his shoulder blades, at his hands, like a whispered memory in the bones.

Hadrian allowed himself to be carried along. And the Magic led him to one particular cloak.

The fabric shimmered as if woven from liquid sunset itself. It was copper — but not common copper. Living copper, magical, undulating, as though made of solid light. The embroidery formed intricate branches, inlaid with polished amber that glowed softly, as though fragments of ancient dawns had been trapped inside.

The hood was deep, and colors danced upon it like golden smoke over aged wine, blending into tones that perfectly matched what Hadrian already wore. As though the cloak had been crafted for these very clothes.

With a slow motion, he put it on. The fabric was heavy, yet it shaped itself to his body with strange fluidity, as if it remembered human forms.

The Magic, however, was not yet finished.

It stirred with subtle curiosity, as though it had tasted something delightful and wanted more. It pulled Hadrian again, with urgency and confidence, toward the far side of the circular wardrobe.

His feet glided almost without touching the ground. When he arrived, his fingers were nudged — like by an enchanted breeze — to a rune carved precisely into the living wood.

At his touch, the wardrobe turned slowly with a low, resonant sound, like the rotation of an ancient chamber sealed for centuries. And when it stopped, and the door opened… the air itself seemed to change.

Hadrian’s breath caught in his chest.

Before him stretched a hidden chamber, illuminated by crystals that shimmered from the ceiling on delicate golden threads. It was a sanctuary of veils and masks.

Hundreds — perhaps thousands — arranged in circular structures, each floating as though in patient suspension.

It was as if he had stepped into an ethereal garden where the flowers were made of mystery and precious silences.

Some veils were formed from polished shells, joined by invisible threads, reminiscent of twilight surf.

Others were made of iridescent scales — from dragons, sea serpents, or creatures whose names he did not even know.

There were fabrics so fine they rippled like enchanted water, nearly invisible, yet heavy with runes embroidered in threads of moonlight.

He saw veils of feathers — dark and mysterious, deep blues, metallic greens, whites like first snow.

There were veils of delicate bones, carved with absurd precision, and others made of interlaced spines and polished teeth.

Some were jewels: veils of rubies and opals, weaving colors into hypnotic harmony. Others were of metal — sheets of silver scales, chains of white gold, geometric plates of fused platinum.

One looked as if drawn from an enchanted abyss: made of black pearls and deep blue corals, it exhaled the salt and depth of the sea.

And within it all, Hadrian felt something ancient, something intimate.

These were not mere ornaments. They were symbols. Silent proofs that those who came before him — the ancient Lords and Ladies of Draumrholt — had also felt the need to hide their faces, to guard secrets, to craft a mask for the world to see.

And he, in his own way, was like them.

With eyes faintly damp, Hadrian reached out.

The Magic of Draumrholt, satisfied with his choice, gently pushed him toward one veil.

It was made of amber — clear, golden amber, cut and worked into perfect little drops. Each drop hung from threads so fine and golden they seemed like sunbeams caught in the air.

The veil was at once opaque and translucent, obscuring the face while letting light play between the crystals.

When Hadrian touched it, he felt a tremor. Each drop vibrated with arcane power. Enchantments of protection, subtle illusion. It was as though the veil itself recognized his choice — or, more precisely, his need.

With care, Hadrian fastened the veil beneath the hood of the copper cloak. He felt the pleasant weight upon his face, the touch of cool amber droplets against his warm skin.

At last, he looked into the transfigured mirror — or tried to. The veil blurred the image, revealing only shadows and golden reflections. But he liked it.

He smiled.

And thought, lightly:

“I need to buy a proper mirror. And maybe shoes as well.”

Hadrian walked down the path that led to Draumrholt’s exit, his bare feet touching damp earth covered in ancient moss. The citadel’s magic — alive, conscious, and almost needy — coiled about his ankles and pulsed in the stones around him. It was like warm, electric mist brushing his skin, like invisible fingers trying to hold him, persuade him to stay.

But it knew.

It knew he had to go.

Hadrian let his own magic brush against hers, like a gesture of consolation, an intimate whisper of promise. He felt the shiver run up his spine — like a silver thread burning beneath his skin — so intense was the response. A deep warmth spread in the air, as if the citadel itself murmured “come back soon.”

He stopped at the edge of the ancient stone staircase, then turned toward the ravens watching him from the parapet of the broken tower.

Hywel, tall and silent, was at the center, eyes like black moons fixed on him.

Hadrian smiled — a small, discreet gesture — and said calmly:

“ I’ll be back soon… and I’ll bring a friend.”

For a moment, all was silent. Then, like a current running through the wall, the ravens began repeating the word:

“ Friend… friend… friend…”

Each voice was an echo, a slightly different note, a small harmony within the chorus.

And then, a decision was made.

One of the smallest ravens broke from the group, opening its wings with a light beat that stirred dry leaves on the ground. Its feathers were black, but with bluish reflections rippling under the light, like the sheen of enchanted oil. 

One of its eyes was black as pitch, the other a misty gray, like a sky about to rain spells.

With a sure and silent flight, it landed firmly on Hadrian’s shoulder.

At once, the mithril chains — ever sensitive to threats — rose like serpents of liquid silver. They coiled around the raven’s legs with a faint hiss, testing its soul, its intent, its nature.

The little raven did not even blink.

It remained still, eyes calm, feathers ruffled only by the breeze.

Satisfied, the chains withdrew, sliding back beneath Hadrian’s garments with one last metallic whisper.

Hadrian blinked at the raven.

The raven blinked back.

He laughed — a soft, genuine laugh, filled with the surprise one only feels before something unexpectedly beautiful.

“Well, it seems I’ve got company.”

The raven ruffled the feathers at its neck in a slight shiver and, with concentrated effort, repeated:

“Company.”

