11th December, 1941
Fae Realm,
Northern Wales
Harry didn't know what compelled him to come here, to this place he'd fashioned for the fae aeons ago—didn't know what compelled him to even remotely contemplate accepting this alleged bond between him and the sword.
It came to him in a dream, yes, but he was unsure of this sudden, inexplicable acceptance of his destiny—the one he'd turned tail and run from so long ago.
He had no desire for it or the power that it would grant him. He had more than enough power in his own right—far more than he was necessarily comfortable with. Seeking any more of it seemed foolish to him and felt too much like he was tempting fate. And while Fate had always seemed to favour him, it wasn't lost on him—the way she'd always played him for her own divine entertainment—the way she'd hurdled one impossible obstacle after another at him just to watch him flounder and scrape for his life by the skin of his teeth.
So, why was he here? After all this time? After promising himself that he would never accept the sword and all that it entailed?
He didn't know why. Didn't know where this unbidden longing had come from. It had crawled under his chest cavity, affixed itself to his heart, sunk into his bloodstream, and then it began to itch, itch, and itch.
But the reasons didn't much matter anymore, not with Aithusa at his side waiting on his command—waiting for him to take the first plunge into the Shadow Realm where he would be tested for his worth.
His worth.
It came as a surprise to him, that he had to fight for the sword and earn his right to wield it—that Merlin, in his old age, had decided that he must complete a series of trials before it— No, she—before she could truly belong to him. Before she would bond with him for the rest of eternity.
Because, most naturally, the sword that was destined to belong to him was a sentient object with a mind of her own.
"She felt slighted by your rejection," Merlin had told him with a damning twinkle in his eyes that unpleasantly reminded him of Dumbledore. "She would not choose another master, although many have tried," he went on to say. "But she will not simply allow you to wield her any more. Not after you've abandoned her for so many centuries—left her longing to be whole for so long. She wants you to fight for her."
Of course, she did. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Nothing could ever be easy and straightforward for Harry. Why ever should it?
So, now, Harry had to fight for the allegiance and affections of a sword he wasn't even certain he wanted.
Harry was being sent on a glorified treasure hunt—a hunt with no clues and no idea of how long it would last. Days, months, perhaps even years if Harry was really unlucky. The only reassurance he had was that he wouldn't be alone. No, thankfully, his old friend and trusted dragon Aithusa was allowed to accompany him on this dangerous quest where his magic would be rendered useless. Because, naturally, in the Shadow Realm magic was inaccessible. Instead, the only weapons Harry will have on him were his old twin swords, his bow and arrows, and a single dagger, all of which had been forged by goblins and fae as a gift to him so very long ago.
"It's time," he told his old friend while steeling his nerves for the battles to come.
"I will not leave your side, Harry," he heard Aithusa's reassuring melodious voice in his head. "I will protect you from the demon shadows below," she promised, lowering her head to lightly nudge the wizard she'd missed so much.
"And I you, my dear," he vowed in return, a small smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed her snout.
And then the both of them plunged into a realm not their own—a realm that would see them devoured before ever letting them go free.
.
.
.
It was cold—so very cold that Harry could scarcely stand it.
Nothing made a difference to the ice-cold temperature his body had sunken into—not adrenalin, not happy, warm thoughts, and not even Aithusa could warm him to a bearable condition.
It's been days since they entered the Shadow Realm. Days of nothing but vicious fighting against the beasts that roamed this dark, hopeless place whose rivers ran red and everything within it was dead. Trees, valleys, stone, and soil—everything around them was dead. Even the darkened sky above them was an unnatural and poisonous blend of acid green and violent purple.
After days and days of hiking and fighting, Harry and Aithusa had finally found a sheltered place to rest and tend to their wounds. It was a small cave carved into a mountainside that barely had enough space for the both of them, and it had the most odious reek inside it. But, for the time being, it provided them with what they needed.
Harry himself was almost unscathed besides a foul scratch that ran straight down his face from eyebrow to chin. He'd been most fortunate that the beast hadn't taken out his eye, but that was mostly due to Aithusa who had taken a vicious blow for him, cursed claws cutting open a wound all the way from her wing to her softer underbelly. Harry tended to her as best as he could with no magic at his disposal and limited freshwater, urging her to stay awake and lick the gaping wound so that it wouldn't fester.
He'd never forgive himself if anything were to happen to her.
"Stay with me, girl," Harry urged her as he scratched her ears, hoping to offer her some comfort. "You've been so very brave, Aithusa. Just a little while longer. I can feel her calling to me."
And he could indeed feel the sword calling him, urging him to retrieve her. Her call the only speck of warmth he felt in this wretched place.
"Just a little while longer," he promised his loyal dragon, nuzzling his face into the scales at her neck as she whimpered.
.
.
.
Finally.
Finally there she was, embedded almost to the hilt into a blood-red stone native to this realm. Harry didn't appreciate the irony of this—didn't appreciate being likened to the boy king he'd once detested with every fibre of his being.
But that was the least of Harry's worries because between Harry and the sword laid an army of shadow beasts in wait.
The beasts towered over him by no less than four feet, their faces disfigured by black and red shadows that hid their razor-sharp teeth. But the spiked, black horns gleaming atop their heads were more than distinguishable, as were the sharp talons they had in place of hands. Some of them had wings, and those enormous beasts circled above the sword, like vultures protecting their carcass from other predators.
He'd encountered these beasts before, not long before he'd met Merlin. There had been a dark sorcerer that had fancied himself an army of shadow demons to claim dominion over the world. It wasn't surprising that once summoned the shadow beasts had thorn him apart limb from limb, leaving Harry to clean up the mess the sorcerer had made.
He'd hunted them for months before finally ending them.
They had been particularly nasty to track down and kill, so Harry had no idea how he was going to get past a whole army of them. There was no cover to help him hide and he had no magic—nothing at all that would assist him in this impossible attack.
