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Chapter Text

It was just another ordinary day at the Dursleys’ house. Another day where Harry was slowly recovering from the adventures of the past school year and adapting once more to life in that house that felt more like a prison. Uncle Vernon seemed more enthusiastic about handing out punishments than ever, especially after all Harry had done to escape the previous summer: stealing a flying car and everything else. Perhaps the man feared Harry might have told someone important what really went on in that household. 

The truth was: Harry had told someone. But Dumbledore hadn’t believed him. And if Dumbledore didn’t believe… who else would? 

Shaking his head, Harry carried the trash out after cleaning the entire house. He knew his uncle would complain if even a speck of dust remained or if the bin was full. He took advantage of the few free minutes he had to run to the park and breathe some fresh air. Whenever he stepped outside, he could almost feel the edge of the protective wards Dumbledore had set around the property. Crossing that invisible line always made him feel lighter. And Merlin knew he needed that. 

It was right as he crossed that line that a large owl, as if it had been waiting for him, swooped down in front of him. Harry stepped back, trying to find a discreet place to receive the letter without anyone noticing, but the moment he crossed through the wards the owl began acting strangely. It seemed confused, almost unable to locate him. 

Harry hurried forward, frowning in confusion. The owl fixed him with what looked like indignation before flapping its wings furiously and thrusting out its leg without even landing. Awkwardly, Harry took the letter, and the brown owl departed with a resentful screech. 

The twelve-year-old slowly looked down at the envelope in his hands and immediately recognized the seal of Gringotts. What on earth did the goblins want with him? 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

It is of the utmost importance that you present yourself at one of our branches to address a delicate and urgent matter concerning your inheritance and vaults. You have reached the proper age to demand the recognition of your name, and you must formally appoint your proxy for your seats in the Wizengamot. Such forms must be completed at Gringotts Bank for your legitimacy to be recognized by the Lady Magic itself. 

We have attempted to draw your attention to this fact during your last two visits to our Diagon Alley branch, but our warnings were promptly ignored by your companions. 

Should your travel be compromised, this letter also serves as a portkey that will bring you directly to the nearest branch. Simply use the password “Gold” to activate it. Your account manager, Nangok, will be at your disposal at any time upon your arrival at our bank. 

May your vaults never run dry, 

Griphook 

Harry knew it was close to 5 pm, and the bank would soon close its doors for the day and reopen in the morning. And the owl's strange reaction, moving away as he passed through the ward surrounding his house. Then, without thinking about anything else, Harry Potter spoke just one word. A word that guided him to the greatest change of his life. 

"Gold." 

Traveling by Portkey, Harry discovered, was one of the worst possible experiences. Worse even than Floo powder. The sensations were completely different, and he was left utterly dizzy. It took him several minutes to realize he was standing in a corner inside Gringotts. A few goblins were already watching him with suspicion. 

Quickly, Harry approached one of the goblin tellers and waited until he was acknowledged. 

“What is the purpose of your visit today?” asked the goblin, grimacing at the sight of the boy’s clothes. 

“Good afternoon… I’d like to speak with… Nangok? He’s expecting me,” Harry replied, uncertain. 

“And who exactly is he expecting?” The goblin’s stare grew sharper, as though searching his face for any hint of a lie. 

“Harry Potter.” 

That was the moment everything changed. The goblin straightened, examined him once more, then stepped down from his chair before uttering a curt, “Follow me, Heir Potter.” 

And Harry followed, growing more and more confused. 

The path inside Gringotts was not something easily memorized. It took years of practice to navigate its labyrinthine corridors. Even curse-breakers who worked for the bank often got lost. And the London branch, nestled in Diagon Alley, was one of the oldest and most confusing of them all. 

The goblin leading Harry stopped before a heavy door and knocked. A guttural voice answered from inside in Gobbledegook. He entered, leaving Harry to wait outside, and the boy could only imagine what was being said in there. Soon after, the goblin returned and opened the door with a clear gesture. 

“You may enter now, Heir Potter. Nangok awaits you.” 

Harry stepped into the office, still puzzled by the repeated 'Heir Potter'. 

“Good afternoon, Heir Potter. I am Nangok, the account manager responsible for the Potter Family vaults.” 

“Good afternoon. Well… I’m Harry Potter. And I’m sorry, but—what do you mean by that? I honestly don’t understand why you keep calling me ‘heir,’ or why you speak of vaults, plural. As far as I know, I only have the one vault my parents left me.” 

Nangok’s expression flickered briefly with confusion before the mask of professionalism settled back into place. 

“Your Magical Guardian has not taught you anything about your rights and duties as the Heir of the Potter Family?” 

“Well… I didn’t even know I had a Magical Guardian.” 

“And as for your vaults and accounts? You haven’t received any of our notices regarding transactions carried out in your name?” 

“I think there’s something about the protections placed around my relatives’ house,” Harry explained, frowning. “The owl with your letter got completely confused whenever I was inside the ward lines, as if it couldn’t even find me. She only delivered it when I stepped beyond the protections. And as for vaults...I only have access to the one I withdraw from every summer to buy my school supplies.” 

At last, Nangok could no longer keep the mask of impassive professionalism. He was face to face with a child the Guardian had sworn, before the Wizengamot and the Goblin King himself, to train and prepare for his duties as Heir and future Lord Potter since the age of five. But apparently, it had all been one colossal lie. And if that was a lie… what else had this Guardian been capable of twisting to deceive the entire wizarding world? 

“I can, Heir Potter, begin explaining everything you need to know. But before that, we must conduct an Inheritance Test to see exactly what has been done to you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Blood does not lie. Blood remembers. Blood is the strongest magical element. Whatever has been done to you: physically, mentally, or magically, blood will reveal. For that, we must perform the Inheritance Test. You will make a small cut on your hand, let seven drops fall upon this parchment, and it will reveal everything we need to know. Once it is done, we will understand the path we must take.” 

He slid a silver knife and a thick parchment toward Harry. The boy took the blade with trembling hands, made a shallow cut in his palm, and guided his hand over the parchment, counting each of the seven drops as they fell. The instant the seventh drop touched the surface, the parchment began to glow. Nangok gestured sharply, cleaning the blade with a flick and healing Harry’s hand in the same motion. 

“Blood is precious, Heir Potter. Never allow anyone to gain easy access to it.” 

When the parchment finally stopped glowing, Harry knew at once that nothing in his life would ever be the same again. When the glow finally faded, the parchment had doubled in size. Harry felt a chill run down his spine: he was certain it contained details about every single abuse he had endured at the Dursleys’ hands. 

Nangok frowned deeply as the writing spread across the page. His eyes, trained by decades of reading contracts and heritages, widened in shock and something close to outrage. Slowly, he looked up at Harry, as if truly seeing the boy for the very first time. 

Without a word, he slid the parchment toward him, silently studying Harry’s reaction. 

--- 

Name: Hadrian Thomas Riddle 
Adoptive Name: Harry James Potter 

Date of Birth: July 31, 1980 

Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle (Status: alive/incapacitated) 
Mother: Lily Riddle (née Evans) (Status: alive/incapacitated) 
Adoptive Father: James Fleamont Potter-Prince (Blood Adoption) (Status: alive/incapacitated) 

Twin Sister: Hania Lily Riddle (Status: alive. Adoptive Name: Hermione Jane Granger) 

Godfathers: 

Severus Tobias Potter-Prince (Status: alive/memory altered) 
Sirius Orion Black III (Status: alive/illegally imprisoned) 

Magical Guardian: Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore (Illegal) 

Mate: [BLOCKED] 
Creature Inheritance: [BLOCKED] 

Magical Core: 

[ ]Dark 

[x]Grey 

[ ]Light 

- 
 
Abilities: 

Parseltongue (80% blocked – by APWBD – 60% broken) 

Parselmagic (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Eidetic Memory (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Intelligence (80% blocked – by APWBD) 

Critical Thinking (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Animagus (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Wandless Magic (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Nonverbal Magic (95% blocked – by APWBD) 

Natural Legilimency (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Natural Occlumency (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Fire Affinity – Creature Heritage (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Accelerated Healing – Creature Heritage (100% blocked – by APWBD – 45% broken after contact with phoenix tear) 

Twin Magical Connection (80% blocked – by APWBD) 
 
Spells, Compulsions, and Potions: 

Block on natural elemental affinities – by APWBD 

Block on access to magical core – by APWBD 

Loyalty Potion to Albus Dumbledore – by APWBD 

Hatred of Slytherins – by APWBD 

Compulsion toward Reckless Behavior – by APWBD 

Concentration Difficulty – by APWBD 

Memory Alterations (multiple) – by APWBD 

Potter Family Luck Curse – through Blood Adoption – by JFP 

Skelegrow (repeated) – by PP 

Basilisk venom active in bloodstream, immunized by Phoenix Tear 

Unknown Dark Magic within scar – by APWBD 

Medical Record: clear signs of physical, mental, and emotional abuse. Full diagnostic and magical cleansing recommended. 

Titles: 
Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Peverell (paternal and through blood adoption) 

Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of LeFay (maternal) 

Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin (paternal) 

Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gryffindor (through blood adoption) 

Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Ravenclaw (maternal) 

Descendant & Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt (paternal) 

Heir Apparent of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter (through blood adoption) 

Possible Heir of the Most Ancient and Imperial House of Pendragon 

Vaults: 

Riddle – Main Vault (700) and Trust Vault (862) 

Gaunt – Main Vault (023) and Trust Vault (307) 

Slytherin – Main Vault (009) and Trust Vault (186) 

Peverell – Main Vault (013) and Trust Vault (297) 

Potter – Main Vault (055) and Trust Vault (713) 

Gryffindor – Main Vault (007) and Trust Vault (184) 

LeFay – Main Vault (012) and Trust Vault (454) 

Ravenclaw – Main Vault (008) and Trust Vault (185) 

Evans – Sole Vault (964) 

For details of family vaults in stasis, family grimoires, weaponry, portraits, furnishings, and libraries, check the adjacent chambers of each Main Vault. 
For information regarding transactions, investments, withdrawals, transfers, and family estates, speak directly to the Account Manager. 

- 

Harry’s eyes raced over the parchment, disbelief mounting with each line. None of it made sense. How could he possibly be “heir apparent” to so many ancient families? How could he be Tom Riddle’s son? His own father had tried to kill him! A blood adoption from James Potter? And worst of all: how could Hermione be his twin sister? 

“By Gringotts’ steel…” Nangok muttered under his breath before composing himself again. “Heir Potter...no. Heir Riddle. What has been done to you is…” He swallowed hard. “…intolerable.” 

Harry shrank back. 

“Intolerable? What… what do you mean by that?” 

Nangok drew a deep breath, his gaze grave. 

“I mean you have been deceived. Manipulated. Nearly every facet of your magic has been shackled. And worse still...” his voice dropped to a shadowy growl “...by the very man sworn to protect you.” 

Before Harry could respond, the office door opened. Another goblin entered: taller, clad in black armor, golden rings glinting on his fingers. His very presence seemed to fill the room. Nangok bowed his head respectfully. 

“My King.” 

Ragnok stepped forward, his obsidian eyes sweeping over Harry, assessing every inch. 

“So this is the heir Dumbledore tried to erase,” he said, his deep voice rumbling like muted thunder. “Show me the parchment.” 

Nangok handed it over without a word. Ragnok scanned the writing in silence, his expression hardening into steel. 

“An Inheritance Test conducted at Gringotts never lies. Blood remembers, boy. And your blood bears the marks of many ancient lineages. You are the son of Thomas Riddle and Lily Evans. More than that: you have a living twin sister.” 

Harry blinked rapidly, stunned. 

“This… no… this can’t be true. He tried to kill me!” 

“He did not try to kill you,” Ragnok corrected, his gaze sharp as a blade. “He tried to destroy the falsehood Dumbledore had woven around you. But that is a matter for later. For now, Heir Riddle, you require healing. Every compulsion, every spell, every block must be removed. Only then can we speak of inheritance.” 

He turned to Nangok. 

“Prepare the Healing Chambers. And inform Lord Potter-Prince that the time has come to fulfill his oath.” 

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, a healer was already at his side and the world tilted around him. The last thing he heard was Ragnok’s voice, solemn and resolute: 

“The Nation does not abandon its allies, boy. You are not alone.” 

The healer closed the door behind Harry and began escorting him deeper into the bank. The passageway was carved directly into stone, its steps short and uneven, clearly meant for goblin legs, causing Harry to stumble more than once. Eventually, they reached an antechamber, where the healer handed him a white cotton robe. 

“You will remove all your clothing and put this on. Once you are ready, simply step through that door. I’ll be waiting with my team.” 

And so he did. The threadbare, second-hand clothes he had worn were folded neatly in a corner, his worn trainers placed beside them. Now dressed only in the white robe, Harry padded across the cold stone floor. 

When he pushed through the door, his breath caught. 

He was standing in a vast underground cavern, deep beneath London. Sunlight filtered in through cleverly angled mirrors, catching on dozens of magical lanterns scattered throughout the chamber. At its center stretched an enormous natural pool, its waters reflecting light onto the distant vaulted ceiling. 

To the right of the entrance stood a neat row of hospital beds. To the left, a massive ritual table carved with ancient runes and inscriptions Harry suspected were Gobbledegook, the goblin language. 

“This way, Heir Riddle,” called the healer, standing beside the table with several other goblins in healer’s robes. 

Harry approached hesitantly, climbing onto the table with their help. 

“Do not worry,” the healer reassured him gently. “When we begin, we will place you in a trance. It will feel as though you are merely asleep. Once we have removed every spell, compulsion, and potion from your system, we will immerse you directly into the Healing Pool. When you awaken, you will feel much improved.” 

Harry nodded nervously, clutching the edge of the robe. 

There was no more time to hesitate. His eyelids grew heavy as the goblin placed a cool hand over his forehead, and the world slipped away into darkness. 

There are many forms of abuse. This was a fact Hermione had learned very early. She knew she couldn’t compare herself to her friend, Harry Potter, who visibly suffered physical and psychological abuse at home, but she also knew that the way she was treated by her parents was abuse. They wouldn’t talk to her, shoved more and more books at her to read, giving her attention only when it came to her grades. Very, very early on, she learned that she had to maintain a certain level and quality just to be the minimum source of recognition from her parents. Only recognition. They never felt proud of her. 

Every time she set aside her studies to play with other children, she would hear from her mother how she had wasted precious revision time just to do something fleeting. That was why she learned from an early age to keep her grades as high as possible, not just to gain recognition, but also to avoid criticism. 

Because she was intelligent, Hermione discovered early on that she was not a Granger by blood. She had been adopted when she was very young. She wasn’t a baby; she could walk and talk, though she didn’t remember anything from that time. She never knew her real birth date. That was why she was registered with the day and month of her adoption: September 19. The year ’79 was an estimate of her birth, since she was adopted in ’82. Her parents were most likely dead or imprisoned in Azkaban. She knew very well the time period she had been born in, in the wizarding world. That’s why the term “Mudblood” upset her so much. Because very likely, Hermione Granger had been a lost Pureblood, considered dead… or worse: unknown. 

This was why Hermione spent so much time in the Hogwarts library. To her friends, she was studying. In reality, she was searching for the truth. She knew she had to find a way to uncover the truth about her own story. This was also why she enrolled in every subject in Hogwarts in her Third Year. She wanted to gain as much knowledge as possible and discover her family. 

The Granger house was silent as always. The clock in the living room read four o’clock in the afternoon, but no one seemed to notice Hermione was there. Her parents had left early for work, leaving a quick note on the fridge about dinner and the pile of Muggle books she was supposed to review during the holidays. No one knew she was still enrolled in a Muggle school and was being “homeschooled.” All exercises and exams were sent home, and her parents submitted them to the Department of Education. 