Hadrian laughed again, gently touching the raven’s head with one finger. His touch met dense, clean, resilient feathers, like silk tempered with wind. It was larger than an ordinary raven, yet still the smallest of its kind. Light, yet firm. Silent, yet present.

“I suppose I’ll have to give you a name… — Hadrian mused.”

The memory came suddenly: that old book of baby names, forgotten among so many tomes in the library. It had become more useful than he ever would have expected.

He searched his memory, savoring sounds, origins, and meanings.

“ Cianan” he said at last, with conviction and a touch of fondness in his voice. “A Gaelic name… it means “little dark one.”

The raven seemed to understand. It straightened on Hadrian’s shoulder, puffed its chest feathers with silent pride, and spread its wings, as though donning an armor of wind.

Then, cawing with solemnity, it repeated:

“Cianan.”

Above them, the other ravens cawed in unison, in a greeting almost ceremonial. The word — Cianan — echoed along the wall, through the trees, across the living stones of the citadel. It was more than a name. It was a pact.

Hadrian smiled, and with Cianan on his shoulder, took the first step toward the world beyond.

Draumrholt watched him go — and whispered promises to the wind.

Chapter Text

The muffled crack of Apparition echoed softly between the crooked, magical buildings of Diagon Alley. Hadrian appeared in the middle of the cobblestone street, the sunlight filtering through the colorful shop awnings and dancing across his cloak of living copper — liquid, magical, shifting as though woven from coagulated twilight.

On his left shoulder, Cianan perched steady — talons bound by delicate mithril chains, his weight balanced, his body larger than a common raven yet sleek, his black feathers dusted with bluish hues, as if dipped in potions of moonlight and deep sea. One eye was black as freshly-burned coal, the other grey like thick fog rolling over still water.

Hadrian breathed in deeply. Around him, the magic of Draumrholt whispered faintly, like warm mist clinging to his skin. It did not abandon him — it merely pulled back, respectful. An invisible thread still bound him to the enchanted stronghold, pulsing in his bones, resonating in his chains and in his soul.

Diagon Alley teemed with life. Witches and wizards in colorful robes bustled by, floating bags trailing after them, children laughing as they chased magical cats and weary owls.

There was the scent of sweet bread, the smell of freshly polished cauldron leather, and the constant chorus of voices, footsteps, and enchanted chimes ringing as doors opened and closed.

Hadrian walked the street, each step soundless, his bare feet touching the warm, enchanted stone and absorbing the hum of everyday magic like roots sinking into soil. He smiled faintly, lips curving at one corner.

Much of what he needed could not be bought with a dragon at his side. Here, alone — or nearly — he had more freedom.

His destination: Scribbulus Writing Implements.

The door opened with a crystalline chime, a sound like a drop falling into a silver goblet. Inside, the shop was narrow but welcoming. Dark wood shelves climbed to the ceiling, lined with every kind of magical stationery.

The air was laced with the scent of polished wood, ink, and enchanted candles — comforting, like a library sealed by wards for generations.

Hadrian picked up one of the floating baskets, which settled beside him like a loyal hound.

He moved through the aisles, fingers brushing over stacks of linen stationery with gilded edges, magical seals that activated with the sender’s name, sturdy journals whose pages regenerated once filled — called “endless pages.” Some had enchanted covers etched with moving star maps; others shifted color with their owner’s mood.

He took three. One, in particular, bore a bark-like texture that warmed faintly under his touch, as if alive.

At the fountain pen section, Hadrian paused. A glass case opened of its own accord, recognizing him. Dozens of pens rested within, but two drew his gaze.

The first was midnight blue so deep it seemed black, with iridescent spirals reminiscent of galaxies in motion. It was cool to the touch, like deep water — evoking the Gaunt and Lovegood magics. Its ink rippled with a life of its own, whispering secrets in forgotten tongues.

The second was moss-green, nearly black, etched with muted golden antler-like branches beneath the shop’s enchanted light. Solid. Dignified. Potter. Peverell. This one did not whisper — it watched. It bore witness.

Hadrian chose both.

He added three bottles of ink: thick, gleaming black; a silver-tinged one for ceremonial magical documents; and one multicolored ink that shimmered turquoise, rose-tea, and amber when shaken — sheer indulgence.

Basket now full, he approached the counter.

A young witch waited there. She looked barely out of Hogwarts — brown eyes, messy bun, so ordinary she almost vanished… or perhaps she wished to vanish before him.

She did not meet his gaze, and her hands trembled as she reached for his items.

Then Cianan leapt from Hadrian’s shoulder, landing lightly on the counter. His feathers bristled in warning. The girl gave a startled squeak, dropping an empty inkwell onto the polished wooden floor.

Hadrian frowned, puzzled.

He had spoken no word, made no threatening move to spark such fear.

But draped in his living copper cloak, face veiled by amber light like rain turned golden, Hadrian resembled less a man and more an apparition. Something ancient, beautiful, and fearsome — like fire itself: magnificent at a distance, perilous to touch.

He was long accustomed to the weight of Peverell magic pressing against his bones like a mantle under his skin. Gaunt prowled within him, cold as glacial hollows, eager to shape, restless. Lovegood chimed softly, tinkling like glass bells in a playful breeze. Potter lingered steady, golden mist enfolding him, ever watchful, ever protective.

At last, the young witch whispered:

“Ten Galleons, sir.”

Cianan’s rough, solemn voice echoed:

“Sir”

Hadrian sighed, embarrassed, as the girl flinched again, wide eyes fixed on the raven as though he might strike.

“I’ll pay with a Gringotts receipt.”

Without argument, she fetched a silver-etched slip from behind the counter. She shrieked softly when Cianan seized it in his beak before returning to Hadrian’s shoulder.

