Chapter Text
There had once been balance.
The Wheel had turned with the rhythm of the earth; from Imbolc's hope to Lammas’ bounty; from Beltane’s flame to Samhain’s shadow. Magick flowed freely, fed by sacrifice and song; honoring both the living and the dead.
But now—nothing turned.
No offerings were made at the sabbats. Children no longer danced barefoot in meadows of light. The leylines twisted. Magick groaned beneath the weight of misuse.
At the Axis of the Arcane, where time was a circle and space a breath, the Eternal Circle convened—called by Lady Magick, who had not spoken since the fall of Avalon.
Seven thrones, carved from primordial elements, shimmered into being:
Lady Magick; robes flickering with every spell ever spoken.
Lord Death; steady as breath held too long, hooded in midnight.
Lady Balance; ageless and weary; her scales warped.
Lord Time; bearded and barefoot; eyes full of endings.
Lady Fate; stern and sharp-eyed; weaving across her lap.
Lady Destiny; golden-eyed and soft-voiced; unwinding possibilities in shimmering threads.
Lord Dream; silent, asleep and awake all at once.
They came not often. But when they did, the world changed.
“The Wheel does not turn. The land goes unblessed. The Veil frays from Samhain to Solstice and no one cares.” Lady Balance was the first to speak.
“They have traded starlight for neon,” Lady Magick said. “And expect power without price. Magick is spent like coin.”
Lord Time shook his head. “We gave them a vessel once. A soul sharp as a blade and old as stone.”
“Tom,” murmured Destiny. “My chosen.”
“He was meant to heal the balance,” said Lady Fate. “To walk the line between life and death. But someone—interfered.” Her eyes turned dark.
“Albus Dumbledore.” Lord Death exhaled mist, uttering the name like a curse.
“He took what was meant to mend and broke it,” said Lady Destiny bitterly. “Turned the soul we shaped into fragments. Fed it to a prophecy that was never ours.”
“The child was brilliant,” Lady Magick said softly. “Too brilliant for the world that raised him. He might have become my vessel. Yours. His name might have been remembered in reverence.”
“Instead.” Death rasped, “his name is feared.”
Lady Magick stepped forward. “So we choose again.”
“The Wheel demands a champion,” said Lady Balance.
“The Hallows stir.” said Lord Death.
“The soul is not yet born.” said Lord Time. “But it will be.”
Magick raised her hand. Above the center of the Circle, a light flared—a child’s heartbeat, pulsing stardust and shadow.
“Born of forbidden love,” she whispered. “Of stag and serpent. Of sun and stars. Hidden even from himself.”
“And who shall walk beside him?” Destiny asked. “He cannot turn the Wheel alone.”
“Another soul,” Magick replied, “also broken by time. Their bond was once legendary—Arthur and Lancelot.”
“Those souls reside with me,” Death said. “Twined. Waiting.”
“Then give them back,” said Lady Magick, simply. “Let them walk again. New names. New faces. But the bond shall remain.”
“He shall be Hadrian, though the world will know him as Harry for a time. His soul is Pendragon.”
“And his mate?” asked Balance.
“du Lac,” Destiny said softly, touching a silver thread. “He walks already. In silk and pride. Born into Slytherin’s bones.”
Lady Fate picked up her spindle. “It will not be easy. Their threads have already been tangled.”
“We will block their memories,” Destiny said. “Let them find each other again. On their own.”
“The wolf, the lion, and the serpent are not yet allies,” Lady Balance warned.
“They will be,” said Lady Magick. “They must be.”
The Circle grew still.
Then Lord Dream finally spoke—his voice a whisper through the veil.
“The boy will bleed.”
“So shall the world,” Lord Death replied.
Lady Magick traced a rune into the firmament. It glowed crimson, gold, and black.
“So mote it be,” she said. “Let the Wheel turn again.”