Hermione sighed and closed her Biology book. She had spent the entire morning reviewing, not because she wanted to, but because she knew that when her parents returned, they would ask what she had learned, and any vague answer would be met with a disappointed look. 

She got up from the table, went to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of tea. She enjoyed the ritual: heating the water, separating the leaves, waiting for the aroma to fill the air. It was the only moment of the day that felt entirely hers. 

On her way back to her room, she walked through the expanse of the “Granger residence,” each space meticulously designed to display the image of the perfect family and prodigy daughter. Some photos of trips her parents had taken, lectures they had given, and the successes they had achieved, and she appeared in only three photos. But all were placed with millimetric precision to seem as if they were proud of her, even though the truth was the complete opposite. When she left the living room, Hermione stopped in front of the hallway mirror at the foot of the stairs. For a moment, she studied her reflection: her untamable brown hair, anxious eyes, dark circles betraying sleepless nights. “Who are you, Hermione Granger?” she whispered. 

The silence of the house did not answer. 

Then she went to her room, the only safe place in the house. It could barely be called hers, since every year, upon returning from school, she had to remove the things her parents had left in her room. 

Hermione climbed onto her bed and curled up, hugging one of the old books she had brought from Hogwarts for the summer. As she read about ancient genealogies, her heart beat faster. Maybe, just maybe, a clue was hidden somewhere. Perhaps she could discover where she came from, who her real parents were… 

And at that moment, as if fate had heard her thoughts, the soft flapping of wings echoed by her bedroom window, and there was a brown owl, perched with a letter clutched in its claw. 

“Oh! Good afternoon!” she said, reaching out to take the letter from the owl’s paw. 

As soon as the envelope was free, the owl hooted in satisfaction, puffed out its chest, and took off. 

It wasn’t a letter from Harry, as he wouldn’t have sent another owl instead of Hedwig. It wasn’t from Ron, who had sent a letter via Errol the day before, telling her about the family trip to Egypt the next day. It was a letter from Gringotts. 

Dear Miss Granger, 

It has come to Gringotts’ attention that you have never undergone the standard procedure at the Bank, also known as Inheritance Test to confirm your family’s First Magical Generation lineage, nor registered your magical signature in the system, so that we may recognize you for any future activities at the Bank. 

It is of utmost importance that you appear at one of our branches to address this delicate and urgent matter. These forms must be completed at Gringotts Bank in order for your legitimacy to be recognized by the Lady Magic. 

Should your travel be compromised, this letter also serves as a portkey that will bring you directly to the nearest branch. Simply use the password “Silver” to activate it. The goblin Nangok will be at your disposal at any time upon your arrival at our bank. 

May your vaults never run dry, 

Griphook  

Hermione remembered well that night at the beginning of her second year. 

The library was silent, so empty that even the sound of her quill scratching across parchment seemed too loud. She had hidden at the last table in the back, an enchanted candelabra illuminating the stacks of books she had brought herself. 

In front of her were three open volumes: 

Lines of Blood and Ancient Inheritances 

Wizarding Wars: An Untold History 

and an old register of magical births that she had “borrowed” discreetly from the restricted section. 

Her eyes burned from reading so much, but she did not stop. 

“Granger, Granger, Granger…” she whispered softly, as if the adopted surname were a password to something greater. But there was nothing. No mention. 

“Maybe they don’t even know I exist,” she thought, with that tightness in her chest she had learned to swallow. 

A soft sound made her lift her eyes: Harry and Ron laughing at the back of the hall, carrying stacks of sweets. She almost smiled. Almost. But she turned her eyes back to the register, as always. 

“One day,” she promised herself. “I will find out where I came from. And when I do… nothing will stop me from knowing the truth.” 

And then, back in the present, with the Gringotts letter in hand, Hermione felt a shiver. As if the answer she had always sought was finally within reach. 

Hermione reread the letter carefully, her eyes scanning each line as if it were a puzzle. Then she read it three more times, her eyes running over every word as if the ink could change its meaning. 

Gringotts. Inheritance Test. Magical lineage. 

The Bank did not write without reason. Every word of that message was measured, and the mention of the “standard procedure” made it clear: there was something official about her in the Bank’s system. This was not a mistake. 

She sat at her desk, opened a fresh sheet of parchment, and began to scribble, as she always did when she needed to organize her thoughts and make an important decision. 

Her heart raced, but her mind fired off a list of pros and cons. And facts. 

Facts: Gringotts recognizes her magic; there is a record, albeit incomplete, of her lineage; the letter includes a personalized portal key, something that would not be issued without security measures. 

Pros: she could finally discover where she came from, who she really was; she could understand why she had always felt that something… was out of place, wrong, in her life. If she were a lost Pureblood, as she had always suspected, she might even have family somewhere. 

Cons: what if it were a mistake? What if it were a trap? What if she disappeared and no one noticed? 

Risks: not knowing exactly what she will encounter; activating the key without informing anyone; the possibility, however small, that it could be some kind of trap. 

Conclusion: the likelihood of it being a fraud is minimal; the information obtained could clarify gaps of years; the advantages outweigh the risks. 

She looked at the bedroom door. Her parents probably wouldn’t return before eight. Even if she disappeared, they would only notice later, and perhaps wouldn’t notice the difference at all. 

She pressed the parchment between her fingers, taking a deep breath. Part of her, the wounded, needy part, wanted to run. But the part that calculated coldly reminded her: if Gringotts was calling, it was because there was a record. And Gringotts did not make mistakes. 

Hermione set down her quill, inhaled deeply, and looked at the letter once more. 

“Two years of searching,” she thought, feeling her eyes sting. “Two years hiding in the library, and the answer has always been here. If there’s even the smallest chance of finding out who I am, I will take it,” she thought, her mind already running through the possibilities that would open up from that moment. 

Then Hermione made her plan. What were the chances of returning to that house? And her things? What would happen to her books, her robes, the gifts Harry had given her? Everything she valued? 
If Gringotts had the answer she wanted, she would not leave empty-handed and would not accept being sent back to that house for even another minute, if she could stay in the wizarding world permanently. Maybe… maybe she could convince Harry to do an Inheritance Test too. 
But for that, she would have to do hers first. And for that, she had to get ready. 

Skillfully, she opened her wardrobe and trunk. With the agility of someone used to planning and organizing her things, she soon had everything packed. Including her go-bag, carefully hidden between the desk and the wall. Soon her room was empty of personality, and everything that had ever belonged to Hermione Granger was securely stored inside the heavy trunk, which she held firmly in one hand, while in the other she held the parchment and her wand. Then she spoke, her voice clear and precise: 

“Silver.” 

Chapter Text

Silver. 

It was what reflected on every surface of the drawing room, from the family crest carved into the marble fireplace to the flawless gleam of the silverware in Narcissa Malfoy’s hands. 

The wealthy and opulent Malfoy Manor, contrary to popular belief, was open, bright, airy, and extremely inviting. Overall, the décor leaned toward shades of rosé gold, gold, and bronze. Only the drawing Room, where guests were received through the Floo Network, bore the expected tones of Slytherin. 

Draco sat in a high-backed armchair, posture straight, watching his father leaf through an ancient tome about governance and alliances between pure-blood families. Lucius Malfoy possessed the patience and the imposing presence of one who knew every detail of the wizarding world, and today’s political lesson would be no different: Draco would learn the importance of subtlety and the manipulation of information, for these are sharper tools than any sword. 

“Remember, my son,” Lucius began, his voice as firm and cold as the marble fireplace, “it is not strength that keeps a family at the top, but the ability to remain invisible when necessary, and to know exactly when to display the power you possess.” 

Draco nodded, absorbing each word as if they were spells cast directly upon his mind. To him, these lessons were not merely obligatory, but vital. A single misstep could stain generations of Malfoys... just as it had with the Weasleys. 

“To command a room is far more than having the loudest voice. It's knowing whom you are speaking to and controlling that person, often without them ever realizing they are being controlled.”

Meanwhile, Narcissa arranged the finer details of a luncheon to be held the following week, her posture always impeccable, embodying the perfect balance of grandeur and hospitality. Even her most seemingly insignificant gestures carried the precision of an ancient choreography, rehearsed since childhood. 

The house-elves entered and exited without Draco needing to rise, their every movement studied as part of the silent choreography that kept the household running without the slightest disorder. He observed,  learning not only the politics of great families but also the unspoken message contained in every gesture, every glance, every silence of Malfoy Manor. 

By the end of the morning, Draco made his way to Lucius’s office to review company documents, bank reports, and information on negotiations. It was constant training, but necessary. He knew that despite wealth and magic, the true strength of a Malfoy came from the mind, from the ability to shape the world without it ever noticing. 

“I have a question,” Draco began, analyzing the earnings report from the last quarter. “if we are superior to Muggles, why do we own businesses in the Muggle world?” 

“What did you learn about the Roman Empire in Eyris?” Lucius replied. “How did they dominate the continent?” 

Draco frowned at the unexpected history question instead of a direct answer. 

“Through assimilation. The Romans assimilated the culture and beliefs of the peoples they conquered, minimizing the chance of rebellion and civil war.” 

“Exactly. So then, Draco, why do we have Muggle businesses?” 

“We’re assimilating their culture? To... what? Eventually dominate the Muggles?” 

“No. Not dominate, but control. Muggles are ruled by money far more than goblins are by gold. Our Queen is one of the few living Muggles who knows and understands both worlds, and her, we do not control. But we can control her subjects here on the island, expand to the continent. And from there... invest in America.” 

Draco nodded, showing he understood. 

The day passed between lessons and small instructions on etiquette, the control of information, and the observation of allies and enemies. Every detail was etched into Draco’s memory,  for one day he too would have to command, not merely as heir, but as the living symbol of all his family represented. 

The silver clock marked the beginning of the afternoon as the Malfoy family gathered on the veranda overlooking the carefully designed gardens. The sun reflected off marble paths and crystal fountains, creating a scene of peace and absolute control: every stone, every flower, exactly where it should be. 

Narcissa ordered iced tea and small portions of exotic fruits, all arranged on silver trays gleaming under the sunlight. Lucius settled into a high-backed chair, legs crossed, his posture that of a man who observed far more than he spoke. Draco, meanwhile, enjoyed the soft breeze, feeling his own blood pulse with the energy that only he, among the Malfoys, carried. 

The matter of his Veela heritage: the luminous, alluring presence that emerged with every intense emotion, was something he kept carefully in check. Draco knew letting too much slip could be dangerous, especially if an unsuspecting visitor or rival detected signs of such pure, potent magic. Today, however, in the safety of his home, he could allow himself to relax a little. 

Veela blood had run through Malfoy veins for generations, an inheritance from the family’s French origin. The Clan guarded each descendant with meticulous care, fully aware of the secrets and powers they carried within. From time to time, the Veela Queen sent emissaries to the part-Veela families, seeking to gauge the strength of each member. Draco had a natural affinity with the elements, particularly air. Lucius, by contrast, was more connected to the earth. 

“It’s improving, isn’t it?” Narcissa remarked, noticing her son’s looser posture, his aura subtly calmer.

“You can maintain control without apparent effort.” 

Draco offered a small smile, adjusting the collar of his robe. 

“Yes. It’s only a matter of concentration. I still feel the emotion trying to break free sometimes, but I’ve learned to channel it.” 

Lucius raised an eyebrow, curious but satisfied. 

“Good. A Veela must learn to govern his own allure before he attempts to govern anything else. Control is power, Draco. Never forget that.” 

The conversation drifted toward lighter subjects: new books Lucius had acquired, details of ancient family alliances, and even discreet gossip from the aristocratic world. Yet to Draco, every word carried hidden lessons; he read beyond what was spoken, absorbing intentions and strategies like a player studying an endless chess match. 

When Narcissa suggested a walk through the gardens, Draco rose and followed her. As they walked among perfectly aligned rose bushes and steaming fountains, the breeze seemed to toy with the boy’s silvery hair, a detail only his family would ever notice. It was the mark of the Veela within him, a subtle beauty that demanded care and discipline. 

The afternoon unfolded in muted laughter, silent observations, and small demonstrations of skill: Draco showing how he could manipulate delicate currents of energy to move petals through the air, or Lucius demonstrating an old spell that shaped flower stems. Every gesture was training, every moment a lesson. 

As the sun began to sink, painting the gardens in gold and copper, Draco felt the familiar mix of pride and responsibility pulsing in his chest. It was this balance between power and control that defined a Malfoy, and he knew that life beyond the manor would only be more challenging, demanding far more than brilliance or magic to survive the games of the outside world. 

As the sun began to set over the quiet Malfoy gardens, a faint breeze of change stirred in the bustling heart of Gringotts, in London. 

The golden warmth of the afternoon contrasted with the calculated coldness of the great building, yet the place was no less controlled, on the contrary. Every corridor, every counter, every guard was part of a silent choreography that kept the bank running with almost military precision. 

Hermione Granger appeared in the building’s atrium, holding tightly to the handle of her trunk. Despite the usual disorientation of Portkey travel, her gaze remained sharp, sweeping across every detail with curiosity. Despite her young age, her sense of responsibility and power was evident: someone accustomed to being surrounded by secrets, someone used to noticing what others would miss. 

She walked with steady steps to the front desk and waited. When the goblin lifted his face, suspicious eyes narrowing at the young witch, she simply handed him the letter and caught the slight shift in his expression when he grew agitated upon reading the correspondence. Something was indeed happening. 

“This way, Miss Granger.” 

The path was confusing and complex. Hermione doubted she could find her way out without an escort, much less return to the goblin’s office on her own. Soon she was seated, face-to-face with the goblin who studied her every movement, as though expecting her to attack at any moment. 

“Good afternoon, miss. We do not usually involve ourselves in your wizarding disputes, but due to what was revealed to us this afternoon, it was our duty to bring you here.” 

She simply nodded, following every word carefully. 

“What do you know about your lineage?” 

“I’m adopted.” She didn’t miss the flicker in Nangok’s eyes. “My parents gave me little information, and what I do know, I discovered on my own. I was adopted in ’82, probably born in ’79 or ’80, the orphanage had no records. I was left on its steps in June of ’81. That was the most information I managed to get from the Muggles.” 

“Extend your hand, Miss Hermione. We shall begin your Inheritance Test and uncover the gravity of what was done to you, and the truth that was denied.” 

She extended her hand, which he held gently while Nangok made a small cut and guided seven drops of blood to fall upon the parchment. And in that instant, Hermione felt the familiar sensation of being watched, a distant yet intense presence, as if the very magic of the place knew something was about to change. 

The silence that followed seemed to stretch beyond time. The seven drops spread across the parchment in fine lines, like roots seeking their way through earth, until they began to glow with a bright golden hue. Ancient symbols surfaced, forming runes Hermione did not recognize, and then letters emerged: clear, firm, almost as though they were being branded onto the page by fire. 

Nangok lifted his eyes to her, and for the first time Hermione saw a different emotion break through his usual composure. Respect. Perhaps even a trace of reverence. 

“Miss...” He paused, taking a deep breath. “..Riddle.” 

The world seemed to tilt beneath Hermione’s feet. She blinked, certain she had misheard. 

“Excuse me, what?” 

The goblin turned the parchment and slowly pushed it toward her. 

--- 

Name: Hania Lily Riddle 

Adopted Name: Hermione Jane Granger 
 

Date of Birth: July 31, 1980 

Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle (Status: alive/incapacitated) 

Mother: Lily Riddle (née Evans) (Status: alive/incapacitated) 

Adoptive Father: Jonathan Michael Granger (Illegal Muggle Adoption) (Status: alive) 

Adoptive Mother: Helen Jane Granger (née Bennett) (Illegal Muggle Adoption) (Status: alive) 

Twin Brother: Hadrian Thomas Riddle (Status: alive. Adopted Name: Harry James Potter) 

--- 

The letters pulsed for a moment before stabilizing, as if the magic itself confirmed there was no room for doubt. 