“Sir,” croaked the raven once more.

Hadrian pressed the Peverell ring to the slip. The heraldic creature of his crest blazed briefly as if etched in fire, then vanished, leaving only one word:

APPROVED.

With a restrained gesture, he tucked the purchases into the enchanted folds of his cloak. Without another word, he inclined his head, turned, and left.

As the door shut behind him, the chime rang again — and for an instant, the shop fell utterly silent, as though time itself bowed to his passing.

Outside Scribbulus, Hadrian paused on the cobbled street of Diagon Alley. The late-morning light, filtered through enchanted shopfronts and the ambient glow of magic, cast warm, golden tones across his shifting cloak.

The amber droplets of his veil chimed faintly with each movement — a low, continuous melody, like dreaming bells.

In his left hand, the enchanted shopping bag crackled softly against his skin, discreetly shielding the journals, endless pages, and the two pens still humming with traces of ancient power.

He considered what else he might need: books, ingredients, perhaps new robes. Yet gazing at the bag, a more practical thought struck first: he needed a proper travel bag.

Just ahead, he spotted a shop, its enchanted sign rippling in animated leather letters that reshaped themselves every second:

“Backpacks, Trunks & Satchels – For Journeys Ordinary or Extraordinary.”

Unhurried, Hadrian crossed the street. His steps glided, as though the very cobblestones parted for him. His cloak of liquid copper caught and refracted fragments of light, glowing like embers beneath a calm surface.

The amber veil murmured forgotten songs in its chiming, and Cianan, poised in elegant stillness on his shoulder, scanned the street with predatory calm.

As Hadrian pushed through the door, a soft enchanted bell tolled, distant as a tower bell shrouded in mist.

Inside, the shop was a carefully managed chaos of shelves, rotating displays, floating hooks, and self-stacked trunks. Some bags hopped forward when noticed, eager to be chosen.

Others muttered protective charms in forgotten languages. Enchanted hides, venom-proof fabrics, winged backpacks, camouflaging trunks — the variety was overwhelming.

Hadrian ignored the flashier creations: turtle-shell satchels, wyvern-scale trunks. He sought no ostentation now — only utility.

He moved to the back, where the light dimmed, filtered through enchanted living-wood panels. Floating lanterns dimmed in deference to him.

There, on a quiet shelf, lay more traditional bags. His gaze fell on one: a brown dragonhide satchel, aged with dignity, its scales still visible like echoes of ancient flight.

It gleamed subtly, emanating a steady, trustworthy aura.

Hadrian lifted it easily, the leather firm yet pliant beneath his fingers, resistant to time.

He carried it to the counter.

The counter itself was polished black wood. Behind it sat a calm-looking wizard in simple clothes, a light grey vest embroidered with protective runes. His hair was silvering at the temples, his eyes fixed on the Daily Prophet, brows furrowed in irritation at a dancing headline.

Hadrian set the satchel down with a muted thud — deep, resonant, vibrating through the enchanted wood. The sound dragged the man back to the present, almost violently.

The shopkeeper raised his eyes, and for a heartbeat, his face froze.

Before him stood a figure both spectral and mesmerizing: the cloak of living light shifting like banked embers; the amber veil breathing with the ambient glow; and Cianan, feathers glinting blue, mismatched eyes gleaming, watching with predatory poise.

It was as though an ancient spirit, a being of old tales, had come to his counter.

“Ah… er… thirty-five Galleons…” the man stammered, voice rasped by awe.

Hadrian did not answer. With a brief gesture, Cianan moved almost as if on cue, snatching the Gringotts receipt that lay beside the beaked man and placing it delicately on the counter. The man shuddered as the parchment brushed his skin, but accepted it as though it sealed a pact.

Hadrian pressed the Peverell ring against the receipt, and, as before, the crest seared briefly across the parchment, a shadow-creature revealed and vanishing with a whisper. The word “Approved” etched itself in elegant, shimmering letters before the paper disintegrated into silver dust.

Without another word, Hadrian turned and left the shop.

The cloak trailed behind him, the veil releasing a final crystalline note. Outside, Diagon Alley was still alive with noise and movement, but around him the world seemed, for an instant, quieter—breathing in time with his presence.

Cianan swooped briefly overhead, spiraling above the passersby before alighting again on Hadrian’s shoulder with the dignity of a royal herald.

With a simple gesture, Hadrian slid his new purchases from Scribbulus into his newly acquired bag, which expanded silently to accept them. Everything fit, everything was ordered, everything quietly stored.

And then, with the chime of amber and Cianan’s watchful eyes on the world, he moved on.

The faint ringing of amber from his veil echoed softly as Hadrian walked through Diagon Alley, his new dragon-hide satchel now resting with effortless elegance across his shoulder. People still gave way slightly as he passed, not out of hostility, but by instinct—something in the way the light bent around him, in the shimmer of his cloak without visible heat, told the world he was something… other.

Cianan, perched on his shoulder with the familiarity of one who had always belonged there, clicked softly, as if drawing his master’s attention to a need. Hadrian blinked. Of course—the dragon would need to eat.

He could not simply unleash it to roam the forests in search of prey. He would need to secure proper sustenance. But what? Something magical and nourishing in large quantity? Or would he have to make do with non-magical livestock, alive but mundane?

His eyes scanned the bustle of the street, settling at last upon a darkened shopfront, its wooden sign carved with claws, paws, and wings crossed in a strange heraldic crest: Magical Menagerie. He made his way toward it.

The moment he opened the door, a wave of sounds, smells, and warmth hit him like a tapestry of raw, organic reality. The shop was cramped, the ceiling low, the air thick with cages stacked to the rafters.