All Harry had were his dragon, weapons, and his wit. Although, he was wary of sending his beloved companion out there to face the beasts that had already caused her so much hurt.
But all he had to do was get to Excalibur and the beasts were sure to be vanquished.
Easy.
"I need you to distract them, Aithusa," he whispered to his companion. "I need you to fly past them, but don't engage. Fly over them and keep on flying. Don't come back unless I've gotten to the sword. I will not have you hurt," he ordered.
"But, Harry. There are too many of them for you to fight alone," she told him, sounding startled and afraid.
"I will not risk you," he hissed. "You're still hurt from the last ambush."
Aithusa looked like she was about to argue but immediately bowed her head at the warning glare he threw her.
"As you wish, Harry," she murmured, no less afraid for him.
Harry looked out at the shadow beasts and took a deep breath to collect himself.
Anxiety and fear had no place in battle.
"Now, Aithusa," he commanded and not a moment later his dragon took off into the skies with a majestic roar that sent exhilarated shivers down Harry's spine.
Aithusa instantly drew the attention of the army ahead, a collective ear-splitting screech leaving them at the perceived threat she posed.
Harry reached for the two loyal swords resting at his back, brandishing them with the intent to end all that dared to come in his way.
"Lady Mother, give me strength," he whispered the small prayer into the air with closed eyes and a look of deep concentration on his face.
Then he opened his emerald eyes and he was off, his steps as light and they were fast.
Become one with the wind, Harry reminded himself.
Dance to the blood rushing in your veins and weave steps they couldn't hope to follow.
End them all.
The first three fell before they even knew what was happening—their heads rolling not far from their fallen bodies, black blood already staining Harry's haggard face and twin swords.
The army of beasts turned to face him and for a second there was only a shrill silence and the harsh beating of Harry's heart to be heard. Then, five more charged his way, war cry on their lips and sharp talons and horns pointed at him.
One of his swords found its way into the gut of one of the beasts, brutally slicing its upper body in half, while the other sent another head rolling.
He managed to avoid a fatal slice to his torso by cutting off the talon coming his way but was too late to dodge the one reaching for his left shoulder. Harry bit down the pained cry that wanted to escape his bloodied lips, faded to the side, turned, and repaid the beast in kind.
And so Harry danced with an army of shadow beasts.
Advance.
Empty fade.
Front guard.
Lunge.
Pivot.
Retreat.
Slope.
Repeat.
Harry lost his grip on one of his swords, so he cut off the horn of one of the beasts and plunged it into the heart of another, the blood dripping down his hand leaving a scalding burn behind that almost left him motionless. But Harry grit his teeth and pushed forward.
Another nine fell, but the army seemed endless—a sea of death waiting to pull him under.
Roll.
Retrieve sword.
Guard.
Lunge.
Fade.
Destroy.
Excalibur was close—so close that he could feel her pulsating magic thrumming through him.
Then he felt three claws digging into his gut and he couldn't hold in the agonised cry that tore out of his throat. He heard Aithusia enraged roar in the distance, but he didn't stop moving even as his blood started flooding out of him.
He cut, sliced, and ravaged his way through them. Anger and pain pushing him forward.
End this Harry.
And with that thought, he practically flew the remaining distance to Excalibur—reached for her hilt and pulled her out of her prison.
The experience that followed was unlike anything he'd ever endured before.
Power—so much power—too much power—rushing through him like a floodgate that had been opened too suddenly. It felt like an avalanche that buried anything and everything that was just Harry to make way for the divine to emerge.
Burning heat replaced the fierce cold he'd been exposed to for the past days. It was a heat that had him clenching his jaw and dropping to his knees with its unbearable, fiery intensity—one that had him spasming and gasping for breath and left him doubtful if the blood in his veins was indeed still blood or if it had turned into boiling, liquid gold.
For a moment Harry forgot his name—forgot where he was—forgot what he was.
For a moment there was nothing but endless fire and Harry screaming out silently to the cosmos above.
Fire, blinding colours, and endless power.
Then awareness came rushing back to him with a fervour that had him pressing his bloodied forehead exhaustedly to the floor.
"Let's finish this, Excalibur," he gasped raspily to his newly bonded sword through sharp, ragged breaths, and he could feel her excitement—her thirst for blood.
Nothing could stop them.
Nothing could get close to hurting them.
Because Harry and Excalibur together had transcended into something untouchable—something divine.
The chosen Son of Magic, with the last puzzle piece finally slotted into place, had risen from the rubble that had been his humanity—had irrevocably transformed and became one with Mother Magic herself.
He. Was. Magic.
The rest of the battle was over in a flurry of movement that Harry couldn't recall, and as the last of the shadow beasts fell to Excalibur, Harry collapsed to the ground—energy thoroughly spent.
"Take us home, Aithusa," Harry called out to his trusted companion.
Then Harry knew no more.
.
.
.
Harry woke to warm, gentle hands and soft chanting—to the taut feeling of his organs and skin being pulled together and repaired.
He knew the magic being worked on him—remembered its enticing call.
Dana, his mind whispered to him. Dana is healing you.
With that comforting thought, Harry fell back into oblivion.
.
.
.
Harry had woken up a few hours ago and was walking along the river of glittering crystals with the Fae Queen herself.
He felt tired and faint. All he wanted was to go back to Hogwarts and sleep the next century away, but he owed Dana a conversation, especially after she'd healed him so well with nary a scar in sight.
"You will have a choice to make soon," she informed him once he was done with regaling her with stories of the world beyond her gates.
"A choice?" he asked her cautiously. A friend she may be, but Harry was not blind to the deceitful nature of the fae.
Dana smiled a sharp-toothed smile. "A choice, my liege, to remain in the shadows or to take your rightful place as sovereign to all that is magical."
"And you would bow to me, Queen of the Fae? You would relinquish your throne?" he asked the beautiful Fae Queen with long, flowing, silver hair and violet eyes.