“Someone... tampered with your blood, child. Altered records, documents, even your name. But magic does not lie. It always finds its way back to the truth.” 

Hermione continued to stare at the parchment, as though if she blinked the words would change. Her heart pounded unevenly, and the strange sensation of being watched returned, stronger, as if the bank itself acknowledged the truth now revealed. 

“And what about...” she tried, her voice faltering. She swallowed hard and tried again. “What about my brother?” 

Nangok placed a small, firm hand upon the parchment. 

“He is the reason you are here. Less than an hour ago, he arrived the same way you did, only he was... unprepared.” He glanced at her trunk on the floor. “He underwent the Test and we uncovered his identity. And from what I see here, both of you were deliberately separated, your memories tampered with, your destinies stolen.” He drew a long breath, holding back his fury in the name of solemnity. “And, miss, this is not a simple adoption. The fact it is listed as an illegal Muggle adoption means there is more information we do not yet know.” 

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of revelation settle deep in her bones. Riddle. The name sounded like a forbidden curse, like something that might burn her tongue if spoken aloud. She recalled the previous year, what Harry had said about the diary, about Tom Riddle. About Voldemort. Their father. 

And deep within the unseen corridors of the bank, the ancestral magic of Gringotts whispered in response, as though it saluted the return of a forgotten name, a power that had always been there, merely waiting to awaken. 

“What do I do now?” she finally asked. 

“Now, you finish reading your test. You must gather all the information possible. And then, we begin undoing everything that was done to the Riddle family.” 

Hermione agreed and turned her gaze back to the parchment, hands trembling as she heard the rush of her own blood. 

--- 

Godparents: 

James Fleamont Potter-Prince (Status: alive/incapacitated) 

Remus John Lupin (Status: alive/memory altered) 

Magical Guardian: Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore (Illegal) 

Mate: [BLOCKED] 

Creature: [BLOCKED] 

Magical Core: 

[ ] Black 

[X] Grey 

[ ] White 

Abilities: 

Parseltongue (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Parselmagic (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Eidetic Memory (90% blocked – by APWBD – 80% broken) 

Intelligence (20% blocked – by APWBD) 

Critical Thinking (80% blocked – by APWBD – 100% broken) 

Animagus (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Wandless Magic (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Nonverbal Spells (95% blocked – by APWBD) 

Natural Legilimency (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Natural Occlumency (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Affinity with Water – Creature inheritance (90% blocked – by APWBD) 

Accelerated Healing – Creature inheritance (100% blocked – by APWBD) 

Twin Magical Connection (80% blocked – by APWBD) 

Spells, Compulsions, and Potions: 

Block on natural elemental affinity – by APWBD 

Block on access to magical core – by APWBD 

Loyalty Potion to Albus Dumbledore – by APWBD 

Hatred of Slytherins – by APWBD 

Obedience to Authority Figures – by APWBD 

Memory Alteration (multiple) – by APWBD 

Medical history shows signs of mental and emotional abuse. Complete diagnostic and magical cleansing recommended. 

Titles: 

Descendant of the Most Ancient and Most Royal House of Peverell (paternal) 

Descendant and Heiress Apparent of the Most Ancient and Royal House of LeFay (maternal) 

Descendant of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Slytherin (paternal) 

Descendant and Heiress Apparent of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Ravenclaw (maternal) 

Descendant of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt (paternal) 

Vaults: 

Riddle – Main Vault (700) and Trust Vault (862) 

Gaunt – Main Vault (023) and Trust Vault (307) 

Slytherin – Main Vault (009) and Trust Vault (186) 

Peverell – Main Vault (013) and Trust Vault (297) 

LeFay – Main Vault (012) and Trust Vault (454) 

Ravenclaw – Main Vault (008) and Trust Vault (185) 

Evans – Single Vault (964) 

For details of family vaults in stasis, family grimoires, weaponry, portraits, furniture, and libraries, check the adjoining rooms of each Main Vault. 

For transaction details, investments, withdrawals, transfers, and family properties, consult the Account Manager. 

--- 

Creature? Mate? Nothing made sense anymore. 

“I have so MANY questions! Starting with my bloodline. And what does it mean that I have a Creature, a creature inheritance? What does any of this mean?” 

“It means we have much to do.” Nangok rose, carefully storing the parchment away. “First, we must begin your cleansing. Every compulsion, every block, is restricting your magical core, which is sealed. You could collapse.” 

Hermione nodded, hand gripping the handle of her trunk tightly, as if the gesture could anchor her. Her mind still spun with questions, but her body seemed to know there was no turning back. 

A healer approached silently and guided her toward the Healing Chambers. Unknowingly, she was walking the very same path as her brother. As she changed clothes, a strange shiver crawled up her arms. For an instant, she felt the vivid sensation she was not alone, as though someone, somewhere, was calling out to her. 

When she passed through the indicated door, she found herself in a vast cavern. The air was thick, saturated with burning herbs and a low hum that vibrated straight into the bones. 

“This way, Miss Riddle,” the healer said firmly. 

Hermione was guided to a ritual table, the goblin’s hand always steady at her back, for she felt compelled to turn another way, unaware that Harry was undergoing the same ritual only meters away, inside a protective ward, on a table identical to hers. 

“After we remove every spell, compulsion, and potion from your body,” the healer explained, “we will place you directly in the healing pool. You will wake feeling much better.” 

And as the team tending to Hermione began their ritual, the team with Harry exchanged glances. 

“The core is finally responding,” one murmured, before doubling their efforts. 

The deep vibration of the magic being worked echoed through the chamber, but in the upper halls of Gringotts, the air was different: cold, precise, like a sharpened blade. Nangok climbed the steps in silence to the main office, where Ragnok already awaited him before a table of dark stone. 

“They have begun cleansing the young lady,” Nangok reported, placing two parchments upon the polished surface. “The bond between the twins is awakening faster than expected. They endured similar trials, even without being with the same family. Their connection is strong.” 

Ragnok did not reply immediately. His eyes scanned every line of the magical reports, lingering a moment longer over the names “Riddle” and “Evans,” before looking up. 

“And the Muggles?” he asked, his deep voice laced with restrained contempt. “The Grangers and the Dursleys?” 

“They will be... handled,” Nangok replied, each syllable heavy with promised efficiency. “A team is already prepared to collect all of young Riddle’s belongings from Privet Drive. As for the Grangers,  Miss Riddle apparently brought all her possessions when she activated the Portkey. I recommend altering their memories and monitoring them for now. The adoption was illegal but performed through Muggle channels, so we can remove them swiftly and cleanly. There will be no trace that there was ever a Miss Granger.” 

Ragnok pressed his claws against the stone table, golden tips scraping a subtle sound into the surface. 

“For now,” he repeated, almost as a warning. “If they dare to interfere with the Riddles illegally again, the Bank will show no mercy.” 

Nangok inclined his head in agreement. 

“Understood, my king.” 

“And Dumbledore?” The question lingered in the air like a poised strike. “He will not remain idle once he realizes he has lost control. Too many seats in the Wizengamot, too much money at stake.” 

“We are already preparing the glamour bracelets. We will have to teach them about their Creature powers once we know which they inherited. We must cast a decoy over vault access for all wizards, so Dumbledore will not notice his loss. Dumbledore may be powerful, but Gringotts is older than any living wizard. And the Nation does not retreat.” 

Ragnok allowed the barest nod, the kind that carried approval. 

“Keep me informed of every step. And when they awaken...” His black eyes gleamed like obsidian. “...prepare them. The world will not be kind to the truth.” 

“Understood.” 

Ragnok raised his gaze from the parchments one final time, the light in his eyes reflecting the certainty of one who sees farther than all others. 

“Magic changed today,” he said, voice low as a contained growl. “And those who know how to listen.. will feel it.” 

Nangok only inclined his head in respect. The message had been delivered: silent, subtle, like the beating of wings in the dark. 

Eyris Hall – West Wing, Research Laboratories 

The night began lazily over the gardens of the school estate. Inside the pale stone mansion, however, nothing was lazy. Gears turned in synchrony with spells, glass tubes glowed with potions in different stages of development, and in the back, a group of children laughed as small colorful explosions marked yet another botched exercise, having fun while they waited for their parents to come pick them up. 

Theodore Nott sat in the shadow of a bookshelf loaded with old parchments, pretending to read about advanced transfiguration while watching the younger apprentices. The family’s preschool was one of the Notts’ prides: a space where wizarding children learned not only to control their magic before age eleven, but also the basic lessons any regular Muggle school would teach. And for those children who revealed themselves as squibs, the school accepted them to continue their studies after eleven and even graduate, just as it accepted the siblings of Muggleborns, creating a safe and healthy bond between the two worlds, learning together. 

On the upper floor, Edmund Nott interrupted his work as he felt a peculiar shiver, like a whisper passing through his bones. He dropped the quill on the desk, his clear eyes narrowing toward the horizon. 

“Did you feel that?” he asked, almost to himself. In the hallway, one of the older instructors, a gray-bearded wizard, lifted his head from the book he was correcting. 

“A tremor in the current,” he replied. “Ancient... but contained.” 

Edmund merely nodded, his expression grave. He did not know what it meant, but he knew how to recognize when the world’s magic shifted. And that day, something had shifted. 

“Continue,” Edmund said firmly, regaining control of the room. “The research does not stop.” 

But inside, he knew that vibration was not ordinary. Rising without another word, he Disapparated to his home. 

Theo felt it too. A fleeting instant: a cold breath across the nape of his neck, the candle flames flickering without a breeze. Maybe... just maybe... three days straight of researching his magic was finally exacting its toll on the lost sleep. He closed the book he was reading and walked to the fireplace by the entrance. 

Theo lingered for a few seconds in front of the hearth, feeling the faint shiver run down his spine. It was not merely exhaustion or the effect of weeks of intense study: there was something different in the magic around him. The air seemed denser, charged with a vibration he could not ignore. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to identify its source. Instinctively, he extended his hand, not to touch anything physical, but as if he could feel the invisible magical current that snaked through the mansion. The gears in the laboratory began to tremble lightly, and small sparks of energy appeared in the glass tubes, reflecting the candlelight as though responding to his perception. 

“Strange...” he murmured. “This is not a common current.” 

On the other side of the room, one of the children lost control of their magic, causing a puff of purple smoke to explode over the workbench. Theo dodged, but his eyes stayed fixed on the small fluctuations of energy. They seemed to resonate in tune with something. or someone, very far away, yet still connected. 

“Mr. Nott, did you feel that?” asked an older instructor, pointing to the night sky visible through the tall windows. The moon reflected its silvery light over the gardens, but something seemed different: the breeze carried a touch of electricity, as though the night itself were whispering secrets. 

Theo frowned, wondering how to explain it to the children without alarming them. 

“Yes... but it’s nothing you need to worry about right now.” And, beneath his firm tone, he added: “Just feel the magic, learn to respect it.” 

As he walked through the laboratory, his attention returned to the school’s crest, so different from the crest of his family, reflected on the opposite wall. Every detail seemed to pulse with its own energy, almost alive. Theo realized, with a shiver of awareness, that it wasn’t just the ancient magic that was reacting; he himself was part of this growing current, connected to something greater he did not yet fully understand. 

In silence, he closed his fists, channeling his focus. Small threads of bluish energy began to dance between his fingers, light and hesitant, but visible. It was an unconscious test, a first reaction of his body and his heritage to the change running through the world. 

Theo lifted his gaze to the vaulted ceiling of the laboratory, and for a moment, felt as though his days of research, experiments, and observation had only been preparation. Now, the true trial was coming. Something was awakening, and he would be part of it. 

Unnoticed by him, a faint glow began to emerge on the Eyris crest, reflecting in Theo’s eyes. The school, the students, and every glass tube now seemed mere spectators of something that would transcend any magic he had ever known. 

And then, with a sudden impulse, Theo headed for the Floo network to the Nott Manor, knowing that what he needed was at home. The most detailed information about his family inheritance and the magic his blood could command lay within the family grimoires, and he had the feeling that what was awakening in the world would finally allow him to access those ancestral tomes. 

The Floo trip was short, but Theo stepped out of the main fireplace of Nott Manor with his breath racing. The hall was empty, lit only by the silvery glow of the moon streaming through the high stained-glass windows. He did not need to announce his arrival, the house, alive with the magic of the Notts, seemed to feel the urgency burning in the heir. 

“Theo?” His father’s deep voice echoed from the upper floor, carried by impeccable control. “You felt it too.” 

Theo lifted his eyes, meeting Edmund at the top of the staircase, still in work clothes, sleeves rolled up, blond hair tousled. It was not a question, but a confirmation. 

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt,” Theo replied, his voice steadier than he expected. “It’s not just a change in the flow. It’s… like the world is breathing again.” 

Edmund descended the steps in silence, each stride measured, until he stood before his son. He studied him for a moment, as if seeking invisible confirmation, then nodded slowly. 

“The ancient magic is calling,” he said, his tone grave, almost reverent. “And not only for me. You have been touched as well.” 

Theo swallowed hard, immediately understanding the weight of those words. His inheritance was awakening faster than expected. There were grimoires that even he, the family heir, had never been allowed to open. Scrolls so ancient that the very magic of the house sealed them. And now… the seals were breaking because his creature was emerging. 

“I want to see them,” he said without hesitation. 

Edmund tilted his head, weighing his son’s determination. 

“Then prepare yourself.” And with a nearly imperceptible gesture, the corridor lit up, revealing the path to the family catacombs. 

As they descended the cold stone stairs, Theo felt the air change with each step, denser, more alive. When they reached the central chamber, Edmund stopped before a door of black iron inlaid with runes. 

“This vault holds secrets most of our kin will never know,” the patriarch said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “Only the Lord Nott and his heir, if already tested by the family’s magic, may access this place.” 

Theo raised his hand. The runes pulsed, one by one, until the lock yielded with a dull click. The portal opened, revealing a vast hall filled with shelves of grimoires, artifacts wrapped in ancient silk, and, at the center, a stone pedestal holding a tome so old it seemed to breathe. 

Theo approached slowly, feeling the energy vibrate in the air, as though the book recognized him. When his fingers touched the cover, a surge of magic coursed through his body, burning through every nerve yet without pain, it was recognition. Acceptance. 

Edmund merely watched, his narrowed eyes heavy with a mix of pride and fear. 

Theo lifted his gaze, breathless, and saw the ancient runes in the shadows of the room glowing in response. And moments later, he collapsed, his body needing to adapt to the new power of the High Elf. 

The next day dawned hot and sunny at the Burrow, already a good sign for a trip that promised to be anything but calm. Molly Weasley ran back and forth, her wand in one hand guiding the floating suitcases through the house, trying to maintain some kind of order in the absolute chaos of preparing five children for an international trip. 

The suitcases crashed onto the hall floor with a thud, startling the old family clock, which quickly shifted Ron’s face on the dial from “home” to “imminent doom” and back to “home.” 

“Come on, come on!” Molly shouted, wand in hand, trying to shrink a cauldron that stubbornly refused to fit into the trunk. “Arthur, for Merlin’s sake, where’s the international Portkey authorization?! Ginny! If I find one more robe stuffed into that cauldron, you’ll be without dessert for a month!” she bellowed, while Fred and George laughed in the background. 

“Oh, Mum, we were just testing its magical waterproofing!” Fred called from somewhere upstairs. “You never know when it might rain in the desert...”

“Next time we can test her bikini,” George added. “That way we’ll know if the robe gets wet, the bikini won’t.” 