Inside them stirred or slept all manner of creatures: tower owls, cats of every size and color, ferrets curled in tight nests, rats busy with enchanted wheels and toys. The air was steeped in the musk of damp straw, feathers, and potion-cleaners.

The light came from low, flickering chandeliers, as though reluctant to reveal too much.

Hadrian walked down the central aisle as though none of it touched him. In truth, it did not—Draumrholt’s enchantments wove about his garments like a living membrane, repelling dust, dirt, even the brush of insects, parting the very air before his body.

He was strangely displaced in that cramped, dark, noisy shop—like a statue of amber and bronze in motion, cloaked in silence and whispers.

His golden eyes scanned the animals. He noted cats that bore Kneazle blood, their gazes far too sharp for the ordinary. In one corner, tiny Kupies—two-tailed canines whose coats shifted color with their moods—frolicked within miniature enchanted gardens.

But nothing there could feed a dragon.

He strode toward the back, where a shopkeeper in a fur-and-straw-stained apron was cleaning a cage with an enchanted rag that twisted and hissed on its own. The man was too absorbed to notice Hadrian until he was within a pace, and nearly dropped the cage in fright.

The shopkeeper’s eyes widened, his body taking half a step back at the sight of the young man draped in quiet radiance, a crow with mismatched eyes perched upon his shoulder.

“C-c-can I help you?” he stammered, voice breaking with surprise.

“I am looking for something larger than these animals in cages,” Hadrian said calmly. His voice was low, but cut sharp as freshly broken glass. “For feeding.”

The man blinked. “F-feeding? You mean… meat?”

Hadrian only inclined his head, the unseen green of his eyes gleaming with patient expectation.

“Ah… well…” The man rubbed at his chin nervously. “Not something we keep up front, of course. But… we’ve about fifty Blue-Mist Sheep in stock. Excellent meat. Pricey, I admit, but unmatched for magical nutrition. Hogwarts just bought a herd this week. And the Riddle Foundation’s Ball took several for their feasts.”

Hadrian did not hesitate. Meat was meat, and he could afford the finest.

“They will suffice.”

The shopkeeper sputtered faintly, but before he could react, Cianan swept from Hadrian’s shoulder, gliding down to the nearly hidden counter, and rose again with a Gringotts receipt form clutched in his talons.

Hadrian took it with a fluid gesture, scrawled the amount—80 Galleons—and pressed the Peverell ring into the parchment.

The receipt flared, leaving only the silver trace of acceptance.

The shopkeeper stared in silence for a long moment. Then, as if waking from a trance, he rushed into the back.

Hadrian remained still, watching. The entire shop seemed quieter now.

Minutes later, the man returned carrying a runed wooden crate no larger than a shoebox. Inside, tiny Blue-Mist Sheep grazed upon an illusory meadow—each the size of a rat, their grey-white fleeces and faintly blue muzzles visible even in miniature.

“Shrunk for transport,” the man explained breathlessly. “You’ll just need the reversal charm when you’re ready. But, sir, if I may… ordinary bags won’t tolerate expanded-space charms inside. It’s dangerous—”

Hadrian raised a brow.

“This one does.”

And with a single elegant motion, he slipped the entire crate into his dragon-hide satchel, which absorbed it as though it had been crafted for that very purpose.

The deep enchantments of the bag shifted, settling around the new cargo like a second skin.

Wordless, the shopkeeper handed him a folded catalog, its enchanted flaps filled with instructions and moving illustrations.

“If you ever need more—just mark, pay, and send by owl, sir…”

Hadrian found it curious—another one who preferred distance. None seemed eager to face him twice.

He accepted the catalog and, before leaving, plucked a handful of floating leaflets from nearby displays, collecting them with practiced ease.

He would need much more—ingredients, parchments, instruments—but for now, he was nearly ready.

His boots echoed toward the door, his enchanted garments sweeping away the last motes of dust. The sunlight caught him again as he stepped outside—filtered through shopfront glass, gilding his skin in burnished light.

Cianan, once more upon his shoulder, lifted a wing in brief salute to the shopkeeper before they departed.

The dragon awaited.

Hadrian ascended Gringotts’ wide, frozen steps barefoot, the chill of marble seeping into his soles like an ancient promise. Each step left faint traces of dew, as though the magic woven into his flesh itself altered the world.

Morning light filtered between the pillars, kissing the amber veil with reverence. The fabric, light as mist yet heavy as dusk, shifted with the air, shaping him into something mythic. Burnished gold glowed like distant embers, and the aura about him pulsed—alive, merciless.

People stopped. Witches and wizards broke from their errands, their urgency stilled. They stared, breath caught, as the figure climbed the steps like an omen. He was beautiful—yes—but more than that. He was peril itself. Untouchable. Something to be revered, but never approached.

Some, compelled by instincts they could not name, tried to step closer. And in doing so, were struck by a force that could not be defied.

The air around him grew dense—thin as death’s high peaks—yet burning and freezing all at once. Suffocating heat pressed down like the smoke of a hidden blaze, while an abyssal cold drowned their lungs as if they had fallen into the blackest depths of the sea. None could reach him. Some staggered, coughing. Others froze, paralyzed.

The ancient magics—the jealous frost of the Gaunt line, the spectral veils of the Peverells—rose in fierce possession. Like creatures wrought of curses and oaths, they hissed and curled around him, unseen yet undeniable to all sensitive souls. He was the cherished heir, the favored son, and they would not allow the unworthy to draw breath in his shadow.

Hadrian walked on, indifferent, his Avada-green eyes fixed ahead, heavy with thoughts dark and coiled. The dragon. The exchange. The cost.

At the final step, swift movement caught his periphery. A goblin sentinel in black leather armor etched with silver sigils hurried forward. The creature bowed deeply—a reverence rare among his kind.