"I will always be Queen of the Fae, but should you choose, you would become King of us all. And there is no other I would bow to. It will be an honour to serve and protect the world you will build."
Harry didn't have much time to mull over her words because Death was suddenly at his side with a warning.
"If you wish to make your appointment with Lord Potter, you will have to leave right away, Harry. Time is catching up."
Harry gave him an almost indiscernible nod.
"It seems that I have some business to attend to, Dana," he told her mournfully. The Fae Realm was truly a sight to behold. He would miss it here. "You will continue looking after Aithusa for me, won't you? Until it is safe for me to retrieve her?"
"Of course," Dana immediately agreed. "But I'm afraid that you must be the one to explain this to her," she said, her words followed by her bell-like laugh.
Harry couldn't help but wince and groan, for Aithusa would surely want to burn him alive for leaving her behind once more.
11th December, 1941,
Potter Manor,
England
Henry, Fleamont, and Arcturus were all gathered somewhat uncomfortably in the parlour, sipping on their tea and unsure of how exactly to proceed without the main guest's presence.
The fair Lady Potter had retreated to her beloved garden not long after receiving her son and Lord Black into her home, leaving the men to talk shop.
Upon his arrival, Fleamont had handed his father the letter he'd found on his bedside table that morning. It had been a short, vague missive informing them that some unexpected and most pressing business had come up that morning that Harry had to immediately tend to. He'd regretfully let them know that he would be late to the tea party and not much else.
Arcturus eyebrows had shot up as Henry relayed the message to them, equally as perplexed as his host had been. It was unlike Harry to be late for any obligation.
Fleamont was shifting nervously in his seat, the palpable silence in the room almost too painful to endure, and was internally cursing Harry for putting him in this awkward position.
Henry cleared his throat, drawing silent sighs of relief from the other two occupants in the room.
"Alright then," Henry said, seemingly having had enough of the uncomfortable hush that had fallen over them. He gently put down his flower-patterned teacup onto the expensive, fine bone china saucer and looked up Arcturus, hazel eyes filled with a sudden purpose. "There isn't much we can do for now but wait for Harry to join us. But I'd like to take this opportunity to ask you about the boy, Arcturus," he ventured cautiously.
Fleamont looked at the two Lords uneasily, not liking the idea of talking about his friend behind his back, but he also couldn't deny that he too was curious to hear what Lord Black had to say about Harry.
How well did Lord Black know Harry? Was he aware of the darkness that lurked hidden just beneath the surface of his benevolence? Did he suspect as Fleamont suspected that Harry's control on his darker urges was formidable and yet also so very fragile? Did he too suspect that Harry was simply other? In a way that was inexplicable and unnatural at best?
Arcturus smoothly put down his teacup and locked eyes with Henry, a silent warning glinting in his darkening grey eyes.
Henry rolled his eyes at the wizard. "I'm not asking you to betray his trust, Arcturus. I only wish to have your opinion on the boy, and perhaps a small insight as to why you're allowing him to lead you when I've never known you to regard anyone's opinion but your own. No offence intended, of course," Henry added with a small, teasing grin.
"None taken," Arcturus reassured him wearily. "What is it exactly that you're asking me for, Henry? An assessment of his character and intentions?"
Henry gave him a short nod and waited patiently as Arcturus pondered over his reply.
"He's unlike anyone I've ever met," Arcturus admitted finally. "At first I thought that our first meeting was a happy coincidence, but knowing him as I do now, I suspect that it was very much intentional on his end. The odd thing is that I can't quite find it in myself to begrudge him that small manipulation."
Henry hummed. "You've come to care for him," he noted unsurprised, after all, he'd seen them interact with each other in person.
"As if he were one of my own," Arcturus agreed with a fond half-smile. But his smile quickly dropped when he recalled the state he'd found Harry in after the battle at Hogsmeade.
"He's powerful, seemingly having boundless reserves of magic at his disposal. His control is impeccable—nothing short of astonishing," he couldn't help but boast on Harry's behalf. "His mind is one of the sharpest I've ever encountered, a true genius in every sense of the word. He's mastered any subject that he's ever gotten his hands on and I don't think there is anything he's incapable of when he sets his mind to it."
Arcturus paused for a short moment before admitting, "He can be reckless and slightly arrogant at times, as is to be expected from someone of his calibre. But he doesn't set out to make anyone feel lesser than, as some in our circle would do if they had even an ounce of his intelligence and power."
Henry bowed his head at this assessment, having come to the same conclusion in the short time he'd conversed with the mysterious Lord Peverell.
"He's got strong ideals and is firm and unshakable in his beliefs," he added ruefully with an equally pained smirk. "If I weren't aware of how inherently shrewd and cynical he is, I'd be quick to describe him as an idealist. He strives for equality, and not only for witches and wizards of all blood but for all creatures no matter if they are Light or Dark. He sees the potential in everyone—envisions a world in which all magical creations can co-exist without quarrel."
Henry raised a brow at that last statement, which didn't go unnoticed.
Arcturus smirked. "Yes, it sounds naive and I've said as much to him myself, but he made a compelling argument and he's determined, so very determined. I've never seen such conviction before—such a want to protect and preserve what we've been tearing down for centuries."
"And you found yourself agreeing with these beliefs?" Henry asked him doubtfully. "Forgive me my scepticism, Arcturus, but you've never been one to advocate for creature rights—or anyone else's for that matter."
"True enough," Arcturus readily admitted, entirely unashamed. "But as I've said, Harry made quite the compelling argument—an argument which even a former blood supremest like myself couldn't easily snub and disregard."
"I see," Henry mumbled, wondering what the younger wizard could have possibly told Lord Black to sway him.
Arcturus hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "He's most intent on bringing back forgotten magicks, and perhaps even some magicks we've carelessly classified as Dark simply because we fear their power—magicks that he believes we need in order to strengthen our bonds with Magic and restore balance. He believes we've neglected our creator, forgotten her and taken for granted the blessing she's bestowed us."