The noise the twins made upstairs fooled no one. 

“Ready for Egypt!” Fred and George shouted, descending the stairs in a synchronized leap, each carrying a suspiciously heavy backpack. 

“Ready to get rid of you lot, that’s more like it,” Ginny retorted, rolling her eyes. 

Arthur appeared in the middle of the chaos, clutching a bundle of Egyptian scrolls and wearing an almost childlike look of fascination. 

“Did you know that wizards there still use hieroglyphs in their spells?” he asked, speaking to no one in particular. “Imagine this: magic so ancient, still alive! Oh, and I heard they have a spell to ward off scarabs.. amazing, isn’t it?” 

“Arthur!” Molly said exasperatedly. “The authorization form!” 

“Here, dear! It was in the cookie jar... No idea how it got there.” 

“Of course not,” Percy muttered, clutching his briefcase as if it were a trophy. Meanwhile, he tried desperately to convince his mother that he didn’t need to share a room with the twins at the hotel near the ruins. 

“I’m a prefect, Mum, heading to be Head Boy! I need space to study for my N.E.W.T.s!” he complained, already wearing his neatly ironed shirt, which would inevitably be wrinkled before they even reached Egypt. 

Ron, on the other hand, was more concerned with not forgetting Scabbers and making sure no one touched his snack stash for the trip. 

“Mum, if Percy doesn’t want to stay with the twins, I don’t either! They’re always testing their inventions on me!” 

Amid that charming chaos, the sound of powerful wings filled the backyard. Hermes, Bill’s owl, had brought a letter from him, waiting for them in Cairo. 

“‘I can’t wait to show you the tomb we found this week. Dad, you’re going to love it!’” Arthur read, eyes sparkling like a child in a candy shop. 

Ginny, excited, spun around the yard with her backpack ready. 

“I want to see the mummies! And maybe bring one back to scare Percy...” 

“Don’t even think about it, young lady!” Molly retorted, trying, and failing, to hide a smile. 

Finally, when everyone was ready: suitcases sealed, pets secured, and Molly on the verge of a nervous explosion, the family gathered by the fireplace. 

“Everyone with the Floo powder?” Arthur asked, too excited to notice his wife’s exasperated glare. 

“If that thing gets sand in my ear, I swear...” Ron muttered before vanishing in a green whirlwind. 

And thus, the Burrow fell silent for a brief moment, before the chaos resumed at the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, their first stop for an international trip. 

The clerk attending that riot of red, orange, and brown wasn’t prepared for the Weasley family chaos. 

“Don’t forget, kids, hold the Portkey firmly. Don’t let go before the time,” he instructed Mr. Weasley. “George, take your hand out of your pocket and hold tight. The key could activate any moment!” 

And soon, the clerk activated the Portkey, noticing that everyone was holding firmly onto the leather suitcase, sending that walking disaster straight to Cairo. 

Taking a deep breath, he noticed a caramel on the floor. He was about to pick it up when a teenage boy in line for a Portkey called out to him. 

“Hey! If that fell from one of the Weasleys’ pockets, I’d throw it away! I bet one Galleon it’s a prank.” 

“Do you think he took it?” Fred whispered, ecstatic. 

“I hope so!” George said, eyes gleaming. “Our first beta test of the Ton-Tongue Toffee has to count for something.” 

Not even two seconds after arriving in Cairo, the twins were already whispering together, heads bent close. 

“I don’t even want to know what you managed to get up to five minutes out of the house,” Mrs. Weasley began. “Just stay out of trouble and help me find your brother before you discover some way to use the mummies in your pranks.” 

Once they left the Portkey reception area, a witch appeared, calling them to her desk. 

“Welcome to Egypt, you are at the Ministry of Magic, Cairo. Please provide your travel authorization form, wands, and documents.” 

“The wands too?” Percy asked, handing over his wand. 

“Yes, so we can register you in our system and know when tourists are performing magic.” 

The customs process was quick, and soon they were heading to the Ministry atrium. Unlike in the UK, the Egyptian Ministry of Magic was made of heavy reddish stones, the air scented with incense, and it didn’t take long to spot Bill, dressed in Egyptian wizard robes quite different from what they were used to at home. 

“Welcome,” he said excitedly, “to the Sultan Hassan Mosque, where our Ministry of Magic has been so well hidden for centuries.” hugging his siblings briefly, shaking their father’s hand, and letting their mother squeeze him in one of her maternal hugs. He quickly led them outside and into the Ministry car that would take them to their wizard hotel. 

In Egypt, magic was more open, more intertwined with daily life, so small spells or potion effects often went unnoticed by Muggles. They usually attributed such things to the pyramids or some tomb curse. That’s why, when eight people stepped out of a small car in front of Khan el-Khalili Market and vanished through a side entrance, no one batted an eye. Meanwhile, the Weasleys were exploring the Egyptian wizarding market. 

The heat hit them like an invisible wall. The air smelled of spices and ancient dust, and the hum of the streets seemed to come from all directions. 

Ron stopped mid-sidewalk, eyes wide at the bustling market of colors. 

“I... I think I saw a mummy,” he said, pointing to a hooded wizard crossing the street with a floating chest behind him. 

“That’s just a badly dressed tourist, Ronniekins,” Fred laughed, patting his brother on the shoulder. “But if it were a real mummy, I bet Percy would bump into it.” 

Percy pretended not to hear, but tripped while crossing the entrance, dropping his briefcase. An important scroll flew away in the desert breeze. He ran after it, under his siblings’ amused eyes. 

“Classy, Perce!” George shouted, nearly doubling over with laughter. 

A dark-skinned wizard in a golden turban caught the scroll and returned it to the redhead with a playful smile. 

“Be careful, young one. The desert loves to steal secrets.” 

Percy’s face turned as red as his hair as his brothers doubled over laughing. 

Ginny, meanwhile, could barely contain herself. 

“Look at that!” she pointed at a magical artifact shop, its windows glittering with golden charms. “Do you think we can buy one?” 

“Don’t wander off, young lady,” Molly warned, pulling her daughter by the hand. 

Even with the confusion, Arthur merely shook his head, a small smile on his face, holding Ginny’s hand firmly as he guided her through the market. 

At the hotel, everything went smoothly. Percy and Ron shared a room, while Fred and George had another. They were surprised to find Charlie waiting in the lobby, along with the luggage. 

“I’ll stay at Bill’s house, Mum,” Charlie said when his mother worried about his lodging. “It’s small for all of you, but enough for the two of us. I’ll only be there a few days. I can’t be away from work too long.” 

She smiled, stroking her son’s face, feeling complete with the family finally together. 

“All right! We just need to make a few adjustments to our plans.” 

Chapter Text

Plans. Dumbledore always had many, more than any human being could ever execute in a lifetime, which, in his distorted mind, only proved that he was more than human. While most of the wizarding community worried about potion prices in Diagon Alley, the weather forecast in the Daily Prophet, or who had the most abusive taxes: Gringotts or the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore concerned himself with far nobler things: controlling ministries, rearranging genealogies, erasing inconvenient memories, deciding who should or should not survive until the next winter. Oh, and choosing the right sock for the occasion. Priorities had to be kept.

The old wizard scribbled on parchments that sprawled across the oak desk in his office, organized in piles that defied gravity and logic. In one: “International Crises.” In another: “Supreme Court Heirs.” And, prominently, a parchment with elegant handwriting: “Harry Potter.” 

He tapped the quill against his chin, thoughtful. The boy had survived the Chamber of Secrets. Once again, defying statistics, probabilities, and, above all, convenience. Irritating. Extremely irritating. And at the same time aligning with the plans to prepare the boy for his ultimate end. All in time for him to appear and save the world, once again. Reaffirming his place as the greatest wizard since Merlin. 

Only he had hidden things from him. Withheld information. And that was not the most appropriate thing at the moment. Nothing that couldn’t be circumvented, obviously, after all, Dumbledore had plans. He always did. 

Fawkes chose that moment to, in a dramatic swoop, knock half of the “International Crises” pile to the floor. Parchments flew everywhere, scattering across the office. The phoenix landed on the nearby bookshelf, singing in  a tone that sounded very much like sarcasm. Dumbledore sighed, like someone enduring a rehearsed performance. 

“Very well, my friend. Convincing interpretation of ‘the tragedy of an overburdened Headmaster.’” he murmured, while starting to pick up the papers. Fawkes snorted, as if that wasn’t the title of his song. 

Before he could organize them again, a pop announced the arrival of a house-elf carrying a tea tray. 

“You asked for calming herbal tea, Master Headmaster,” said the creature, placing the tray on the desk. 

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. In the teapot, the smell was unmistakable. 

“Chamomile?” he asked, his voice deep and suspicious. 

“Yes, Master. Very calming!” replied the elf, proud of a job well done. 

The wizard stared at the teapot as if the fate of the world depended on that infusion. 

“I asked for mint tea. Mint keeps the mind alert. Chamomile… induces passivity.” He gave a tragic sigh. “It’s impressive how a poorly served cup can ruin decades of careful planning.” 

A laugh rang out from the surrounding portraits. Phineas Nigellus Black, with his usual smug smile, leaned forward. 

“Or perhaps, Albus, it’s just a cup of tea,” he remarked, as if it were obvious. (Which, in fact, it was.) 

Dumbledore pretended not to hear, deciding to drink the tea anyway, even though it was not the much-needed mint. The other portraits muttered among themselves, half mocking, half shaking their heads in disapproval. He took a sip and noted something on Harry’s parchment, adding in tiny letters: 

“Observe resistance to subtle poisons. Tea included.” 

Fawkes let out a sharp trill that sounded dangerously like a laugh. Or an indignant chuckle. It wasn’t very possible to predict what goes on in the mind of a bird, especially a phoenix bound to Albus Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore set the teacup down with a calculated gesture, his mind already tracing parallels of possible and unimaginable situations. A new parchment was pulled from a secret drawer, marked only with a simple title: “School Year: Strategic Review.” 

The third year promised to be… delicate. Children grew up far too quickly when they shouldn’t. Harry was beginning to show signs of rebellion. Hermione… well, Hermione knew too much for her own good. And then there was Snape. 

Ah, Severus. A valuable pawn, but with a stubbornly resilient mind. The loyalty spells the Headmaster maintained over him no longer had the same strength. Besides, Severus was a master Legilimens and Occlumens, which already complicated the long-term effect of mental enchantments, and the bond of the Prince House with the Potter House made the layers of compulsion tremble in subtle, almost imperceptible points, but Dumbledore, who knew every comma of the story he wrote, noticed everything. 

“Reinforce compulsions,” he noted, with an arrow toward Snape’s name. “Consider ancient runes. Mix with emotional reinforcement: guilt and fear still work well. Evaluate inclusion of external psychological element.” 

A murmur came from one of the nearest portraits, that of Headmistress Dilys Fawley, who could read every stroke made on the parchment: 

“You’ll end up shattering his mind, Albus.” 

“Minds are flexible, my dear Dilys. They mold according to necessity,” he replied, without lifting his eyes from the parchment. “The problem is when they forget they need a hand to guide them.” 

Phineas Nigellus laughed again, crossing his arms. 

“And you, of course, believe yourself to be that hand.” 

Dumbledore merely smiled, the tip of the quill scratching the parchment with cruel elegance. 

“Believe? No, dear Phineas. I know.” 

The silence that followed was not respect. It was compulsion. Long ago, Albus had woven enchantments into the portraits of his office, ensuring they were as loyal as they were alive. The former headmasters could grumble, laugh, or even criticize, but they would never reveal what they saw or heard inside that room. Involuntary guardians of secrets they had not chosen to bear. And the cruelest part: one portrait, which no one seemed to notice, right above the last headmaster’s, in an even more honored and prominent place, had its four occupants frozen and silenced, so that no one could consult them for information about the castle and its history. Godric, Rowena, Helga, and Salazar could only watch, in silence, what was being done with their legacy and their descendants. 

While Fawkes made a point of knocking yet another scroll to the floor, Dumbledore redrew ritual lines and enchantments, seeking the best formula to optimize his result. 

The air in the room was heavy, filled with the metallic smell of the weapons the goblin kept on his wall and the scent of old parchments, stored in drawers and shelves. Harry rested his hands on the table before him, trying to take in what he was seeing. Documents, lineage records, pieces of a history that until then had been denied to him. 

Two days after receiving the letter from the bank, Harry woke up in the healing halls, side by side with Hermione, his sister, and had been pulled from one place to another by the goblins. Not one of the best experiences, it should be noted. New Inheritance Tests were carried out, to ensure that everything had been removed, new information had been uncovered, and new documents had been found. 

“So Dumbledore not only controlled our lives… he edited them.” Hermione murmured, her voice low but vibrating with anger. Her eyes ran over the words that appeared through magic on the parchment, as if reading a death sentence. “Every signature, every line, every compulsion spell… everything runs through him.” 

Harry snorted, with that bitter humor he only used when he was about to explode. 

“Of course. He writes fanfics about our life. Too bad they’re bad ones. REALLY bad.” 

Hermione almost laughed, but the look she cast back at the parchment was too hard to sustain any lightness. 

Nangok, the manager, cleared his throat. By the way, that was another matter that had to be settled. Nangok was the manager of the Potter Family, and they were Riddle. To preserve their identity and ensure that fewer people knew what was happening, all the accounts the twins controlled were transferred to Nangok’s command. His long, metallic fingers ran across a rune stone that glowed in a dull red. 

“There is, however, a peculiarity in Mister Riddle’s inheritance,” he said, each word dragged out like a blade being sharpened. “An unusual magical interference…” 

Harry and Hermione immediately exchanged glances. 

“Interference?” Hermione repeated, already pulling out her quill to write. “What kind?” 

Nangok raised his gaze, black eyes glinting in a way that was uncomfortable. 

“A magical block tied to your maternal blood, Mister Riddle, and one you have come into recent contact with. An old block anchored… forcefully. It does not belong to you, but it resonates in your lineage.” He tilted his head. “Cruel. Ineffective in the long term. But cruel.” 

Harry frowned, confused. 

“Maternal blood… does that mean I somehow had contact with my mother? Or does it have to do with Hermione?” 

“No, it is too recent to have been from any time you were at school. That is, if she was hidden at the school. And your sister shows no sign of the same contact. Which means she was not near whoever carries a block anchored to your blood.” 

Hermione closed her mouth, as if pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fall into place in her mind. 

“Her sister,” she murmured. “Petunia.” 

“Petunia? Aunt Petunia has nothing magical about her other than the ability to know everything happening inside the neighbors’ house.” 

“Maybe exactly because of that,” Hermione shot back, her eyes burning with reasoning. “What if she isn’t just a muggle? What if there was… a squib in the family? You saw our Test, you saw how powerful Lily’s blood is. If the block were on her… and it was used against you, or against…” 

She suddenly stopped, her mind seemed to work at full speed to arrive at several conclusions at once and determine which one was the most likely. Nangok did not correct the direction her thoughts were taking; he merely observed, with the kind of silence that seemed to confirm more than deny. He would not complete the unspoken sentence, though it was apparent there was much more to be said, but after all, nothing is free at Gringotts. 

Harry felt his stomach turn. The memory of Dudley, of his entire life on Privet Drive, now seemed more distorted than ever. 

“So… if the block isn’t mine… whose is it?” he asked, his voice lower, almost afraid of the answer, even though, apparently, he had reached the same conclusion Hermione refused to speak aloud. 

This time, Nangok leaned back in his stone chair, his finger-claws tapping slowly against the table’s surface. 

“Your cousin’s,” he answered simply, confirming everything the two siblings had thought. “The magic in him did not disappear. It merely… sleeps. Inaccessible. Blocked.” 