“The King has been informed of your presence in Diagon Alley, my lord,” the gravelly voice declared. “We presume you come to conclude the exchange.”

Hadrian inclined his head in simple confirmation. His voice rang low, edged like a blade.

“Show me the way.”

Cianan shifted upon his shoulder, wings rustling, feathers iridescent in enchanted light. Then, in a croaking, portentous echo, he spoke:

“Way.”

The goblin froze, narrow dark eyes locking on the crow with a look hovering between respect and fear. He said nothing, though a muscle ticked in his jaw.

Wordless, he turned and strode ahead, boots barely whispering against polished stone. Hadrian followed, and the gates of Gringotts opened for him like the maw of an ancient beast.

The tunnels no longer looked the same.

Something stirred, resonating with Hadrian’s presence. Torches along the walls flared brighter at his passing, flames bending toward him as if in recognition. Shadows quivered. The air itself whispered—forgotten tongues in the cracks of stone, promises etched in veins of dark marble.

The floor was a mosaic of black granite hexagons, streaked with crimson veins like congealed blood. Columns of aged gold held up vaulted ceilings carved with goblin runes, glowing silver like living tattoos.

As he passed beneath the gilded arches into the bank’s depths, Hadrian felt less like he was entering a vault and more a sanctuary—a subterranean kingdom where magic, ambition, and death dwelt side by side.

Cianan murmured in his ear in a tongue older than men, a language of wet earth, old bones, and whispered power.

And somewhere ahead, the Goblin King awaited.

With destiny sealed, Hadrian walked without hesitation.

The goblin leading Hadrian took him through passages he had never walked in his previous visits. The architecture grew increasingly primitive as they descended—the smooth marble and polished granite walls gave way to raw, untouched stone, still scarred by the tools that had carved it centuries ago.

Cracks sheltered enchanted moss that recoiled from the approach of any magic. The air grew heavier, thick with ancient, untamed power. The torches along the way crackled with bluish fire, and each step echoed as if they were entering the very entrails of the earth.

And then, the passage opened.

It was an immense chamber, a subterranean clearing that seemed impossible to exist. The vaulted ceiling was swallowed by darkness above, and the walls melted into shadow, as though the space itself folded around the presence it contained.

Rocks shimmered with veins of raw minerals—emeralds, obsidian, rubies—as if the heart of the world had been torn out and shaped into this hidden hall.

At the center lay a scene of absolute power.

Dozens of armed goblins formed a ring around a platform of black stone. Their spears and silver-forged blades gleamed with razor-sharp enchantments, their helmets carved with the faces of beasts that no longer existed in the realm of the living. They were elite soldiers, loyal not to Gringotts, but to goblin blood itself.

And there, among them—the Goblin King.

He was dressed as if wealth itself had taken form—a tunic made of cut gemstones, sewn with enchanted threads that pulsed with goblin magic. Rubies, sapphires, fire opals, and emeralds intertwined in a hypnotic, ritualistic pattern. His crown revolved slowly around his head of its own accord, black as pitch, forged of a metal that reflected no light but devoured it. At its center yawned a hollow of purpose—a space carved with perfect precision, meant for the mithril star-shaped brooch.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—drew the eye more than the creature chained behind him.

The dragon.

It was colossal, over a hundred meters long. Its scales were pale, almost translucent, like ice scorched by the sun, marred by old scars that seemed carved with flaming, enchanted blades. Each scar was a story of suffering. Its wings, atrophied from disuse, hung useless—membranes blackened, bones bound by heavy chains lashed to its own body.

Thicker chains shackled its fore and hind legs, and a muzzle of black iron locked its head, tethered to the stone by links as thick as a grown man’s arm.

And its eyes… vast, pink-hued, glistening with pain. Yet beneath the agony lay something deeper. A raw intelligence. A flame barely clinging to life.

It had never seen the sun.

Hadrian stopped. The sight struck like a blow to the gut. Grief rose in him like an icy tide, but behind it, like the breath of a furnace, came rage. Dense. Boiling. Heavy.

The ground beneath his feet cracked with the faint sound of ice spreading. A circle of black frost bloomed outward like a macabre flower, while the shadows thickened and grew weighty around him. The Gaunt and Peverell magics hissed inside him, furious serpents disturbed in their nest.

Hadrian looked upon the Goblin King with eyes of toxic green, unseen yet suffocating, blazing with silent fury. His voice cut the air, low and sharp as ice breaking:

“Let’s finish the exchange.”

He slipped a hand into his pocket and withdrew the mithril brooch. The silvery metal gleamed like a fallen star, and the chamber’s magic seemed to bend around it.

The Goblin King’s eyes widened, greed dripping across his features like thick honey. His long fingers gestured to Thurvak, who handed him a scroll with restrained composure. The king’s hand trembled—not with fear, but with hunger.

“Official permission to create, keep, and transport dragons and their subspecies…” he murmured. “It extends also to magical beasts of equal or lesser categories. Registered in your name… irrevocable.”

Hadrian simply stretched out his hand. The scroll and the brooch changed owners at the same instant, as though in some sacred, age-old ritual.

A quick glance confirmed the scroll’s authenticity before he tucked it into his bag. The king, meanwhile, brought the brooch to his face with near-reverence, his fingers caressing every curve of the ancestral symbol, like a collector at last holding the crown jewel of his hoard.

Hadrian wasted no time. With the amber veil flickering faintly around him, he stepped toward the dragon. The goblins parted in silence—reverent, cautious.

He stopped a few steps from the chained creature.

“We have nothing else to discuss,” he said to the assembly, his voice steady, devoid of emotion. “I will take my leave.”

Cianan, silent upon his shoulder, watched with eyes that shifted between storm-gray and void-black.