Henry couldn't help the slight cringe at the other wizard's words.
Arcturus sighed and threw Henry a pointed glare.
"You can't honestly tell me that you agree with all the rituals they've been banning, Henry. As one of the founding families of the society we stand on today, with multiple family grimoires of your own, you can't possibly believe that all our traditions are dangerous. If you've read Harry's manuscript, you know that most of the banned magicks have only been banned to accommodate the muggle-borns that come into our world. I don't blame them," Arcturus quickly added when he saw Henry about to protest. "I understand now that it's of no fault of their own. We've allowed our mistrust of the muggles to blind us and thus we've neglected to fully welcome and teach them our ways. But Harry wants to change that. He will change that," he amended. "When his bill passes in the coming Wizengamont session, muggle-borns will be brought into our world as infants, to be given the same opportunities all Purebloods and Half-bloods have."
Henry took a moment to contemplate what he'd just heard.
"So, what you're essentially saying is that Hadrian Peverell is a visionary with the intellect, power, and political backing to actually achieve what he's setting out to do."
"Simply put, yes," Arcturus agreed. "Granted, it's going to be an arduous road with many obstacles to overcome. Neither he nor I are oblivious to just how difficult it's going to be to make his vision come true. But I believe in him, Henry. Hadrian has my complete trust and faith. He has my fealty."
Henry's eyes narrowed at the word fealty coming from Lord Black himself.
The Blacks were known for many things, but swearing unwavering fealty to someone outside of their family was not one of them. And the way he'd uttered the boy's name—with such awe and worship, with such devotion—sounded too much like My Lord.
"Even when he has business to conduct that you had no prior knowledge of?" Henry prodded in his typically blunt fashion, brazenly testing the waters as only the Potters were known to do.
Arcturus shook his head, his years of pureblood training the only thing keeping him from shrugging his shoulders.
"I'm not Harry's Lord and keeper. I know that he has secrets that he's yet to divulge. He's a reserved wizard who finds it hard to trust, but I know him well enough to appreciate that when he says it was an urgent matter, he speaks true. I'll simply wait until he's ready to share those matters with me."
Henry nodded his understanding and suddenly turned his attention to his son, who had been quietly listening to the conversation being had in front of him.
"And you, son? Do you also have complete trust and faith in your new comrade?"
Fleamont was momentarily taken aback by being pulled into the discussion.
"I do," he replied without a second thought.
Henry tilted his head to the side and assessed his heir, wondering if he too had internally sworn fealty to the boy.
"And what's your opinion on Hadrian?"
Fleamont swallowed down his nerves and dared a quick glance at Lord Black, who was watching him rather impressively—his thoughts completely hidden.
Once his eyes locked back onto his father he sighed, fighting the urge to hunch in his seat and rest his elbows on his knees.
"Harry can be intense at times, scarily so if I am being completely truthful," he started, his gaze looking through his father as he lost himself in thought. "His abilities are otherworldly—perhaps even terrifying. He holds a conviction that leaves anyone who has the privilege to hear him talk breathlessly in awe. He's charming—painfully charismatic in a way that draws out even the most reluctant. But mostly he's a just and fair man, kind-hearted in a way I've not met before. He's loyal to a fault, as we've witnessed at the battle in Hogsmeade. His self-preservation leaves a lot to be desired, but not because he's foolish—not because he believes that he's infallible—but because he believes that everyone is worth saving, even if his life should be the cost. I'd say that he doesn't have a malicious bone in his body, but he can be vicious—utterly ruthless and merciless even—if those he calls friends are threatened or treated wrongly."
Arcturus was barely able to contain his grin, while Henry couldn't help but frown.
"Such high praise for one so young," he mumbled, mostly to himself.
"It is deserved," Fleamont snapped, irritated by his father's uncertainty. "As Lord Black stated, he's unlike anyone I've met."
"He's gained your unrepentant loyalty, I see," Henry remarked, not unkindly.
"He has," Fleamont agreed with his chin held high.
Henry smiled at his son, but before he could voice any more of his thoughts on Harry, the ground beneath their feet began to shake, rattling the teacups and all other furniture in their vicinity.
All three of them looked at each other in confusion.
Then there was a blast that could be heard in the distance and seconds later a wave of pure, undulated magic washed past them, setting the hairs on the back of their necks on edge while their own magic reached out—not to protect, but to embrace—sending a pleasurable shiver down their spines.
It was over before it began, leaving the occupants in the parlour breathless with the intensity that still rattled their very core.
"What was that?" Fleamont voiced what was on all their minds, disoriented and slightly frightened.
"I don't know, son," Henry mumbled, quick to stand on unsteady feet and call for one of his house-elves. "Tessy!"
The finely dressed house-elf popped in immediately with her back arched in a low bow.
"Master bees calling for Tessy. What can Tessy bes doing for Master?" the young house-elf asked, but what drew the wizards' attention was the shivering body of the house-elf. It seemed like the house-elves had been just as affected by the blast as they had been, if not more so.
"Do you know what that explosion was, Tessy? Where it came from?" Henry pressed her, Grindelwald and his army not far from his mind.
Had there been another attack?
The house-elf's wide eyes widened even further, elation shining in her vibrant green eyes.
"Tessy does not know for sure, Master. It feels like Master of Masters has returned. His magic sings to us, calls to protect and protect us in return."
"Master of Masters?" Henry asked her, no less perplexed by this explanation. If anything, it had him even further on edge.
"Yes, Master Lord Potter, Sir. Master of Masters. All house-elves bes told stories by parents when young, that Master will bes returning one day. That he bes bringing glory to all creatures, even wes lowly house-elves. That he bes bringing harmony to all."
Henry and Arcturus exchanged worried glances, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
"And who is this Master of Masters?" Henry ventured the question most cautiously, a heavy dread filling his accelerated heart.