The silence that followed was so thick it could be cut with the sharp blade of the axe displayed on the wall behind the goblin. Hermione’s eyes widened, her mind racing. Harry went pale, unable to decide whether he wanted to laugh or smash something. 

“Dudley is a wizard?” he muttered, incredulous. “My cousin Dudley? Who can’t spell ‘School’ even when staring at the word on a wall. The biggest Muggle inside the word Muggle?” 

Hermione took a deep breath, as if with each word reality gained a new meaning. 

“He always was a wizard. They just… didn’t let him be.” 

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, agitated, her eyes fixed on nothing, calculating countless possibilities, visualizing multiple realities, and applying it all to the one they lived in and were uncovering in that manager’s office. 

“It makes sense,” she said, her voice firm despite her haste. “A squib doesn’t have active magic, but the blood still carries remnants. It’s like recessive DNA, it’s there and only needs a specific condition to be active. That’s why institutions like Eyris exist, dedicated to helping squibs maintain their bond with the wizarding community. A squib, for example, can care for magical plants, brew potions… The magical blood never vanishes, it just… sleeps. If Petunia is a squib, Dumbledore could have used that link to build a block. Anchored on her… and projected onto her son. And you came into recent contact with it, because you live in her house, with her. The block could even affect you, if it uses the sequence that connects her, you, and Dudley.” 

Harry stared at her as if she had started speaking another language. 

“You’re saying… my aunt let Dumbledore… block her own son’s magic? And even tied the magic into a DNA sequence from the biology Muggles study?” 

Hermione hesitated for an instant. The cold logic clashed with the cruelty of the conclusion. 

“First, it is widely known by scholars that Magic and DNA are related and that this can lead to the emergence of Squibs and Muggle-borns. Second, Petunia didn’t just let him.” She continued, her fingers tapping against the parchment where she was writing down all her thoughts and conclusions. “She asked. It’s the only way you can expect the ritual to remain stable. It needs blood consent. And Dumbledore must have taken advantage of that authorization to strengthen all the work he did on you. Two for the price of one.” 

Harry felt a knot in his stomach, anger mixing with the bitter taste of betrayal. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he had swallowed something acidic. The idea that Aunt Petunia, the same woman who had once forced him to scrub the floor on his knees until his fingers bled and his knees were raw (and then made him clean up the blood he spilled), had put a magical block on him and on Dudley… 

“So she hated Mum that much… to the point of thinking magic was a curse. And Dumbledore took advantage.” 

Nangok, silent until then, tapped his claws lightly against the table. The sound echoed in the room like a sentence. 

“Wizards should not underestimate the cruelty of their own relatives. They could learn a thing or two from Goblins. We do protect our Clans, it is true, but we also have many internal power struggles to determine who will lead the family,” he said, with the malice in his gaze of someone who had already seen and actively taken part in such power struggles. He would not be the one to teach these young wizards all the politics of War and Blood that Goblins lived and guarded. “And Dumbledore… he knows exactly the power family resentment has, and how to exploit every weakness in its fullness.” 

Hermione closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Each revelation seemed to uncover a larger picture of a painting she wasn’t sure she wanted to see complete. When she spoke again, her voice was firm, but low: 

“If Dudley manages to break this block… he will awaken. And when that happens, I don’t think Dumbledore will be able to control the narrative.” 

Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to process it. Dudley, the cousin who shoved him into the cupboard, who laughed at the Hogwarts letters, who seemed like the embodiment of Privet Drive’s cruel normality… a wizard. 

“Great,” he muttered, bitter. “This is going to be… fun.” 

Hermione gripped his arm tightly, serious. 

“It’s not fun at all, Harry. It’s dangerous. With his magic leaking from the block uncontrollably, it could bring physical consequences not only for him but for the environment around him. A house could collapse on him, or on the neighbors. He went through two cycles of magical maturation without allowing his body to adapt properly.” 

Nangok nodded. 

“You are completely correct, Miss Riddle. As expected of you. We have a team ready to go fetch Mister Riddle’s belongings from his family home, I will alert them of the importance of investigating this information.” 

“Fetch Harry’s things? What do you mean?” Now, that was news to Hermione. 

“Unlike you, who prepared to come here and discover what was happening upon receiving a portkey, your brother had no glimpse of the possibility of not returning, he simply activated the portkey without bringing anything he owned, only his wand.” 

“HARRY!” 

“What? I thought I’d be back by dinner. No one was going to miss me!!” 

“And Hedwig?” 

Harry blinked, stunned. For a moment, thinking of Hedwig was almost like a balm of relief, as if the owl were the only stable thing amidst it all. 

“Right. She must be missing me.” 

“You mean your snowy owl?” Nangok asked, still writing the necessary information to forward to the responsible team. When he lifted his gaze and saw the siblings nodding, he simply continued speaking. “Very clever. She arrived the same day you did. She has been enjoying the comfort of our owlery, and I believe she has already climbed a few ranks in the hierarchy of our owls.” 

A summons from Gringotts should never be denied. Under no circumstances. Severus Snape simply did not understand why he was being called at that moment. The letter he had received, as direct and polite as possible, for goblin standards, was very clear: Come here now or face the wrath of the Nation. The only concession allowed was: finish any potion that demands time and attention and then come. 

That was why it took him a day to answer the summons. Obviously, he expected some alteration in his vault, some payment not received from the potions he sold to apothecaries and St. Mungo’s. What he did not expect was to be received by the King of the Goblins and directed to one of the most protected management rooms of the Nation. (A fact he only knew because he was a friend of Lucius Malfoy and godfather to Draco.) And above all, he did not expect the King’s question. 

"Master Snape, what do you know about the wizards you call Harry Potter and Hermione Granger?" 

That was why Severus’s answer was extremely well-articulated and prepared in advance: 

"What?" 

At number four, Privet Drive, Petunia Dursley struggled to keep up appearances, even with her nephew absent. The breakfast table was set, the curtains impeccably aligned, but the fine china trembled in her hands. Dudley watched in silence, his face red and swollen with anger. Meanwhile, the orange juice in the glass before the boy bubbled without anyone touching it. 

“This can’t be happening… it can’t…” Petunia muttered, rising and pacing around the kitchen. “I asked, I begged him to block this… he promised me! 

The words carried the sour scent of sweetened lemon she only ever felt near one person. Her only luck at that moment was that Vernon was not home to witness what their son was doing. The problem, which Petunia did not know, was simple: magic never goes away. It only hides, bends, if it is blocked. And if it is not tended… it always demands its price. 

The doorbell rang. Once, twice. It wasn’t the postman. It wasn’t one of the neighbors. The bell sounded different, deeper, as if each ring vibrated along the spine. When she opened the door, three goblins stared at her, dressed in dark tunics, their eyes shining maliciously, the reflection of their weapons glinting in the sun. A tall man accompanied them, and even though he looked normal, she quickly realized that he was like her sister and her nephew, a wizard. 

“Petunia Dursley?” His voice cut the air like a blade. “We have unfinished business.” 

The glass of juice exploded in the kitchen behind her. Dudley screamed. 

“And no time to spare,” one of the goblins added, shoving the woman back inside and entering, followed by the others. “We’ll start with the boy. Smethwyck, you fetch the items from our client.” 

The steady gaze fell upon Dudley. The air seemed to compress around the boy, who paled instantly, as if the very house had decided to crush him together with the secret he hadn’t even known he carried until that instant, and he wasn’t even sure he fully understood it. 

“No… don’t touch him!” Petunia shouted, trying to put herself between the goblins and her son. But her voice no longer had the same firmness with which she barked orders at her nephew. It carried a high-pitched, nearly broken timbre that betrayed terror. “I did what he told me! I obeyed!” 

One of the goblins raised his chin, studying her as though she were a cockroach he had just crushed with a new boot of albino dragon leather (a rare and special boot, it must be noted). 

“And yet, the payment came in blood,” he murmured coldly. “It always does.” 

Dudley shrank back in his chair at the goblin’s words, especially at the mention of blood. The shattered glass in the kitchen began dragging itself across the floor, reacting to the boy’s fear. Petunia’s eyes widened, but the movement didn’t stop: cutlery clinked inside the drawer, a crack opened on the wall behind Dudley, thin like a vein showing through stone. 

“Stop this!” she begged, turning, seeking out the wizard who had accompanied the goblins, believing he was the only sane one who could understand her, but he was focused on inspecting the cupboard under the stairs, the boy’s trunk sitting beside the door. “You… you know! I asked for this not to happen. I begged him to erase it, to… to lock it away forever!” 

The man lifted his eyes and regarded her in silence. His expression was calm, like someone who had heard a hundred identical excuses. When he spoke, his tone was low, almost respectful, but hard as iron. 

“Magic does not disappear, Mrs. Dursley. Not because you are ashamed of it. Not because you envy it. It only waits.” Then he pointed toward the cupboard, where a filthy mattress was crumpled in a corner. “Magic tells us what happened here inside for nine years. Every tear, every drop of blood spilled. You forget that his blood came from the same place as yours.” 

Petunia blinked rapidly, her eyes filling with tears she tried to hold back. Her sister’s name had not been spoken, but it hung in the air, poisonous. 

The wizard turned away, looking at her with disgust. He soon climbed the stairs and had no difficulty finding the room Harry had occupied. What he found there was less than what had been locked downstairs, but he still took the empty owl cage and the hidden stash beneath the loose floorboard in the corner. When he descended again, the situation had already changed. 

The goblins had begun spreading through the living room. One, Burgock, climbed onto the armchair, touching the wall with a short runed dagger, and the beige paint peeled away like old skin, revealing symbols burned into the wooden structure. Another, Grodbik, threw a handful of black powder over the china cabinet, and immediately three concealment charms glimmered, flickering before breaking apart. A small box, wrapped in silver chains, fell to the floor with a dull thud. 

Petunia gasped. 

“No… no, that’s nothing… it’s just a keepsake… just family things…” 

“Family?” Bogrod, the oldest of the three goblins, laughed, a low, cutting sound. “You wanted to deny yours, and now it comes back to collect. Got everything, Thelonius?” 

“Yes, sir,” he replied briefly, making his presence felt again in the room. 

Dudley jumped to his feet, his face swollen with fear. He looked from the wizard to the goblins, focused on the marks on the wall. His fear only grew. 

“What’s happening? Mum? What do they want?” 

The air vibrated. The lamp in the corner exploded in blue sparks, and Petunia screamed, pulling her son toward her. 

“It’s you,” Thelonius whispered, looking directly at Dudley. “It’s your magic responding. The block is failing.” 

Dudley shook his head, stunned. 

“I’m not… I’m not like him!” He pointed at the empty air, but they all knew who he meant: Harry. “I’m not!” 

But at that instant, the rug under his feet writhed, its fibers forming spirals like living roots. The boy stumbled, knocking over the chair, and the remaining intact china on the table shattered all at once, as if it could no longer pretend to be normal. 

Petunia sobbed, unable to stop it. 

“I only wanted a normal life…” 

“And yet, you chose to toy with blood magic without knowing the consequences,” said the goblin, picking up the box. “It’s always blood.” 

Smethwyck pulled out a quill with a silver tip and began recording every movement, every word spoken, as if writing an official transcript. His calligraphy was calm, elegant, relentless. 

Dudley, on the floor, gasped as though he had run miles. Small magical pops still escaped from him, cracking the chandelier, making the juice flow back into the broken glass in an absurd dance. 

Bogrod approached, bending to observe the boy closely. His eyes gleamed like sharpened stones. 

“Wake up, little one. You were not made to sleep forever.” 

Petunia tried to pull her son back, away from the goblin, but an invisible force restrained her, pinning her against the wall. The wizard, who had drawn his wand, continued tracing runes in midair. 

“End your silence, Human,” said Burgock, who was unraveling the runes painted within the house’s walls. “It is time for answers.” 

And the silence that followed was so dense it seemed to stick to the skin. 

Dudley panted on the floor, his hands clutching his chest. His heart pounded too hard, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears. He felt heat coursing through his veins, a strange fire that burned inside, but did not hurt, on the contrary, it seemed to want to leave, to escape, to find the world. 

“S-s-stop…” he stammered, trying to rise, but his legs trembled. The rug beneath him kept twisting, responding to each erratic beat of his heart. “I don’t want this! I don’t want to be…” 

A crack split the air: the kitchen window shattered into a thousand fragments, but none fell to the floor. They hung suspended, shining in the air like little pieces of crystal. Petunia screamed her son’s name, desperate, but could not move. 

Bogrod stretched out a wrinkled hand, and one shard of glass floated into his palm. He studied the boy’s distorted reflection in the fragment and smiled cruelly. 

“Magic never lies, little one. You are made of it.” He raised his gaze to Dudley, as though examining him from the inside. “And what you feel suffocating you is the block breaking apart.” 

Dudley shook his head violently, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. 

“I’m not like him! I’m not like Harry!” he shouted again, but in the next moment, all the suspended shards shot against the walls, embedding themselves like arrows around the room. Not one touched him. 

Petunia sobbed, trying to stifle her own voice, but the magic escaping her son gave her no reprieve. Nor did it protect her, as she felt several shallow cuts on her skin. A low sound rumbled through the floor, as if the house itself were alive and feeding on the drops of Petunia’s blood dripping onto the ground. 

Thelonius Smethwyck, the Spellbreaker, lowered his wand and secured it in the holster on his arm, stepping toward the boy. His voice, low and almost compassionate, echoed through the room: 

“Do not fight this, boy. The more you deny it, the more it will hurt.” 

Dudley lifted his face, eyes brimming with tears, breathing too fast. For an instant, a spark of blue flickered in his pupils, as if lightning were ready to burst inside them. 

“I don’t want to be… different…” 

The walls trembled, the chandelier broke free from the ceiling and fell, but before touching the ground, it stopped in the air, suspended, slowly spinning like a hypnotic pendulum. Dudley was on his knees, but his hands, spread before his body, vibrated with an energy he did not understand, and that terrified him. 

“You will not be different. You will be, at last, what you were always meant to be.” 

“No… no…” he repeated, as if he could shrink back inside himself. 

Grodbik stepped closer, eyes blazing, and said in a low, almost solemn voice: 

“It is too late to deny your blood, young Dursley. You have already awakened.” 

The silence shattered with a deep crack, like a bone snapping. It did not come from outside, but from within Dudley. His body arched, his mouth open in a scream that did not escape, muffled by a wave of energy that exploded from inside him, sweeping through the entire room. 

The chains on the floor, fallen from the silver box, broke with a metallic sound, and the black powder scattered through the room was sucked into the boy’s chest as if obeying an ancient call. The air smelled of iron and ozone, and every lightbulb in the house burst at once, plunging everyone into a bluish gloom, lit only by the sparks flying from Dudley’s body. 

Petunia screamed her son’s name, but her voice seemed distant, as if miles separated them. 

The goblins did not move. They observed. Cold. Calculating. 

And the wizard only murmured: 

“The block has broken.” 

The boy’s magic roared through the house, and Privet Drive reverberated with the sound coming from number four, drawing everyone’s attention to that oh-so-ordinary, so normal house. 

Looking into the King’s eyes was a grave offense, but suddenly Severus was seized by a strange, almost involuntary courage, and he could not look away. A shiver ran down his spine, leaving him completely disoriented. The words he had heard made no sense. 

How could the entire wizarding world have been manipulated in this way? How could he have married the person who had tormented him the most throughout his entire school life? And yet, the feeling he knew he still harbored for Lily remained, fierce and contradictory. 

But the Inheritance Test parchment did not lie. Damn it. Goblins were a race known for not lying. And Severus did not know where to start undoing the entire mess he was now involved in. Especially with the news that, because James had done a blood adoption, Harry could also be considered, legally, his son. Even if the adoption had been illegal, as it probably should have been. Courtesy of Dumbledore. 