Hadrian raised a hand and touched the dragon’s snout with care.

The hide was rough, scarred—but warm. A subtle tremor lingered beneath the skin—fear, perhaps… or the faintest ember of hope.

The mithril chains coiled around his arms slid forth from his sleeves, extending until they brushed the dragon’s scales. They tested its magic—and found pain… but also strength, power, understanding, and the possibility of loyalty. They accepted it.

The amber veil rippled as though it breathed, his cloak shimmering in smoke-tinted gold. Hadrian closed his eyes, extending his consciousness—seeking the magics woven into his blood. Potter. Lovegood. Gaunt. Peverell.

The line of Heirs. The line of Madmen. The line of Monsters. The line of Death.

They intertwined, a spiral of ancient, living energy. And at the center, pulsing—the magic of Draumrholt. The fortress called to him. His home. The dragon’s home.

There, no chains would bind.

Behind him, the Goblin King’s voice rose, a sharp warning:

“Here, no one can Apparate. This is Gringotts soil—any attempt is futile, wizard.”

But it was already too late. Hadrian’s magic bowed to no such rules.

When he Apparated, it was no common displacement. It was as though the world blinked. The air shattered with a piercing crack, like a phoenix’s cry. Pressure flooded the chamber—and then… emptiness.

Hadrian, the dragon, and Cianan were gone.

Only the circle of black frost remained upon the hot stone, slowly melting. A silent reminder that on this day, something had been torn from the depths of Gringotts—not by force, but by right.

Chapter Text

The world tore itself open around Hadrian in a fold of magic and will.

There was no crack of Apparition—only silence.

Absolute, unnatural silence, as though reality itself held its breath while a magic older than time redrew the space around him.

And then, with a velvet-thick sigh, they arrived.

The polished stone floor of Draumrholt’s bestiary received them with a hushed reverence. They had appeared directly beside the largest stalls—the ones reserved for creatures that could not be held by ordinary means. Carved arches stretched high above each compartment, ancient enchantments—alive, pulsing—shimmering like invisible veils between the bars. The air carried the scent of old incense, enchanted wood, and the faint bitterness of dried blood.

Hadrian collapsed to his knees the moment his feet touched the ground.

The impact was not physical, but magical—an onslaught of sensations, brutal in their intensity, crashing into his body with the force of a full-moon tide. He did not scream. But the breath was ripped from his lungs in a ragged, unwilling moan.

Potter magic, ever paternal, ever protective, surged inside him with an unfamiliar force. It was warm fire, yet burning. It slid across his abdomen like subtle lightning, sparking within his organs as though branding them with a fierce tenderness. It passed through his kidneys, his liver, climbed his spine in bursts of luminous electricity. A hot, tingling touch, intimate—like being loved down to the marrow.

Lovegood magic was like breathing colors that did not exist on Earth. It entered with the air, coiled down his throat, spread across his tongue, and spilled into his lungs as prismatic mist. It touched his soul with fingers of silk and feather, leaving delicate trails of light that stitched invisible wounds. It healed injuries too old to be remembered, yet still felt. It seeped past flesh, finding the places the Horcrux had torn apart, and there it planted flowers of restoration—petal by petal, rebuilding a soul.

Gaunt magic rose from below. From the earth. From the flesh. It climbed his legs as though born of the stones, winding through tense muscles, sinking claws into bone. It wrapped about his pelvis with the possessiveness of something that believed itself his master, then dove into his blood. It reached his marrow. Altering. Rewriting. Injecting itself with the devotion of a venom in love. And when it struck his magical core, it burst into heat, his spine arching with a silent scream, hands clawing the ground.

And then came Peverell magic—the oldest. The deadliest.

It was already there—in his heart. Each beat a tolling bell, resonant with its frequency. But now it expanded, multiplied, as though determined to claim every cell, every thought, every impulse. It was pain. It was rapture. A cold fire searing through his stomach, climbing his throat, filling his mind with a thousand whispering voices at once:

You are ours. You are whole. You are eternal.

It lasted seconds—or perhaps hours. Time had no shape here.

And then… silence.

Not absence, but fulfillment. The magics, like sated beasts, drew back little by little. They did not leave—would never leave. But they yielded, returning to their places around and within him, still pulsing, yet restrained.

Hadrian lay on the living stone, trembling. His body convulsed with involuntary spasms, muscles aching as though pushed past their limits. His skin tingled. Fingers opened and closed without command. Eyelids fluttered against lights no longer there.

He did not weep, but his eyes gleamed— not with pain, but with something deeper: the brutality of transformation.

Cianan croaked once, low, from atop a pillar. Watching. Understanding.

It took Hadrian long minutes to move.

First an arm. Then another. Fingers scraped across enchanted stone. His legs shook, weak, as though newly forged. His body felt dismantled and remade.

But he lived.

Changed, yes. Refined. Yet still Hadrian.

With effort, he sat up. Drew breath. The air smelled of moss, sweat, raw magic—and the faint metallic tang of blood and silver. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

The dragon stood before him, inside the vast stall, watching with rose-colored eyes now glimmering with something beyond pain.

Curiosity. Recognition. Respect.

Hadrian smiled—weak, but genuine.

They had arrived.

He approached with cautious steps, bare feet against the enchanted stone of the bestiary. The surface was warm, faintly pulsing with the magic of the place, as if the floor itself knew what was about to unfold—and waited in silence.

The dragon, chained sideways, followed him with crystalline rose eyes. Not with aggression, but attention. Curiosity. Perhaps… hope?

Hadrian stopped at the first set of chains—those binding the wings.

They were thick, forged of dark metal pulsing faintly violet, interlaced with iron rings and carved with goblin runes of restraint. At the slightest shift, they groaned with the sound of bones breaking. Ugly. Cold. Inhuman.