Tessy wrung her tiny, wrinkled hands together, suddenly very nervous. "Tessy cannot say, Master. Tessy's tongue bes bound by ancient magicks."
"This is madness," Arcturus mumbled, hoping beyond hope that Harry had nothing to do with this. Which seemed more and more unlikely the longer the thought settled into his mind.
Henry's eyes once again shot toward Arcturus, who was clenching and unclenching his fists, probably experiencing the same buzzing sensation Henry himself was feeling.
"You can't possibly think—" but Henry cut himself off before he could finish his thought—the notion nothing short of preposterous.
Fleamont was silent in his cushiony armchair, still reeling from the magic that had washed over him, recognising the taste of it. He'd felt such magic before, that day he and Harry had been cornered by those Slytherins. There was no doubt in his mind that whatever had just happened, Harry was once again in the middle of it all.
He was unsure if he should voice these thoughts to the adults in the room, but in the end, his loyalty to Harry won out and he kept his lips firmly sealed.
There was no time to further discuss the magical blast they'd all just experienced because Henry was suddenly alerted by a presence at the gates requesting entry to his manor.
"Tessy. If that's Lord Peverell at the door let him in. If it's anyone else come and fetch me."
"Right away, Master Lord Potter, Sir." And with a gentle pop, she was gone, only to return a few moments later with none other than Harry, who looked like he'd been put through the wringer.
His hair was a mess of braids falling in a disarray about his face, the tips of his hair dyed an attractive shade of green—a perplexing addition that had definitely not been there yesterday. There was soot all over his face and his robes. Speaking of which, he was wearing battle robes, which, by the looks of them, had been utilised for their exact purpose. And was that a dragon tooth that hung around his neck on a leather cord? And that beard....
He also looked like he'd lost some significant weight. His cheeks looked gunter then usual which caused his cheekbones to stick out even more noticeably. There were dark purple circles under his eyes and all in all he looked like he was about to violently pass out.
But besides his dishevelled appearance, there was something else that was decidedly different about him—something none of them could quite point their finger at.
"Harry!" both Arcturus and Fleamont exclaimed, immediately flying out of their seats to catch the stumbling and swaying boy.
"'M fine," Harry mumbled, sounding anything but fine, but he didn't bat away their help as they steered him to the loveseat Arcturus had been occupying.
"What happened to you, Harry? Are you injured? What do you need?" Arcturus immediately fired away, concern evident in the way his voice shook.
With eyes still half-closed, Harry once again mumbled, "'M fine. Already been healed," he added for Arcturus' benefit. "Dana should've done a good job of it. Can't feel the gut wound or the shoulder wound, so she must've," he muttered somewhat deliriously.
"Already been healed? Gut wound?" Arcturus growled, his worry replaced by a fury that was reserved solely for the boy swaying in his seat. "Have you made it your mission to send me into an early grave, boy?" he snapped.
"'Course not," Harry said. "Orion's not anywhere near ready to take up the mantle of Lord Black," he quipped automatically even as his vision swam painfully before him.
He was just so very tired. It's been a long few days and he hadn't really gotten any sleep that wasn't pain induced. And he was still reeling from the power boost he'd gotten a few hours ago.
"You reckless imbecile," Arcturus snarled. "What did you get yourself into this time?"
Herry winced at the volume of his friend's scolding. "I beg you, please don't shout. It feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my head and proceeded to pass the remains of my brains through a meat grinder."
"Don't test my patience, Harry. What happened?" Arcturus demanded while casting a few diagnostic spells on him.
"Destiny happened," Harry grumbled as he tried to sit up a bit straighter. "Just give me a short mo' and we can get right down to business."
"Destiny?" Henry voiced bemused, looking at the scene before him with no small amount of distrust. It was then that he noticed the large sword dangling limply from the boy's hand, stained with dried blood, although he couldn't be sure, seeing as whatever stained the sword was black.
"Ah, Henry. Apologies for my tardiness and dishevelled state of dress," Herry said politely as he was able. He tried to get up from his seat but Arcturus quickly pushed him back down.
"It's alright, Harry," Henry reassured him. "I think it's best you stay seated, seeing as you look like you're about ready to faint. Although an explanation would be appreciated, once you've gathered your bearings, of course," he added when Arcturus shot him a dark look.
"The readings look fine, Harry. Nothing's broken or damaged," Arcturus informed him, his relief obvious.
"Told you that I've already been healed," Harry couldn't help but point out as he ran a hand through his many braids.
"Harry," Fleamont started, looking apprehensively at his friend. "Your robes are singed," he pointed out rather numbly.
Harry blinked and looked down at himself, noticing that his battle robes were indeed singed, some places being held together by mere threads.
"Right you are, Monty my friend," he murmured before waving a hand over himself, replacing the shredded and burned battle robes with a clean pair of formal black robes, Peverell crest proudly shown off on his right breast bone. Both Henry and Arcturus' eyes twitched at the effortless wandless magic Harry had just performed in the frazzled state that he was in.
"Aithusa was none too pleased when she learned that she couldn't join me at Hogwarts. She said the snort of fire was accidental, but I'm not inclined to believe her," he explained incoherently as if expecting them to understand. "She's always been a bit temperamental," he grumbled with a good-natured roll of his eyes.
The other three wizards in the room just stared at him, all of them wondering if Harry had finally lost his mind.
"Sweet Godric," Fleamont breathed. "Harry mate, what in the name of Merlin are you on about?"
At the mention of Merlin Harry instantly growled, his shoulders noticeably tensing.
"Don't mention that old codger to me," he snapped, his eyes flickering rapidly between emerald and gold. "'A few simple trials,' he said to me. 'Nothing to worry about, love,' he said. The man's grown absolutely senile in his old age. Been hiding behind those walls for far too long. Has completely lost his grip on reality, he has," Harry vented, his body a hair's breadth away from shaking. "I mean, I'm always up for a spot of adventure, but a bloke likes a bit of warning before being thrown into the Shadow Realm, yeah? All sorts of nasty beasties in there out to gnaw on some tasty human flesh. And while I'm flattered that apparently I'm the tastiest of them all, I'd rather keep all my limbs—preferably attached to the right places."