“I like you, Master Potter-Prince,” Ragnok said, a sharp smile slowly appearing on his face. “Hard as diamond, but moldable like the rarest steel from our mines. You will serve very well to ensure that what we need happens.” 

Severus swallowed hard. The magnitude of what he had just heard crushed every logical thought, and for a moment, the air around him seemed heavier, loaded with omens. Something moved in the shadows, silent, waiting. 

Chapter Text

Waiting for the goblins to finish the meeting with Professor Snape, Harry and Hermione didn’t know how to proceed with their own lives from that moment on. They knew they had to have a plan formed about what they would do and how they could deceive Dumbledore, the greatest manipulator that ever existed on the face of the Earth. Obviously, being twins, they were two halves of the same coin. Harry, more impulsive, couldn’t plan any action. However, Hermione was already starting to outline possible parallels. 

“The most important thing, Harry, is that we find our parents.” 

“But I’ve already found our father before, remember? Madman. Tried to kill me. Twice. Three times, if we count the cursed diary.” 

“And who guarantees that he tried the first time? If Dumbledore had such control over us, he must have the same control over him. He made the world believe that James Potter was your father!” 

“Indeed…” came Snape’s calculating voice, entering the office where they were. “He made the reality we live in be altered without anyone noticing. And it’s not up to you to plan what to do. That’s why I was called. I am, from now on, your Legal and Magical Guardian. I and the goblins will carefully think about how to protect you and prevent him from doing anything else.” 

Snape closed the door with the same precision he would close a potion vial: silently, yet impossible to ignore. The silence that followed held more questions than answers, and all of them found the indifferent face of the professor. 

“Legal Guardian.” he repeated, as if pronouncing those words made the spell tangible. “You are under my protection while I judge what is best for your safety. That means one thing you hate: rules.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow, his body still trembling from something that was more than just frustration. Hermione, on the other hand, held the reins of her own anxiety firmly in her fist and leaned forward, her eyes sharpening like knives. 

“And what would the first rule be?” she asked. Her voice was controlled, her mind already listing possibilities. 

“You will not return to your homes.” said Snape. “Not today, not while there is a single gap through which Dumbledore, or whoever he placed to watch you, could touch anything that belongs to you.” His words were harsh, but there was something more: a warning that he would not let anything happen to either of them. 

The twins exchanged an almost instinctive glance; this was already a certainty they had just by talking to the manager of their account. It seemed the fact hadn’t been exposed to their Guardian. Harry felt urgency rising; Hermione tensed in a gesture of planning. 

“Not that it’s difficult. Hermione already has her things. Mine are being retrieved by the goblins at this moment. But here’s the main question: Where do we go?” Harry said, unable to sit still any longer. “I don’t want to live behind vaults and goblin walls. I want…” he stopped, searching for the right word “I want to be able to do something.” 

Snape rested his hand on the table, long fingers tracing an invisible line across the wooden surface. 

“You will do what must be done little by little. The first step is already done: healing. Second: information. Third: training. Fourth: exposure.” He enumerated, as if pointing out the step-by-step of a potion recipe. “The goblins have already done their part. Gringotts has already recorded the Inheritance Test you took. Nothing can change that. As for the legal documentation with the Ministry, the goblins are preparing the legal documentation in the best possible way, without revealing the truth about your blood. This way, living with me will be legalized even for wizards, and there will be nothing Dumbledore can do, for now. But remember: uncontrolled information is a trap. Dumbledore has networks. He alters memories, history. We will need evidence that isn’t just scrolls. We will need witnesses, artifacts, and people brave enough to confront the Wizengamot, for when we eventually reveal the truth.” 

Hermione gripped the wand in her pocket like it was a tic. 

“And how are we going to get that? Who will help us?” The question wasn’t just curiosity; it was pure strategy. There was no illusion that a public exposure would be simple. 

Severus looked at her for a moment and smiled. A sharp movement, almost cruel. 

“People who received little in return, but still harbor hatred for poorly done favors. Some of the goblins. There are a handful of professors who do not like Dumbledore’s politics. And, more dangerous, the Ministry itself, if we declare that Gringotts proved irregularities in the hands of the Potter Guardian. But none of this is done in broad daylight. We proceed in steps. For now, you learn to defend yourselves.” 

A clearing of the throat drew their attention to the wall, where Nangok, discreet as an ancient seal, had just bowed in reverence. He approached, his rings gleaming under the lamp. 

“His Majesty Ragnok ordered” he said, his voice curt “that we receive and protect you. There will be healings and secure records for whoever you find that needs them, if they are allies of your family. While you search, you must be instructed about the heritage of your creatures and the vaults that belong to you. However: maximum caution. Dumbledore has ears everywhere.” 

The mention made Harry’s neck tingle. In the goblin’s words, there was less promise and more warning: the world outside was no longer just a place of old enemies; it was a minefield of rewritten memories. 

“Very well.” murmured Hermione. “Then let’s start with what we can control.” She nodded toward Snape. “The complete cleansing has already been done; now we observe and make a list of whom we can inform. And…” she hesitated for a second, which was rare for her “we need books: original records, Wizengamot voting lists, any minutes showing decisions he made while governing our seats. If we can formulate an irrefutable chronological line, we can mitigate Dumbledore’s influence.” 

Nangok wrinkled his nose, evaluating the young witch’s words. 

“I will check access. There will be, for a limited time, authorization to read in Gringotts’ sealed chambers. But nothing will leave the bank without a goblin present. And nothing will happen without your Guardian’s signature.” The statement was almost a decree. “You are still minors. The magical world would treat you as children at the mercy of manipulative adults if what the law allows to protect you is not done.” 

Harry, who instinctively opposed any type of control by any authority, bit his lip. But Hermione already had her mental file full of plans, and that gave him something solid to anchor his anxiety. 

“And what exactly do you want from us?” he asked finally, looking accusatorily at Snape, who acted so differently from what he was used to. 

“Patience.” said Snape, without irony. “And practice. You will learn the basics of Occlumency and Legilimency. We will reinforce your mental protections so that no one tries to control you again. Hermione” looking at her with some severity “I do not want you trying to ‘read’ records without permission. Curiosity is useful; recklessness, fatal. Harry” he looked at him firmly and carefully, remembering Lily’s explosive personality “you will have lessons in self-control, and I will personally supervise your progress.” 

Hermione closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, there was the unmistakable resolve that made her dangerous. 

“Then we start now.” she said. 

Snape leaned slightly, a rare gesture of praise. 

“Now.” he confirmed. “I’ve already gone through my own cleansing. I’ve restored my title again, and I remember my own history. The goblins have already given me my portfolio along with James’, and I’ve already found the property we will occupy. We’ll go there as soon as they bring Harry’s things.” 

He let out a deep sigh. 

“It may have escaped your mind, seeing your results, but I am married to James, and with the blood adoption he made, this makes Harry not only my godson but also my son. And you, Hermione, are as much my goddaughter as James’. And as much my daughter as Harry’s sister. Now, you are mine. And I protect what is mine.” 

The two had indeed forgotten this fact, and so they exchanged a shocked glance. 

“When we get home,” he continued “you must sleep and rest. When you wake, the world will have tilted a little more toward the truth, and a little more toward danger. Therefore: learn to lie to protect yourselves. Learn to keep silent to gain time. Learn to build evidence that no one can take from your hands.” 

The words hung in the air like a promise that resembled more an oath. Harry felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little, not because things were resolved, but because, for the first time, there was a plan and names for what threatened them. And there was an adult willing to care for and protect them. 

“If this works” murmured Hermione, almost only to him “we will recover everything. And we will make sure no one thinks of stitching stories into our heads again.” 

Harry smiled crookedly. 

“I’d rather break the needle.” And both laughed, a little nervous, a little genuine. Snape restrained a laugh. 

“And you will break the needle when you learn to be a little more Slytherin.” 

“Actually…” Harry began to reveal, glancing sideways at the professor. “The Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin. I refused and fought with it.” 

Severus would have liked to be shocked, but he had always suspected there was a bit of ambition running in Harry’s blood. The surprise came when Hermione added: 

“It also wanted to put me there. It said I was a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw. But in the end, it chose Gryffindor…” she finished thoughtfully. “Even though it never considered the house at all.” 

“I think…” began Nangok after exchanging a glance with Severus “it’s more than time to reinforce the protective spells around the castle. Ensure everything is in order for another school year. Salazar’s basilisk has been awakened, after all.” 

Behind the door, long shadows moved: men and goblins aligning papers, and far away, in some office whose door no one could easily unlock, a tall figure noted: “Risk: Dumbledore. Action: Observation.” 

Getting used to living in a mansion, even with Severus (and how hard it was not to call him Snape anymore, now that he had gone back to using the name Potter-Prince) saying this wasn’t even their largest property, was not an easy thing. Naturally, there were key points. A huge Quidditch field, where Harry spent most of his mornings, and an enormous library, where Hermione spent the entire day. 

In the first days, Severus gave them free time so they could adjust, not only to their new appearances, but also to the magical ability they now had, and even to their own names: Hadrian and Hania. However, the resting time was over. They needed to start preparing. 

Severus watched, through the library window, as Hadrian flew calmly over the Quidditch field, while at his side, completely immersed in a book on the culture of Old Ways, Hania absorbed information that other pureblood children already had. The next day, the adult thought, everything would change. And he wasted no time. Even before the sun touched the lake at the back of the property, he called the twins for what he named “the first exercise in mental control and defensive magic.” 

“Today,” he said, wand in hand, eyes fixed on Harry and Hermione, “you’re going to start learning what every child who grew up in a wizarding household knows. The ‘mask,’ as people often call it. It’s simply the effect the body shows while the mind is protected by a mental barrier – Occlumency. This way, whatever emotions and reactions you have, no one can guess them from your body language, and more importantly, whatever thoughts you’re having, they won’t be readable by a Legilimens.” 

He saw the moment comprehension began to dawn in the children’s eyes. This was what it was about: how he could understand everything they felt just by looking at their faces, and he said as much. And more: 

“I’ll use a very clear example that you’ve probably complained about several times. The Malfoys’ cold façade is nothing but this: a mask. A way they use so no one knows what they’re really feeling.” 

“But is that so bad?” Hadrian asked. “Someone knowing what I’m feeling, I mean.” 

“Can you say with confidence you could look at the Headmaster and not make a face of disgust and hatred?” 

The boy didn’t even have to think. The answer was automatic: 

“No!” 

“Exactly! The mask is important precisely to stop him from finding out his plans are slipping away. And he will suspect. We only haven’t changed your names in the school register, but the goblins are making copies of all your results and storing a parallel record under your legal names.” it was visible when Hania breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the girl worried more about academic results than was clinically healthy. Storing that information for later, he continued. “And that’s why we’re going to start learning the principles of Occlumency. That way you protect your thoughts and knowledge from Dumbledore, and at the same time, you create and strengthen your mask.” 

“You said the Malfoys’ coldness is a mask…” Hania began. “But does each family have its own type, or is it all… coldness?” 

“In general, aristocratic families have a mask more oriented toward coldness, toward indifference. The Malfoys, as I said, are coldness; the Greengrasses are indifference – in fact, your classmate Daphne mastered her mask so quickly that people get confused by her and think she has no empathic connection with anyone; the Parkinsons’ is superiority – a complex that hides much of the fear and weakness they carry; the Blacks have a talent for using madness as a mask – no one wants to enter the mind of a madman, and their facial reactions should never be taken seriously; but there are also masks with other kinds of reactions – the Lovegoods are the greatest example, people don’t even notice there’s a mask there; the Longbottoms use fear – who would believe that a coward has important information, or would have any other connection beyond… fear? And then there are the Weasleys…” he took a moment before saying the last name, waiting for the children’s reaction, and he was not disappointed. 

“What?” they said in unison. 

“Of course they have a mask! Or do you think someone who works at the Ministry can go around without fearing someone will try to find something out?” he laughed. He LAUGHED. “The Weasleys’ mask is their personality. If someone believes they’re so… expansive with their emotions, they don’t need to pay attention to them, they’ll think they know what they’re thinking. But who would guess your friend Ronald, so explosive, is so good at tactical thinking?” 

“Now it all makes sense!” Hania commented, clear understanding on her face. “If people expect the twins to be messing around all the time, they won’t notice when they’re serious or considering other things.” 

“It’s all, Hania, a great theater where muggleborns are thrown without any previous preparation. And we’re going to change that for you.” 

“What… what’s our family’s mask?” Hadrian asked, uneasy. 

“Riddle is your father’s muggle surname, but his witch mother was a Gaunt. Your father is a half-blood, your mother a muggleborn from a squib line that didn’t pass down the family knowledge. Your paternal grandmother died in childbirth, so she couldn’t teach your father anything. So the mask is… personal. You can choose how your mask will be, because you can’t apply family tradition in building it. I know your father’s mental protection was a nest of snakes, while your mother’s was an immense garden which, after marrying your father, occasionally had snakes appear to help with the protection.” Severus looked thoughtful for a moment, remembering friends he had lost and forgotten. “But we’ll talk about mental protection later. I could teach you the Potters’ mask, but that wouldn’t be fair to Tom, and especially it would make it too obvious that you had more access to information about the Potters, Hadrian. After all, they use charm as their mask. Something I know you’re incapable of doing,” he finished with a crooked smile. “And I don’t believe you’d want to use the Princes’ mask of contempt.” 

“That’s a mask?” 

“Yes. Who would try to invade the mind of someone who despises them?” Severus shrugged, unconcerned with the silence that followed. 

“But…” Hania began. “If you know all these masks, then you know the feeling isn’t real, which doesn’t stop anyone from being curious.” 

“For the mask to take shape, the feeling must exist. It doesn’t matter for what, for whom, or to what level. All people have that feeling somewhere in their mind. They just project it all the time to the surface. Entering the mind of someone whose mask is firmly in place means feeling those feelings on first contact, before reaching the mental protection. That’s why the mask is the first stage of learning Occlumency.” 

Severus then rose from the armchair he was sitting in and made the children stand up as well. 

“First we’re going to stretch the body after this talk. The body has to be calm and relaxed. Let’s stretch a bit,” he said, raising his hands above his head and making the siblings do the same. 

He ran them through a quick sequence of exercises, aiming to stretch and relax their muscles. After 15 minutes, he led them to the rug in front of the fireplace. Severus conjured comfortable cushions and made sure the fire was cozy. 

“Occlumency isn’t just the mask. It’s closing the mind and preventing anyone from accessing your thoughts and manipulating your memories. It’s knowledge. And above all, it’s understanding. It’s knowing yourself, mastering yourself, protecting yourself. And for that, you need to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and meditate.” 

His voice was calm, almost hypnotic. Severus spoke with a cadence that soon left the twins in a trance-like state. He guided them through the initial steps of meditation: clearing the mind of all feelings, not just expressive ones like anger and hatred, but also warm ones like love and care. He spoke of the importance of understanding and knowing oneself, knowing each feeling and what leads to that feeling. He spoke of imagining a safe place, calm and under one’s control, where one could place and organize memories. 

To no one’s surprise, Hania’s safe space was a library. She noticed that, even though she could see the end of the Library, if she walked in that direction, the wall kept receding and she only got farther from the librarian’s desk. When she heard the distant voice of the professor/guardian speaking about ‘placing and organizing memories,’ she noticed boxes upon boxes appearing and piling up at the Library’s entrance as if being delivered. Opening one, she saw it was full of books, and each book, when touched, made her remember something. Instinctively, she understood that the empty shelves behind her would store the books of her memory. And by the number of boxes, she understood it would be a complex task, not one she would finish in a single meditation session. 