Without raising a hand, without wand or word, Hadrian shaped the spell within his chest—as though conjuring magic with his heart.

The chains shivered.

For a moment they resisted, clinging to the power that bound them. But his magic was greater. Fierce. Alive.

With muffled cracks, the links fell apart one by one, sliding down like defeated serpents until they clattered against the floor. The sound echoed like a sigh of freedom.

The dragon reacted instinctively, trying to spread its wings. But the joints were stiff, the muscles atrophied, the membranes dry and too tight for true motion. The wings trembled, pulled taut with pain, unable to open. A low, rasping sound left its throat— frustration, confusion. Hadrian’s heart clenched.

He moved toward the head—but not too close. The muzzle was next.

This time, with a small gesture of his hand, the fingers tracing a circle in the air, the chain fell away more easily, sliding to the ground. The dragon jerked its head back, shaking hard, testing its limits. Perhaps for the first time in decades, its jaw opened fully.

It did so slowly.

The mouth gaped like a nightmare, rows of dagger-sized teeth glistening, uneven and sharp. A forked tongue slid out—black, wet, unnervingly agile. Its hot breath carried the scent of caves, ash, and old blood.

Hadrian did not flinch. He only watched.

The dragon turned its head toward him. Rose eyes met green—so intense they seemed to illuminate the soul of the world. They stared for long moments.

No sound.

No movement.

Only… understanding.

Hadrian moved again, circling the massive flank. The dragon’s scales, pale with milky reflections, were mapped with scars. Wounds left by fire-blades, by magical chains. Violence etched not just into its body, but into time itself.

He reached the final chains, those binding its limbs. Without hesitation, he cast once more, and the links split open with a metallic sigh.

The dragon rose, slow, joints cracking, standing on all fours. Its wings still hung weak, almost useless. But it was standing—whole, free.

Hadrian stepped back.

Not in fear.

In respect.

The dragon ignored him. Turned its vast head, sniffed the air, then began to move. Heavy steps, yet curious. It touched the stone wall with its snout like a child discovering the world. Rose onto its hind legs, reaching for the ceiling, though the vast stall still contained it.

Hadrian watched, silent ache in his chest.

A being made to fly… should never live without sky.

Something glimmered on the floor—a circular depression carved into the stone.

He touched the rune beside it. A vibration coursed through his hand, up his arm—a warm whisper. The floor trembled, and water began to flow.

Slow at first, then stronger, like a long-dormant spring awoken. The water gleamed faintly blue, smelling of stone and moss. Fish emerged almost instantly, hidden in underground rivers—strange, translucent creatures, fins like veils, tails unfurling in jeweled fans.

The dragon approached, sniffing. A low sound escaped it—a guttural rumble, like an old engine purring—before plunging its snout into the water, drinking in urgent, controlled gulps.

Every movement was tragically beautiful. A forgotten thing relearning its own body. Its own instinct.

Hadrian crouched, watching silently.

The dragon was immense. Magnificent.

And now, his.

He stayed there, observing, until it finished drinking. Water dripped lazily between its teeth and forked tongue. It seemed satisfied—though not only with water. It was a deeper fulfillment. For the first time in perhaps its life, it was not shackled. And that was enough.

With a heavy sigh, almost a hiss, the dragon collapsed onto the floor. The ground shook with its weight. Its ribs rose and fell slowly, breath sparking faintly with dormant magic. Rose eyes turned now to the fish, watching the strange, starlit creatures glide.

It stretched a massive paw into the water, movements impossibly gentle. When claws touched the surface, it rumbled deep in its chest, a textured purr at the feel of the rippling water. Content. Enchanted by its first lake—even if, to its size, it was little more than a pool.

Hadrian’s eyes gleamed with quiet affection. Few would understand. A creature forged for the skies, denied even the wind. Now… this was the first step.

He scanned the stalls, then decided: he would leave the inner gates open. There was no sense in shackling it again. But the outer gates he would keep sealed—for now. The dragon needed time.

With a thought, he extended his awareness into the living magic of Draumrholt. The connection was fluid, like speaking to a sentinel in half-sleep. He asked if the castle’s wards were strong enough to keep the dragon apart from the other creatures.

The answer came as a wave of warmth—a certainty whispered by stones, roots, charmed air, and seals etched with centuries of wisdom.

The castle would protect him.

And protect the others from him.

Hadrian nodded to himself and turned, stepping through the side door. The corridor led him out into the enchanted fields beyond the bestiary. The air there was fresher, and the magical grass seemed to ripple even without wind. The borders bloomed with a sweetness — jasmine laced with something stranger, like lunar herb — while the sky above was painted in the eternal twilight maintained by the castle’s wards.

Hadrian slipped his hand into the brown dragon-hide satchel at his waist, his fingers seeking with precision what he wanted. He drew out a small silver-etched box, enchanted to contain within it the herd of Blue-Mist Sheep. He brushed his fingers along the box’s side and murmured a word of release.

The structure swelled outward, unfolding until it was the size of two vast adjoining chambers. As soon as the latch dissolved, the sheep rushed out in a flurry, as if freed from an invisible prison. Their fleeces shimmered blue, faintly phosphorescent, their wide eyes gleaming like moonstones. Each weighed nearly one hundred and twenty kilos, their dense, fat-rich flesh steeped with passive magic.

The moment their hooves touched the enchanted grass, they lowered their heads and began to chew with audible delight — pops, soft grunts, the sighs of happy sheep. Some huddled together in small clusters, rubbing against one another, while others simply wandered free among the flowers.

Hadrian watched for a few moments before choosing one at random. He pointed and cast a silent Stunner, the spell striking like an invisible breeze. The creature collapsed gently, soundless, and with a flick of his hand Hadrian levitated it to float behind him.