As Harry raged, the sword in his hand began to glow, causing Arcturus and Fleamont, the closest ones standing next to Harry, to instinctively take a few steps away from him.
Harry tasted their fear in the air, which instantly gave him a pause. He looked down at the accursed sword in his hands and back up to his friends.
"Right, sorry," he murmured abashedly, the sword immediately clattering to the ground.
Arcturus would prefer to believe that Harry had some sort of mental breakdown than to contemplate that anything the boy had just said held any grain of truth in it. But Harry was sporting a beard that would have been impossible to grow in the single day they've been apart, not to mention his haggard appearance—and the sword—the one that only seconds ago was glowing an eerie shade of gold and blue—the one that thrummed with a magnitude of power that had him wanting to flee.
"Shadow Realm?" braved the youngest wizard in the room.
It seemed that Fleamont's devastating confusion finally brought Harry out of his trance-like, power-drugged state, and all he managed to utter was a faint, "Bollocks."
"I'd like to see you getting out of this one, Harry," Death's voice rang in his head, together with his amused chuckle.
"Where exactly have you been, Harry?" Arcturus asked him warily, afraid of the answer.
Harry sighed, digging his canine tooth into the delicate flesh of his bottom lip.
"I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you," he admitted.
"Try anyway," Arcturus pressed, fearing the impossible tale that would surely spill from Harry.
Harry eyed the Potters in the room and made his choice.
"Alright, but I'm going to need a vow—from all of you. Nothing I say is to leave this room."
Both Arcturus and Fleamont didn't hesitate to draw out their wands and swear the oath, but Henry was hesitant.
"You're asking quite a bit from a wizard that doesn't know you, Harry," he pointed out.
Harry nodded his head, easily agreeing with him. He'd been disorientated when he'd come to the Potter Manor, still reeling from his new bond with the sword. Had he been in the right frame of mind he'd never have blurted out what he had.
He'd rather not obliviate his great-grandfather, but if he didn't swear the oath, Harry wouldn't have much of a choice.
"My sincerest apologies, Henry. I'm all out of sorts and have blurted out some things that should have been better left unsaid in current company. But if you wish to be let in on my secrets, I'll be needing that oath. I know that this isn't what you expected when you invited me over for tea to discuss the bill. I honestly had no idea what awaited me or I would have rescheduled. But alas, here we are."
Henry looked at him for a moment, assessing his sincerity. Finding what he'd been looking for, he sighed and reluctantly vowed his own oath.
"Right then," Harry said with forced cheerfulness. "I've just come back from the Fae Realm. As you can see from my unkept beard, time travels somewhat differently over there."
To say that the three wizards were stunned speechless would be quite the understatement.
"Fae?" Arcturus mumbled breathlessly. "The fae have gone extinct sometime in the late fifth century," he couldn't help but point out.
"I'm sorry to correct you, my friend, but the fae are very much alive and thriving, hidden out of sight for their own protection."
"This is ridiculous," Henry whispered, and for once Fleamont was inclined to agree with his father. "Are you sure there is nothing wrong with the boy, Arcturus? A blow to the head, perhaps?"
"Healthy as a hippogriff," Arcturus mumbled without looking away from Harry. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"It wouldn't make much of a joke if I weren't being serious, would it?" Harry questioned him with a small smirk.
"Is there never a quiet moment with you, Harry? Next, you'll be telling us that the sword you've acquired is the legendary Excalibur."
It had been a jest—one that, if truth be told, Arcturus thought he'd made in poor taste.
He expected Harry to laugh, at the very least breathe out a small chuckle, but when no such thing happened he was forced into stillness.
"No," he gasped, regal features twisting comically into pure disbelief.
Harry winced but stayed uncharacteristically silent.
"You can't possibly mean to say that—" he couldn't even finish his sentence, that's how absurd this all was. His gaze instantly slid to the sword carelessly strewn on the marble floor.
No
"It's not like I wanted the damned sword," Harry was quick to defend himself. "Never brought anything but trouble to anyone. But I felt it time to embrace my destiny," he spat out venomously as if the word alone left a bitter taste on his tongue. "For the good of our community and all," he added sarcastically, still unconvinced himself that it had been necessary. But he'd felt the change as soon as he'd bonded with the sword, so he couldn't say that it had been completely meaningless—not when he felt this precious oneness with Magic.
"Does that mean that you're—" Fleamont started to say but was quickly cut off by Harry.
"I promised myself that I'd cut off the next tongue that dared call me king or my liege," Harry warned him, sounding very much serious in his threat.
"Understood," Fleamont was quick to agree, liking his tongue very much attached, thankyouverymuch.
"Does the same apply to your majesty?" questioned Henry, embracing the situation in the only way he knew how to, with humour, causing his son and Arcturus to choke on their surprise.
Harry shot him a mild glower but his lips twitched, appreciating the Potter wit and accepting it for what it was—a coping mechanism.
"I must say, Harry, this has been an unexpectedly exciting start to the afternoon. Very different from what I was expecting. And here I was thinking that having my wife's famous apple pie for breakfast would be the most exciting part of my day. How thoroughly foolish of me."
"Hindsight," Harry shrugged, emerald eyes twinkling amusedly. "Apple pie you said? You wouldn't happen to have some left, would you? I'm feeling slightly peckish." As if on cue, Harry's stomach rumbled rather loudly.
"I suppose fighting unknown creatures in the...Shadow Realm, you said?" At Harry's slight nod Henry gulped and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I suppose that would work up quite the appetite in a wizard," Henry nodded sagely. "Tessy, would you mind terribly bringing young Harry here a generous piece of pie? In fact, why don't you bring us all a piece, together with a fresh pot of tea, and maybe some firewhiskey."