Hadrian, on the other hand, did not see a Library. His mind was an expanding Quidditch field at night, lit by the full moon and full of shadows. Each memory shone in the distance, scattered across the space. Everything was alive, moving on its own. Each thought carried the restlessness and impulsiveness only Hadrian knew was his modus operandi. Severus spoke about organizing memories and Hadrian felt the pulse of each recollection. And he understood he would have to relate each memory, each pulse, to some feature of the field. 

Hadrian’s safe space was not a Library, nor a Garden. It was the place where he had felt truly free for the first time in his life, under the moon’s watchful gaze and bathed in its light. Memories of the comfort he had felt at night in the Dursleys’ house, when everyone was asleep and he could escape from the cupboard under the stairs to get food, glimmered and pulsed a few steps away. Hadrian raised his hand and guided those memories to the Dark Side of the Moon. A place he knew was unexplored and where no one knew what happened. That’s where he wanted the memories of his aunt and her husband to go. And he understood what to do with each memory: find a place in the field where he could store each group of memories. And slowly, for the first time, Hadrian felt there was a place inside him no one could invade, an invisible yet tangible fortress. A space he could carry wherever he went, a space that would grow with him as he learned to tame and organize the chaos of his mind. It wasn’t order, not yet; it was a first step toward control, and that was more than he could remember ever feeling in his entire life. 

When Hadrian and Hania opened their eyes, the fire in the fireplace seemed less aggressive and safer. Hania took a deep breath and realized, along with her brother, that she had a safe place to retreat to, not only within her own mind, but here, with “Professor Snape.” 

“You don’t have to tell me what you saw or how you felt. That’s intimate and personal. But you’ve advanced a lot with just one meditation session, if your comfort is any indication. Tonight, when you go to bed, you should meditate again and try to organize the memories inside your safe place in a way that makes sense to you and matches your way of thinking. That way, new memories will already be stored more comfortably.” 

Then, clapping his hands and standing up, he smiled, a once rare fact, but now extremely common when it came to the sibling pair, and said: 

“And I can already smell the lunch the house elves prepared for us. Let’s have lunch, because after lunch we’re going to another part of your education that you’ve been wanting to know.” 

“About our creature?” Hadrian asked excitedly. 

“Or about the mate?” 

“About both,” he clarified. “Because there’s no such thing as one without the other, as you’re going to discover.” 

Something was wrong. The light there never had the right color. Sometimes it was golden, sometimes gray, and at other moments, like now, almost black, as if the space had decided not to exist at all. And she knew that was wrong. She had always found comfort in the soft pink glow of the sunset, and that was the only color that never appeared in her Garden. 

A distant sound, familiar and strange at the same time, echoed in her ears. Words that seemed to come from both far away and very near, repeating themselves without meaning. She blinked, trying to catch some detail, some memory, but all that came were fragments: laughter, tears, a familiar voice calling her name… or was it just her mind making it up? 

She looked around her Garden in search of those memories. She knew she had to look for specific flowers for each type of memory, but she couldn’t recall which flower meant what. Her thoughts tried to arrange themselves, but every sentence formed was pushed out of her head and promptly forgotten, as if her Garden wasn’t so safe anymore. 

Something moved to her right. Lily turned her head and saw a shadow watching her, quiet, patient. Someone was there, in her Garden. She thought of screaming, of doing something, but she knew it would be useless. A snake slithered near her, and as she reached out to it, the shadow took form. It was her, Lily. 

“This isn’t your Garden, Lily. It’s an illusion. Remember what matters, fight. Before he reapplies the spells and you forget again what is important.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re bewitched. We don’t know where. Three times you managed to break free from the compulsions and memory spells. You brought me here, to give you strength to fight back. So far, you haven’t managed to escape the trance. I only know that someone is helping us grow stronger. Each time you begin to resist, you get stronger, even if he doesn’t notice.” 

“And who is He?” 

“Who else would it be…? The one who… took our babies and hid our partner… Dumbledore.” 

Lily brought her trembling hands to her abdomen. She hadn’t remembered before, but now she recalled feeling little kicks in her belly, hearing, through prenatal spells, two tiny hearts beating. 

“Hania and Hadrian!” she said with excitement and joy, a shiver running down her spine. And the light gradually shifted into orange, making the False Garden clearer, the Other Lily sharper. 

“This is the first time you remember their names. You’re getting stronger! We need to save our children.” 

“How long have we been here?” 

“It’s hard to say. Here time doesn’t flow like out there. What feels like seconds for you, could be years outside. And I believe it’s already been some years. I keep doing the initial task you gave me and the memories I’ve stored seem compatible with the passage of years.” 

Lily was silent for a few minutes. 

“Does he use Legilimency to know if I’m resisting the spells?” 

“Every time.” 

Then Lily focused, returning the sky’s light to its previous ambiguous state, leaving the Other Lily in the shadows. 

“Then let’s keep the place just as he expects to find it.” 

At last, she was truly growing stronger. 

Meanwhile, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed carelessly, staring at the stone walls of the place he knew was a fake version of his Laboratory, was James. The stone texture changed gradually, never fixing into the pattern he knew it should follow. That was what gave away that it wasn’t his safe space. There was silence there, but no peace. Space, but without the comforting air that brought him security. 

For a long time he tried to remember how he had arrived there, placed in that trance, but he never reached a conclusion. He could sense when, whoever had trapped him there, scanned his mind to see if he was still compliant. At those times he adopted the expected posture of someone calm and comfortable. Only then did he avoid the unknown spell being reapplied. 

It was in that contemplative state that, suddenly, everything became clearer. Slowly the dormant cauldron in the corner of the Laboratory began to bubble, its steam bringing aromas James hadn’t even remembered he loved: the smell of fresh herbs being prepared for a potion, the scent of fire against copper in a cauldron, and a very particular musk belonging to one person. 

Severus, his mate. The missing key for James to take control of his consciousness. The golden magical ribbon, representing their bond, appeared on his wrist. And the illusion of his Laboratory quickly unraveled, revealing the True Laboratory, along with his Assistant, the Other James, the subconscious part responsible for keeping his mind always storing information. 

“Welcome back to the conscious world, James.” 

“Finally,” he said with excitement. “I was exhausted from waiting. Did you manage to notice what broke the spell?” 

“It was Severus. He must have gone through something that strengthened our bond, and that’s only possible because we performed the ancient union ritual that not only joined our families but united our magic. And since you noticed early what was happening, you grew stronger quickly and didn’t need me. I was able to stay alert to our surroundings and perceive more about where we are and what’s going on.” 

“And so?” 

“It’s only us, Lily, and another wizard I can sense. Occasionally he shows up to reinforce the spells on Lily and see if you need reinforcement. You’ve been fooling him well, because he firmly believes you’re under his control and that only Lily is rebelling. She’s had the spells reapplied three times, from what I’ve heard. I couldn’t identify which magics he casts, so I can’t say the effects beyond what you already know, since you emulate them so well.” 

“It’s not that hard to fool Dumbledore, when he thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.” 

The Other James was surprised. James had managed to keep that information even from his own subconscious. 

“We’re stronger than I believed. That’s good.” 

“And now?” James asked, preparing to access the memories his subconscious had stored. 

“Now, you need to rid yourself of the remaining traces of the spells still on us. And you need to meet our ally, the one who has been watching and protecting us all this time. And you need to plan. For that, James, you have to wake up.” 

Somewhere in Europe, in a cold stone chamber richly decorated, lying on a comfortable bed, was a thin man with extremely messy black hair. Suddenly, he took a deep breath, as if regaining air after being submerged for a very long time. 

The air entered harsh, burning his unaccustomed throat; his lungs ached as if they had never fully expanded. He blinked several times, dazed by the faint light that seemed more alive than any brightness he had seen in years. The weight of the blanket on his body and the chill of the stone beneath the bed made him shiver, reminding him this was no longer an illusion. 

With effort, he turned his head to the side, his stiff muscles protesting, and let out a hoarse, almost disbelieving laugh. 

James Potter was awake. 

In the library, the place Severus had chosen to teach most things to Hania and Hadrian, they sat on comfortable sofas, leaving the meditation cushions aside. The moment now was for calm conversation and an introduction to another reality. 

“They say that when the Goddess gave us our magic, we had help to master our powers with the aid of other magical creatures. We can see traces of some of these creatures in their hybrid versions when studying Egyptian mythology. Eventually, couples were formed between some creatures and wizards, and the children born of those unions carried in their blood specific qualities and powers of each creature, of each race. Nowadays, it’s hard to find a pureblood wizarding family that doesn’t have some creature trait.” 

“But…” began Hania, who had obviously already read some of the laws that had been voted with their family’s votes. “we have so many anti-creature laws. How is that possible?” 

“Because those who vote to approve them are prejudiced, don’t understand our history or other people, since they don’t carry any creature inheritance, or they deny and block their own heritage.” Severus shook his head, recalling some of those people. “And because of the laws in force, others, even proud of their origins, don’t reveal their inheritance. Because they fear the repercussions it could bring. Of course, there are those who cannot hide it, like Professor Flitwick, but the fact that he is part goblin – the only race that, even if only slightly, wizards treat with some degree of decorum – allows him to have a normal life among other wizards.” 

“Do you know of more people?” asked Hadrian, curious. 

“Obviously, I know of countless people in our community who carry creature blood. But I won’t say their names or families. As I said, people keep that kind of information secret and only share it with those they trust.” 

“And what does it mean, to have a creature as an ancestor? You said that certain creatures have specific magic” 

“Of course! Certain types of fairies carry the power of a seer, for example, or immunity to poisons; other creatures, like elves – and here I mean different from house elves – have the ability to see Magic, called Magic Sight, or to talk to other animals. There are those who carry resistance or affinity to certain elements, or fast healing.” he commented, looking intently at the two. “There are others who carry curses, which are activated depending on various factors. The Potters inherited the Curse of Luck, which I believe has partially passed on to you, Hadrian, with your adoption.” 

“But how is that a curse?” 

“A lot of Luck requires a lot of Misfortune to balance it.” 

“Now everything makes so much sense.” Hadrian commented, surprised. 

Severus let out a laugh. 

“And with your creature, you receive a destined mate. Someone for whom your magic… sings. The ideal person for you.” 

“Like a soulmate?” 

“Very similar, Hania. That doesn’t mean that with a mate you won’t have to work on the relationship, it only means you’ll have a reason to dedicate yourself more. However, there are cases of destined couples who didn’t stay together. Don’t take your destined mate as an absolute certainty.” 

“You and my father… I mean, James, are destined mates?” 

He gave a calm smile. 

“He’s still your father. He adopted you, and you thought of him as a father for years. But yes, James and I are destined. And we only stayed together because your mother fought for it, more than the two of us put together. And I regret nothing, because I learned a lot from it.” 

“And since we have Veela blood,” Hania continued, remembering the information that had been unlocked in the Test. “does that mean we can only be with another Veela?” 

“No. That only guides which types of spells you can channel better, and when you turn fourteen and your blood naturally awakens, you’ll be able to know and possibly connect with your mates. That is, if they aren’t older. It’s possible they might know this before you, if they carry a creature in their blood.” 

“Connect?” questioned Hadrian. 

“Exactly.” Severus was terribly nostalgic, thinking of his partner as he taught the children about heritage and creature blood. “When you spend more time with your mate, you create a connection like the one you share as twins, which you’re still getting used to. You begin to share a bit of each other’s feelings, of each other’s being. And if you go through the same kind of ritual I went through with James at our bonding, we even connected the magic of our families, uniting us and making us stronger.” 

Every word and thought of Severus, directed at and about his kidnapped mate, was filled with love, longing, tenderness. And somewhere within his mind, he wished and sent those feelings to James. Then he felt a snap inside him, almost like a stretched elastic band breaking, startling him. And then, twelve years since he last heard that voice, that nickname… 

“Sev…?” James called, weakly, through the bond of mates. Severus felt his heart race, a shiver run through his whole body, and his hand trembled slightly. Emotion overtook him and he completely forgot about the twins. 

Chapter Text

Twins, better yet, Magical Twins usually share a unique kind of bond. While Hadrian and Hania were still learning what that meant, Fred and George had already mastered it, and were experts at using it to their advantage. Especially when it came to planning and executing their pranks. 

They practically lived inside each other’s heads, which explained how they could speak in perfect unison and finish each other’s sentences. Of course, sometimes they whispered their schemes instead. No one needed to know they were magical twins. 

But it was precisely because no one could ever predict what they were planning that led them to that moment: standing near the top of a pyramid they had climbed with dedication and, somehow, without anyone noticing. 

At least until Bill had the brilliant idea to gather everyone for a photo. They had to capture the moment to send to The Daily Prophet for the annual lottery feature. How could they have guessed that their eldest brother had placed a tracking charm on them? 

“Honestly, if I didn’t already know how the Great Sphinx lost its nose, I’d assume it was your doing!” said Bill, apparating beside them and forcing the twins into a side-along apparition. 

“Now, stay still for two seconds so we can take a proper family picture,” complained Mrs. Weasley, finishing the adjustment of the kids as one of Bill’s colleagues raised the camera. 

The twins exchanged a mischievous glance before looking at Jacques. 

“Two…” George began. 

“…One!” Fred finished. 

They tried to bolt, but Charlie intercepted them at the exact moment the flash went off. 

In the developed photo, the twins can be seen laughing as Charlie, equally amused, holds them back from escaping the edge of the frame. Percy, in the corner, holds a book and looks over his shoulder in mild exasperation. Arthur and Molly Weasley stand at the center, Arthur’s hand resting on Ginny’s shoulder while Molly attempts to hug Ron, her arm blocked by Scabbers’ tail perched on the boy’s shoulder. Bill, his long hair tied back, stands on the opposite side of the frame, gazing at his family with a proud smile. And behind them, rising beneath the sun, one of the great pyramids stands tall, sealing yet another portrait of Weasley chaos. 

“Bet I can reach the top of the pyramid before Bill stops me this time!” Fred shouted, laughing as he ran off. 

“Don’t underestimate my natural talent for dangerous things!” his older brother retorted, not even moving to stop him, Fred tripped and fell before he had the chance. 

From a distance, Molly watched, hands on her hips, sighing deeply. 

“Can someone explain how these twins still have so much energy?” 

No one answered. Competing with the combination of heat, adventure, and pure mischief that defined the Weasley twins was simply impossible. 

Percy, ever dignified, tried to keep a serious face as he documented his brothers’ antics, Fred returning to the group with Molly tugging at his ear while Ginny giggled beside them. 

“You do know there are rules for archaeological exploration, right? You might disrupt Bill’s work.” 

Fred just pulled a face, while George responded with a dramatic bow, flourishing his arms in exaggerated reverence.  

Suddenly, George slipped on a loose stone and nearly fell, but Fred caught him just in time. 

“See? That proves I’m essential!” George laughed, regaining his balance. 

Ginny rolled her eyes, shaking her head, while Molly took a steadying breath, trying not to panic. 

“It proves you share the same brain cell, that’s what it proves,” Ron snorted. 

Their visit to the pyramids didn’t last much longer. Soon, the family was heading back to the Egyptian Bazaar to cool off at the hotel and grab something to eat. Each tent brimmed with fascinating magical trinkets, and the streets buzzed with local and visiting witches and wizards. 

One stall, in particular, caught Ron’s attention. On display were several curious objects, one of them, a small glass spinning top, suddenly lit up, twirled, and whistled as he drew near. 

“Ah! A fine eye, young sir! Keen for quality, I see!” the vendor said eagerly. “That’s a Sneakoscope! Detects the presence of Dark forces, it does! Lights up just like that when something untrustworthy is nearby!” 

Ron’s curiosity piqued, he immediately thought of Harry. The vendor noticed. 