When he returned to the bestiary through the side door, the dragon was still there — sprawled lazily, watching the fish, its tail curled like that of a cat. As Hadrian approached, the creature lifted its head slowly, eyes alive and sharp.

Without hesitation, Hadrian set the sheep down at its forepaws.

The dragon lowered its massive head and inhaled deeply. Its pupils, once wide, contracted into predatory slits. Instinct surged.

With swift precision, the beast lunged — jaws snapping shut with a heavy crack. It swallowed the sheep whole, no chewing, no savoring. It had lived on tasteless feed, on rotting scraps, perhaps even worse. The surprise came after.

The dragon rumbled — but not as before. This sound was thunderous, reverberating through the stone walls like storm wrapped in hot smoke. A sound of gratitude. A greeting.

Hadrian smiled, satisfied.

Yet the dragon settled back down. It leaned toward the water, muzzle lowering once more to the lake, drinking with unhurried ease, eyes half-closed, shoulders loose. A colossal being at peace.

Hadrian turned, walking toward the exit — though he kept glancing back every few steps, as if afraid the vision would dissolve and the dragon vanish. He stopped before crossing the threshold.

The dragon needed a name.

He could not call it merely “he.” This was a creature with history, with suffering, with soul. He had seen the goblin records — “male,” “species unknown,” “roughly thirty years.” Older than him. Perhaps older still in pain.

Hadrian leaned against the massive dark wooden doors, his fingers drumming lightly on the surface like on some ancient drum. His gaze stayed fixed on the creature, now sprawled on its side, one forepaw still resting in the water.

He spoke — voice low, but weighted with intent, with power:

— Andras shall be your name.

The word lingered in the air, vibrating with that resonance only true names carried.

“ In Greek, it may mean warrior. Brave. In Welsh, it may mean grace. To me… it means you.”

Green eyes met rose once more. The dragon lifted its head, listening.

Hadrian smiled — small, almost shy, but full.

“Welcome home, Andras.”

The dragon blinked slowly.

And then closed its eyes.

For the first time in his life, Andras slept without chains.

Hadrian walked slowly along the stone path that connected the bestiary to the main citadel, his bare feet sinking slightly into the thick, damp moss that covered the way.

Each step was accompanied by an almost inaudible sound, as if the earth itself whispered beneath his skin. 

The light of dusk tinged the sky in golden-gray hues, filtering through the sparse leaves of the enchanted trees that bordered the trail.

There was a subtle glow in his eyes, a toxic green like soul-venom, yet softened in that moment by an intimate satisfaction, as though something deep within him had finally aligned. He had taken Andras from Gringotts. 

Freed not only a dragon, but a creature that mirrored something inside himself: powerful, tormented, made to fly yet shackled since the moment its eyes had first opened.

Above, Cianan flew close, the black sheen of his feathers reflecting the warm twilight. The raven croaked in low tones, almost as if speaking to himself. The sound was soon answered: other ravens emerged from the towers and branches around, their calls echoing across the sky. They joined him in a rhythmic flight, swirling around Hadrian — a black and elegant whirlwind of wings and watchful eyes.

Hywel, the leader among them, came last. His flight was slower, deliberate. He did not wheel like the others — he circled Hadrian in broad, deliberate spirals, like an old guardian overseeing a sacred ritual. There was wisdom in his wings.

When Hadrian reached the gates of Draumrholt, the stone answered his touch without sound, opening slowly in silent reverence. The citadel received him as part of itself — because he was part of it now. It was hard to tell where flesh ended and magic began. Everything in Draumrholt thrummed with something awake.

Already the sky bore the golden hues of farewell. Hadrian felt hunger rise within him — not as pain, but as a mundane necessity. As if his own body whispered: you are safe now. You may eat. You may tend to yourself.

He did not wish to return to the main kitchen. Not yet. He remembered having passed another greenhouse, closer to the bestiary’s path — half-hidden, made of twisted iron and glass stained by time. The glass panels were partly broken, some shattered on the ground like melted ice. Moss crept over the metal framework, and magical vines had tangled through the beams above, as though nature and sorcery had agreed to share the ruin.

Upon entering, he was enveloped by the dense, sweet scent of vegetation — thick fragrances, ripe and sticky, like wine and wet earth. The air inside was warmer, like the interior of a green lung.

Unlike the first greenhouse he had visited, this one cultivated a different assembly of magical plants:

Directly ahead, dark-rose vines sprawled lazily across the ground. Their thick stems curved in elegant arcs, sprouting fruits that resembled pumpkins, but rounded and concave, shaped almost like human hearts.

Their skin was reddish, veined with pearly pink, pulsing faintly as though they carried an inner heartbeat.

Further back, bluish grapevines like living veins climbed the iron shafts, heavy with clusters of white spherical fruits, each marked with singular black spots — so perfectly round and placed that each seemed like an unblinking eye. There was something unsettling and enthralling about them, as if they held the memory of whoever stared too long.

To the right, a tree with an opaque beige trunk, rough like aged leather, bore fruits shining like small metallic suns. They resembled oranges in shape, but their color was cherry-red metal, bristling with fine thorns that glimmered under the light. A faint buzzing seemed to hum from them, as if their rinds vibrated softly with stored energy.

Further still, Hadrian spotted the familiar black plums, their smooth skins gleaming like freshly polished obsidian.

The known flesh-pears were there too — bulbous and irregular in shape, their shades shifting between dark red and brown, their texture dense as ripened muscle.

Hadrian observed it all with the eye of both alchemist and cook. He would make a soup. One to warm the stomach — and perhaps, the soul. If dragons had souls the same way humans did. He decided they did.