"Right away, Master Lord Potter, Sir!" Tessy exclaimed, who had been looking at Harry with a reverence that was altogether too much even for a house-elf.
"A man after my own heart," Harry said appreciatively as he watched the small elf blink out of the room.
"Would you two stop making light of this!" Arcturus finally snapped, feeling much too bewildered to appreciate any sort of humour. "Fae Realms! Shadow Realms! Excalibur! I feel like I've stepped into one of the bedtime stories I used to read to my children."
"Well, now you know what it feels like to be me, Arcturus dear," Harry told him glibly. "My whole life is one, long, fucking fairytale. Pardon my french," he said, directing the last bit at his host.
"Don't worry, my boy. I speak fluent French myself," Henry assured him.
Arcturus groaned and rubbed his palm over his face.
"Salazar, give me strength. There are two of you," Arcturus moaned.
Meanwhile at Hogwarts...
Hadrian James Peverell had done it again. He'd manage to incite such a riot within Hogwarts walls that professors and prefects alike were having a hard time keeping down the multiple arguments and the occasional duels that broke out between the students.
It had started at breakfast when the morning flock of owls had come swooping in to deliver the morning mail. There had been nothing unusual about that at all, and Tom had continued to efficiently smear raspberry jam onto his toast until the first student to glance at their copy of the Daily Prophet released a surprised shriek, causing the entirety of the hall to look at the Ravenclaw sixth year.
Suddenly, the Great Hall had descended into a frenzy of newspapers being flipped open, and the students who didn't bother with the Prophet swiftly stood to look over the shoulder of a peer who did subscribe to that offensive newspaper.
Not wanting to be left out of the loop, Tom had held out his hand for Nott's copy of the Prophet, who had hastily handed it over, his eyes nervously jumping between Tom and the newspaper.
Tom had barely managed to keep his poised composure as his sharp eyes took in the headline.
Lord Hadrian James Peverell: Our Savior or a Rotten Liar?
Tom had quickly scanned the badly written but informative article, hardly trusting that his eyes weren't deceiving him.
He didn't, Tom had thought as he'd allowed his eyes to roam over the article one more time. But sure enough, there it had been, printed plainly in black and white.
Tom had blinked once, twice, three times, but the contents hadn't changed.
That article had been all anyone talked about the whole day. That is, that's all they talked about before that peculiar surge of magic had rippled through the school during lunch, causing plates, bowls, and cups to spill over the tables. Even the windows had shuddered and clattered under the force of it, and the ceiling, in a true reflection of the sky outside, had flashed a myriad of colours that reminded him of the aurora borealis. It had lasted all but a few seconds but Tom could feel the aftereffects of it—could still feel the suspiciously familiar magic caressing him—calling to him.
After the headmaster and professors had convened to discuss that bizarre anomaly, Dippet had informed them that it had originated from outside Hogwarts, and although they didn't know what it was or who was responsible for it, it had been decided that it posed no threat to Hogwarts or its students.
Everyone suspected that Grindelwald had something to do with it. They thought that it meant that he'd attacked again, and while it wasn't implausible, Tom knew that the Dark Lord had nothing to do with this particular event.
He was curious to find out what could have caused such a powerful surge of magic and wanted desperately to know what Hadrian was up to, but his curiosity couldn't distract him from that article he'd read that morning.
Tom knew that Hadrian had political aspirations—knew some of his views and what he wished to achieve with his Wizengamot seat—but he hadn't thought that he'd be moving so fast. Hadrian had barely been back on English soil for six months, so how in the name of Salazar Slytherin had he already managed that?
....In yesterday's Wizengamot session, Lord Hadrian James Peverell, a newly instated member of the Wizengamot Council whose existence came as a surprise to everyone, including the Council itself, has brought some interesting new ideas to its chambers.
Allegedly, the young Lord who is currently still a Hogwarts student, claims that muggle-born wizards and witches are integral to our community's survival. The proof that Lord Peverell offered our esteemed Council has yet to be verified and confirmed by our Ministry, nor have its contents been released to the general public, but reliable sources have said that it was likely that the young Lord Peverell "might be onto something".
Lord Peverell, due to his beliefs of the importance of muggle-borns in our community, has pushed forward a bill that, should it pass, will change the world as we know it forever.
In a turn of events that none of us could have predicted, Lord Peverell has proposed that all magical children are to be found at birth and immediately brought into our magical world, to be given the same opportunities as pureblood and half-blood wizard and witches...
Tom didn't know how to feel about that. He felt well and thoroughly conflicted with everything he'd read, and confliction wasn't a state of mind he was particularly fond of. In fact, he'd go so far as to say that he was utterly unnerved by it all. And, naturally, it was Hadrian that had once again managed to bring out such feelings in him.
Must he upend everything Tom knew about the world he'd joined not five years ago?
It wasn't that he didn't agree with the older wizard's views on this particular matter. Quite the opposite, really.
It was just that— Where had Hadrian been while he was suffering in that awful muggle orphanage without any knowledge of the wizarding world? Where had he been when he was being locked up in the attack for days without any food for simply being odd?
It was childish to even think, especially seeing as Tom had been planning something along the same lines, but it wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that now, not even four full years into his schooling, undeserving children far less powerful than him would be given the opportunities he'd been denied—opportunities that he'd needed—that would have made all the difference to him.
The injustice of it had set Tom's teeth on edge and drew out his magic to fizzle relentlessly just below the surface of his skin, which danced along every inch of him with an unbridled fury for the entirety of the day. A deep, punishing, unbending envy had unfurled in his chest, causing his fists to periodically clench at his side whenever he felt like he was about to burst.
It seemed like Hadrian Peverell had set out to save the whole magical population—everyone, that was, but Tom.