“And how much is it?” 

It would make a perfect birthday gift, he thought. Harry would love it. Merlin knew how often his friend ran into suspicious situations at school… 

“A rare item, crafted by the great Edgar Stroulger himself! Normally twenty Galleons, but for you, my discerning young wizard, I’ll make it fifteen.” 

“Fifteen Galleons?!” 

Ron exclaimed, clutching his coin pouch. 

“That’s too much! I want to buy a gift for my friend, but I can’t pay that! I only have eight!” 

“What about twelve, young master? A fair deal, no?” 

“Maybe ten…” 

Ron muttered, looking around until he spotted his older brother. 

“Bill! Can you help me get a present for Harry?” 

Bill approached, frowning at the stall and its wares. 

“What is it you’re buying, Ron?” 

“This Sneakoscope! It’ll be perfect to help Harry fend off the next DADA teacher who tries to kill him.” 

The vendor visibly tensed under Bill’s sharp gaze, sweat beading at his temple. 

“Ron, a Sneakoscope costs no more than one Galleon,” 

Bill said, fishing a coin from his own pouch and paying the man. 

The device immediately stopped spinning, flashing, and whistling as Bill took it in hand. 

“This is cheap junk for tourists. How much were you trying to charge my brother?” 

The vendor stammered, breaking into rapid Arabic. Bill replied in kind, his tone clipped and heated. 

“Go inside, Ron, it’s almost dinner time,” 

Bill said, handing over the Sneakoscope before resuming the argument. 

The moment Ron took hold of it, the little glass orb sprang back to life, flashing and spinning wildly. And, looking between the vendor and his brother, Ron didn’t need much imagination to guess why the Sneakoscope was reacting. 

“Come on, Scabbers! I bet tonight they’ll serve that dish from our first day here!” 

Ron said, slipping his rat back into his pocket and hurrying toward the hotel, eager to drop off his things before dinner. 

Far away, in a secluded estate on the outskirts of Wiltshire, Theodore Nott slowly turned a small crystal orb over his grandfather’s worktable. Inside, golden particles swirled like living dust. 

“It’s oscillating again,” he murmured, studying the line of ancient runes glowing faintly around its base. “I thought it was unstable because of the lunar alignment, but this... this isn’t just stellar magic.” 

Lysander Nott, standing by the tall window, turned towards his grandson. The man looked as if he’d been carved from stone, tall, thin, and carrying the same calm yet piercing gaze as his son, Edmund, who sat nearby, poring over a stack of faded notes. 

“Not lunar,” Lysander replied thoughtfully. “Ancestral.” 

Theo lifted his eyes. 

“Is that why my inheritance awakened early?” he asked, recalling the first time he had accessed the family grimoires. 

His father gave a slow nod. 

“The instruments began recording fluctuations on the same day.” 

He placed a parchment on the table, its surface filled with silver-inked sigils that shimmered faintly. 

“Echoes of old magic, Theodore,” Lysander continued. “Of a kind that shouldn’t exist anymore. The abandonment of ancient magics, traditions, family rituals, all of it has been leading to the death of Magic as we know it. That’s why the rate of Squib births has risen so sharply.” 

Silence spread across the study, broken only by the soft hum of enchanted artefacts. The walls were lined with shelves of bottles, crystals, and books that seemed to breathe as one passed by. 

“Then it’s true, what the Flamels mentioned at the last conference?” the boy asked hesitantly. “That the Veil between worlds has grown... thinner?” 

Edmund glanced up, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. 

“The Veil always responds to blood and intent. If something is stirring, it isn’t the Veil itself, it’s someone.” 

Theo swallowed hard. 

“Someone powerful enough to touch ancient magic.” 

“Or two someones,” his father corrected, snapping his fingers. 

The orb split cleanly in two. The golden particles floated between them, forming the faint outline of a double serpent, two heads entwined, moving in perfect synchrony, before dissipating into the air. 

Theo stared, unable to look away. 

“Twins...” he whispered. 

Lysander’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. 

“The oldest symbol of perfect magical unity. Two halves of the same power. When one awakens, the other always responds.” 

The orb dimmed, leaving only the soft pulse of runes glowing like a slumbering heart. 

“Tell Eyris to reinforce the wards for the next cycle,” Lysander ordered, sealing the artefact once more. “I don’t want that kind of energy reaching our students. Not yet.” 

Theo hesitated before asking, 

“Do you think it’s dangerous, Grandfather?” 

“All forgotten magic is dangerous, Theodore,” the old man said quietly. “Especially when it remembers that it exists.” 

After his grandfather left the study and his father returned to his research, Theo remained where he was, staring at the desk, thinking about the extinguished orb. The runes carved along the room’s edges seemed to pulse faintly again, but he ignored them. He was tired of riddles he couldn’t solve. 

Taking advantage of being home instead of at Emrys, Theo climbed the stairs to his room. The corridors of Nott Manor were unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that carried echoes. Sometimes the portraits of his ancestors would comment on his studies, share fragments of forgotten lore, or remind him of the “duties” and “responsibilities” of a Nott. 

In his room, a grey owl was waiting on the window ledge. 

“Finally!” he muttered, opening the window to let in the cool night air. 

He untied the letters she carried. One, written in blue ink and sealed with the Malfoy crest; another, equally elegant, from Blaise Zabini; and the third, on slightly humbler parchment and in hurried handwriting, unmistakably from Pansy Parkinson. Theo smiled at the sight of his friends’ correspondence. 

The first letter he opened was Draco’s. 

“Theo, 

My summer has been... productive, thank you for asking. My studies regarding my Inheritance have deepened, you know how life is for a Malfoy, and what is expected of us. The same kind of mantle rests upon the shoulders of a Nott. 

However, I’ve been learning more about the Wizengamot. Father says I’ve been progressing at an impressive rate and that, with the right instruction, I may one day bring about the necessary change. 

Since your family is so fixated on research, perhaps you have some insight into why my magic has been growing stronger, and less stable. My next magical maturation shouldn’t occur until June. Has something happened that I ought to keep my eyes and senses open for? 

I trust this letter finds you in good health. 

D.M.” 

If there was one thing every pure-blood heir was taught, it was how to read between the lines. Theo understood immediately, Draco’s research into his Veela inheritance was progressing faster than expected, and his magic was reacting far more strongly than it should for his age. Theo would look into it, but he already suspected the cause. 

He opened Blaise’s letter next. 

“Theo, 

The elves are on the verge of collapse. Mother’s decided to throw a party in honour of her own elegance. Naturally, the mansion will be overflowing with dignitaries and desperate souls hoping to mingle with my mother, or my aunt. 

Who in Merlin’s name would willingly get involved with either the Italian Minister for Magic or her sister, otherwise known as the Black Widow? 

Seven husbands, Theo! Seven. And no one finds that suspicious? 

I need an excuse to escape, something involving ancient runes, a magical instability spreading through the African continent, or perhaps a vortex opening in the Asian skies that you simply must study, but can’t possibly investigate alone without your good old friend Blaise. 

Can you help me out? 

B.” 

Finally, he opened Pansy’s letter. He could already guess it would be full of gossip, but useful gossip, at least. 

“Theo, 

How are you? Can you believe it’s only been three weeks since the holidays began? It feels like a lifetime ago that the school was under attack! Hogwarts is so unsafe. Honestly, I don’t understand how my parents still let me study there. There’s always Beauxbatons, of course. 

My cousin mentioned seeing me next year, he might be referring to the Quidditch World Cup. Father’s determined to buy a private box for the entire family. But he could just as well mean a transfer to France. I think the transfer deadline’s already passed, though, so I’ll likely be stuck doing my third year at Hogwarts. 

Anyway, I overheard one of Potter’s admirers saying he was petrified after seeing two enormous yellow eyes. I believe it’s the same creature that killed Myrtle. She once told me how she died: looked at something, then dropped dead. Could the Monster of Slytherin be some beast that kills with a glance? But then why didn’t anyone actually die? 

They say the Weasley girl was responsible for the attacks. Can you believe it? A Weasley targeting muggleborns?! And instead of being punished, she’s in Egypt right now! Blaise saw her family taking an international Portkey. Honestly, what a state our Ministry and our school are in. 

My brother has been deepening his studies, and I’ve shared both my opinions and your sharp observations. Our Traditionalist Party must remain united. But Rowan insists we stay discreet and that change is coming. That led to an absurd argument in the greenhouse, the glass walls even trembled a little. I think he’s still adjusting after the full maturation of his magic. Is that normal? His birthday was in March and it’s July now! Surely his body should have adjusted to being a fully, grown wizard by this point. 

Don’t take too long to reply, Theo. You spend ages buried in your research and sometimes forget to write back. I’ll be waiting for your letter! 

With affection, 

Pansy.” 

Theo read the letter three more times. You could always count on Pansy to be the most expressive of the group. She wouldn’t last a minute in silence if she hadn’t mastered the Parkinson Family Mask. 

Still, her letter contained valuable insights, including proof that even those without a Creature Inheritance were beginning to feel the world’s magical shifts. 

There was much to research before replying, as each friend had given him something distinct and essential for his studies. 

But first, he needed to speak to his grandfather, one of Hogwarts’ Governors, about how a basilisk had been roaming the castle for nearly a year without anyone doing a thing. Because that’s what the Monster of Slytherin was, without a doubt: a Basilisk. 

The silence in that unknown place pulsed. 

It wasn’t the ordinary silence of ruins or death, it was the kind of silence that breathes. 

The old runes carved into the stone began to glow, one by one, as if awakening from a deep slumber. The cell, frozen in time, seemed to expand and contract, responding to something distant. 

He lifted his head, eyes lost in some invisible point. 

He felt his magical core throb, like a heart, but it wasn’t his. It was hers. 

Two echoes in unison, two ancient presences brushing against each other somewhere beyond his reach. 

For a fleeting instant, the forgotten name in his mind tried to surface, but Dumbledore’s spell crushed it once more. 

And the silence returned. 

But the world had breathed. 

“And do you really think it’s necessary?” Fudge, the Minister for Magic, asked one of his advisors. 

“Absolutely, Minister! Twelve years since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A visit of ‘inspection’ to Azkaban, a chat with the prisoners, being seen ensuring that Evil will not return... it will do wonders for your image and your re-election in two years.” 

Deciding, Fudge turned to his Senior Undersecretary, tasked with ensuring the Ministry ran precisely as he wished, and gave the order: 

“Then schedule my visit for three days from now, Friday. Organise my schedule, move non-urgent meetings to next week, and bring forward the most important to tomorrow or Thursday.” 

On Friday, the Minister strode through the cold corridors of Azkaban, the sound of the sea mingling with the rustle of robes of those accompanying him: reporters aiming to capture a photo or pen an article on how the Minister cared for public safety. One of his Aurors, Quim Shacklebolt, had conjured a Patronus that circled around the two of them. 

“Twelve years…” Fudge said to a reporter. “That they’ve been here. Of course, it’s nothing to us in our long wizarding lives, but a necessary evil, keeping these people, followers of the worst Dark Wizard to ever set foot on the British Isles in the latter half of the century. Reliving their worst fears, their greatest sins… a small price compared to the harm they inflicted on our society.” 

The air grew heavier, and even Shacklebolt’s Patronus faltered as they entered the maximum-security wing. Almost as if reacting to Fudge’s words, a maniacal laugh echoed: Bellatrix Lestrange. 

“Little Fudge is Minister?” Her laughter rose. “The world’s gone madder than I thought if you were elected, little letter-boy!” She rattled the bars of her cell. 

“Did you hear that, Rod?!” she shouted at her husband in the next cell. “The messenger from your Department is the new Minister for Magic!” 

The visitors glanced at each other. Many had forgotten that several prisoners had once been Ministry employees themselves. 

“If they imprison innocents, dear, they can elect incompetents,” came Rodolphus Lestrange’s reply, followed by laughter from both his wife and brother. 

Fudge quickened his pace, urging his entourage to follow. A few cells down, he spotted Sirius Black leaning against his cell, gazing calmly outward. 

“Apologies for my cousin, Minister. I don’t think her stay here has contributed much to her sanity.” 

“You seem… well.” 

“Don’t worry, Minister. There’s little to be done here, and I certainly won’t scream and damage my vocal cords.” 

“And what do you have to say about your… stay, as you put it, Mr Black?” 

Sirius shrugged, though the absence of his title clearly irked him. 

“Just waiting to serve my sentence.” 

Fudge was taken aback. Here was a man who had spent the past twelve years in a cell, surrounded by Dementors, and yet maintained his sanity. 

“Finished with your paper, Minister?” Sirius asked, pointing to the edition tucked under Cornelius’ arm. “This place is entirely boring, and I miss the crosswords.” 

Seeing no harm, Fudge handed over the paper. Sirius glanced through it, and they exchanged no more words. He retreated to the back of his cell, while the Minister continued down Azkaban’s corridors. 

“Next time you call me mad, cousin…” 

“Don’t worry, Bella. I’ve said nothing the world doesn’t already think.” 

“And now?” asked Rabastan from his cell, staring at his hand. 

“Now…” Sirius said, opening the paper and falling silent longer than intended. The smiling faces of the Weasleys beneath the headline announcing the Annual Lottery prize seemed innocent, until the presence of a certain rat drew his attention. 

“…Now?” pressed Rodolphus, awaiting an answer. 

“We’re moving up our plans. That blasted Wormtail survived.” 

“What?” the other three demanded, forgetting to lower their voices. 

“I only wanted the paper to check the date and state of our country with a fool like Fudge as Minister. I did not expect to see Wormtail in his Animagus form on a Hogwarts student’s shoulder.” 

“Sirius…” gasped Bellatrix. “He has access to Hadrian and Hania!” 

“Tonight. We leave this hole and reaffirm what a mistake it is to go against the Blacks and their allies, cousin.” 

“I only managed to get one wand, Sirius,” Rabastan noted. 

“It’ll do.” 

In the dead of night, Sirius took his Animagus form. Starved for proper food, he slipped through the bars of his cell. One passing Dementor bent down, stroking the dog’s fur. Padfoot waited patiently until the creature departed, then trotted to Rabastan’s cell, retrieving the wand his cousin had managed to acquire from one of the wizards visiting that day. 

With the wand clenched between his teeth, Sirius raced to the Guard’s storage area, knowing it held their belongings. Carefully, he reverted to human form, preparing to perform magic. As a Black, Lord Black no less, he could channel magic without a wand to some degree, which had kept him active and relatively healthy. Thus, he was the perfect candidate to reclaim their items. 

A quick Disillusionment Charm allowed him to approach the door and disable its wards. Another forgotten fact over the years: Sirius was a trained Auror who knew Azkaban’s security protocol. Magic seemed to hum through the prison stones, recognizing and approving his actions. 

Entering the archive and quietly recovering their items was effortless. Disabling tracking spells on the wands of himself and the three Lestranges was even faster. He hid in a forgotten corner, swapped out his striped prison robes for those he had worn when first imprisoned, and secured his wand on the arm holster. The stolen wand was cleansed of all spells and stashed in his pocket, to be discarded safely later. 

He reverted to dog form, returning to where his family awaited. Handing back each person’s belongings and freeing them was swift. They still used the same spell to lock and unlock the cell doors. 

Once outside, they cast illusions inside the cells, making it appear they remained within. Not perfect, but convincing enough for a time. With only six human guards patrolling Azkaban and most avoiding the upper levels, Sirius led them safely to the security breach he had discovered in Animagus form, after getting rid of several blocks in his core, and which he was keeping in mind for their eventual escape a gap through which they could apparate away. 

Pausing for a final glance at the cold corridors, the four faced each other. 

“And now,” said Rodolphus, the eldest, “we go home.”