He hadn't read anything about the muggle-borns already at Hogwarts and receiving an education. Would there be aid for Tom? Would he finally be given a home in the only world he wished to claim as his own? Or will he be abandoned once more, left to be shipped off to the orphanage and that hideous wench of a matron that called herself his guardian? As if a filthy muggle like her could ever possibly hope to be worthy of him.
If it weren't for that Merlin forsaken kiss the other week and the simple fact that Hadrian Peverell was nowhere to be found on Hogwarts grounds, Tom would've had half a mind to confront the seventh-year about the many questions that just wouldn't stop whirling inside his mind.
As it was, Tom could do nothing but internally work himself into a fevered madness.
If he didn't get rid of some of his frustrations soon he would—
"Watch your mouth, Avery," Tom suddenly heard from behind him, instantly recognizing the voice as belonging to Alphard Black.
Turning his back on the crackling fireplace he'd been blankly staring at, Tom caught sight of Alphard and Orion Black with their wands out and pointed at Avery, Lucretia not far behind them. Tom absentmindedly noticed that Cygnus was pointedly looking at anything but the row being had in front of him, his loyalties probably at odds with themselves.
"What, Black?" Avery taunted. "Can't admit that your uncle has gone absolutely raving mad? What is he thinking, supporting the likes of Peverell? Has your Ancient and Most Noble House fallen so far as to associate yourselves with filthy, disgusting blood-traitors?"
Alphard's face was barely controlled. His hand clenched around his wand and seemed ready to fire what Tom suspected would be a most damaging spell. At that moment, he could see some of the rumoured Black madness shining in the typically mild-mannered wizard. And Tom could begrudgingly admit that he saw the merit of having him as an ally rather than an enemy. He supposed that Hadrian knew what he was doing, after all, keeping Alphard so close to him.
"You can't hope to even compare to Hadrian," Alphard spat, eyes flashing dangerously behind his perfectly cut fringe. "Believe what you want, Avery. But know that when Harry's every ambition comes true, you and your pathetic, pureblood supremacy mania will be crushed out of existence. Be ready to become an insignificant minority and to be brought to heel, hound. There is no place for filth like you in the world he'll build."
By then the whole Slytherin common room had turned to watch the spectacle. Some jeered while others nodded their heads along with Alphard's tirade. Others, not surprisingly, turned to Tom looking for guidance—much too simple-minded to make up their own minds.
Even Avery had turned to him looking for support—the insipid boy. Had he already forgotten how he'd made Tom's first year an utter hell precisely because of this very reason? Had he already forgotten that the boy he now revered and called his Lord was decidedly not a pureblooded wizard?
Something in Tom's eyes must have given away his thoughts because the next moment he saw Avery's face drain off all colour and his protruding adam's apple bobbed with a harsh gulp.
"If I were you, Avery, I would think long and hard about what I'd say next," Tom warned him in a deceptively calm tone.
"Riddle, I- I meant no disrespect to you, of course," he stuttered, his wand already lowered as he cowered away from Tom.
Coward, Tom thought spitefully.
"No?" Tom asked him softly, belaying his murderous intent.
"No! Never, My Lord," Avery insisted forcefully, the Black cousins long forgotten in light of the new and far more dangerous threat he now faced.
"I see," he murmured, eyes narrowing calculatingly. "Then I suppose you owe Black an apology for your tactless remarks."
Avery sputtered, his eyes going wide at Tom's obvious command.
"Apolog—" he started to say but Avery wasn't given time to voice his indignation because in a split-second Tom had his wand out, flashy red spell already delivered to Avery's chest.
Agonized screams ripped out of the Slytherin and Tom watched, utterly fascinated, as warm blood started gushing out of the fresh wound on his mangled torso—skin and muscle ripped apart together with his fine robes.
"Know that the next time you think of insulting me by questioning my authority, Avery, I'll make sure to permanently rip out your tongue from your head. Have I made myself clear?"
Tom couldn't be sure seeing as the boy became a blubbering mess of sobs and whimpers, but he was almost positive that he heard a strangled "yes, My Lord" pass his lips. In any case, the frantic nodding of his head was enough confirmation that he'd understood.
"Good," he murmured almost lovingly before trailing his eyes towards the trio of Blacks. And really, the school was positively infested with them.
No words were exchanged between them, but surprisingly and most unexpectedly, both Alphard and Orion tilted their heads to him in thanks.
Meanwhile with Grindelwald...
The first thing that came to Gellert Grindelwald's mind when he was told of Hadrian Peverell's appearance at the British Wizengamot was, ''But of course the boy recovered, just as I suspected he would.''
It was refreshing indeed that the young wizard hadn't let him down. He'd have been most disappointed had he been left incapacitated by the little game they'd played at Hogsmeade.
But the Dark Lord's mood had quickly shifted when he'd been informed of the precise nature of Peverell's agenda.
The absolute nerve of that boy. The gall of him to push forward this bill, while he, the most feared Dark Lord of all time, reigned over more than half the globe. It was nothing less than an insult—a slap to his face—to challenge everything he stood for so openly.
At the time, he'd almost incinerated the manifesto his loyal follower had handed him. But, thankfully, he'd thought better of it, and now that his anger had somewhat settled he was glad for it.
He'd been surprised to find that the damned thing had made for quite the interesting read. And loathe as he was to admit it, he agreed with some of what the boy was so cleverly implying between the lines. But it was also very clear to Grindelwald that unlike him, Peverell's main objective was to uphold and strengthen the statute of secrecy.
The boy would have them hide from those inferior to them for the rest of their existence.
Grindelwald had been hopeful to sway Hadrian Peverell to his side—to groom him as his successor—but after reading his manifesto he realized that such an outcome was highly unlikely.
He was disappointed, to say the least. Peverell had so much potential...
But he was a threat—a very real threat that couldn't be allowed to roam freely anymore. He posed too much of a risk to him and his regime. So, truly, he had no other option but to dispatch of him as soon as possible.
It was such a shame, but Lord Peverell's days were numbered.
But first he had to investigate the magical surge that had been felt throughout the entire world.