Marcellus McArdour had a problem.
Well, strictly speaking, he had several.
He was eighteen months old, his legs were still considerably less reliable than he would have liked, and his parents continued to regard his desire to investigate the dragon enclosures as evidence of a defective survival instinct.
But those were ordinary problems.
His real problem was that he had begun to suspect that his second life was taking place in the world of Harry Potter.
The suspicion had first arisen when he learned about the existence of a certain Albus Dumbledore. At the time, he had dismissed it as an extraordinary coincidence. After all, Dumbledore was hardly an uncommon name in a magical society, was it?
Then he had heard the name Voldemort.
That had been considerably harder to dismiss.
Now, a year after the attack on the McArdour estate, Marcellus was reasonably certain that he had been reincarnated into the wizarding world he remembered from his previous life.
The question was what he intended to do about it.
In his previous life, Kyosuke Ohtani had dreamed of building flying cars. He had wanted to become an engineer, accomplish something extraordinary, and prove that he was capable of standing alongside his brilliant elder brother, Ryosuke.
He had died with those ambitions unfinished.
In this life, he had been born into a family that raised dragons.
He was beginning to suspect that the universe had a peculiar sense of humour.
The trouble was that his memories of the books and films were not nearly as useful as he had initially hoped. He remembered the broad outline of events, the names of important people, and a handful of significant incidents. But he did not know precisely when everything would happen, how much the original story differed from reality, or whether his presence had already begun to change things.
And, more importantly, he had no desire to spend the next decade treating his life as a waiting room for Harry Potter's arrival.
He had a family.
He had a magical world to explore.
And he had discovered that being eighteen months old was an excellent excuse for getting away with things that would have been considered deeply embarrassing in his previous life.
He could walk now, although his parents remained unconvinced that this meant he should be allowed to wander wherever he pleased.
He could speak in complete, if occasionally awkward, sentences.
He could ask questions.
And he had recently discovered that adults became remarkably uncomfortable when a toddler asked too many of them.
Marcellus considered this his first genuine talent.
His second was getting his father to laugh when his mother was attempting to scold him.
His third was escaping from the nursery.
He had not yet mastered the fourth, which was persuading the servants to let him near the dragons.
He would keep working on it.
The McArdour estate was not a single house with a few outbuildings attached to it.
It was a small world of its own.
The original family lands on the Isle of Man had been divided and developed over generations. Several houses stood within the wider compound, occupied by different branches of the family. There were workshops, barns, pastures, creature enclosures, storage buildings, and the facilities necessary to maintain a business that involved considerably more dangerous livestock than most farms.
The family had grown large enough that no single household could reasonably contain everyone.
Yet the land remained connected.
The various branches shared the estate as a cooperative enterprise, with each family's ownership and inheritance rights reflected in its share of the property and profits. Some relatives were more involved in the daily business than others. Those who devoted their time and expertise to running the operation received additional compensation for their work.
The arrangement was not without disagreements.
Marcellus had already witnessed several arguments over finances, the allocation of labour, and the proper way to handle a particularly troublesome group of Welsh Spike-Tails.
But there was no privileged main branch that automatically owned the rest.
Clement might descend from a senior line, but that did not make Castor poorer, less influential, or less entitled to his share of the family's property.
The two men simply had different responsibilities.
Clement, who had studied finance and law in the Muggle world alongside his father, Victor, served as the family's chief executive in all but name. He managed the finances, negotiated major contracts, oversaw investments, and handled the legal and commercial matters that affected the wider enterprise.
Castor, by contrast, was responsible for the practical running of the estate. He coordinated the staff, supervised the creature handlers, dealt with suppliers, and made certain that the business continued functioning when a dragon decided that an enclosure was an insult to its dignity.
Clement managed the numbers.
Castor managed the people and the animals.
Both were essential.
Clement's experience in the Muggle business world had made him somewhat wealthier than some of his relatives personally, since he and Victor had conducted business beyond the wizarding world and understood financial opportunities that others had overlooked. But that was a consequence of their individual investments and expertise, not a privilege attached to their family branch.
Marcellus found the arrangement fascinating.
In his previous life, he had seen businesses run by families, corporations run by executives, and organisations where ownership and management were often at odds.
The McArdours had somehow combined all three.
He intended to understand exactly how they had managed it.
Preferably before he was old enough to be expected to contribute to it.
For the present, however, his attention was occupied by a rather more immediate concern.
His father had promised to take him to Castor's house.
And this time, Marcellus intended to walk there himself.
"Come along, Marcellus."
Clement stood at the entrance to the family residence, holding out a hand.
Marcellus looked at it.
Then he looked at the path.
Then back at his father.
"I can walk."
"I know you can."
"Then I walk."
Clement's mouth twitched.
"Very well. Walk, then."
Marcellus took several determined steps forward.
He made it approximately six paces before catching his foot on an uneven stone.
Clement caught him before he could fall.
For a moment, father and son regarded each other.
Marcellus sighed.
Clement laughed.
"I believe we shall have to work on that."
"I was walking."
"You were."
"The stone was in the way."
"A terrible oversight on the stone's part."
Marcellus gave him a suspicious look.
Clement crouched and brushed a little dust from his son's clothes.
"Come on. We'll try again."
This time, Marcellus managed the path without incident.
He was rather pleased with himself by the time they reached Castor's house.
The property stood a short distance from the main residence, surrounded by a garden and several smaller buildings. It was a comfortable home, with a wide front door, tall windows, and a sitting room that could accommodate a considerable number of relatives when necessary.
Cyrus lived here with his parents.
Marcellus had met him only briefly before, but he remembered him well enough.
Cyrus was quiet, certainly. He was also fond of books, and he seemed to possess an almost supernatural ability to become absorbed in whatever he was reading.
Marcellus approved of this.
A child who enjoyed books was a child worth investigating.
The door opened before Clement could knock.
Castor stood on the other side, smiling.
"There you are. I was beginning to think the two of you had been waylaid by a dragon."
"Marcellus insisted on walking," Clement replied.
"Ah. A dangerous undertaking."
"I walked," Marcellus announced.
Castor looked down at him.
"Entirely by yourself?"
Marcellus hesitated.
Clement began to laugh.
"Come inside before he decides to demonstrate."
Castor stepped aside.
"Welcome, both of you."
The house smelled of tea, fresh bread, and something sweet that Marcellus could not identify. He made a mental note to investigate.
Bookshelves lined the sitting room, and several volumes lay open on the tables. A large window overlooked the garden, where a pair of small birds were hopping along the stone path.
Marcellus was examining a particularly thick book when he noticed someone sitting beside the window.
Cyrus had a book open in his lap.
Of course he did.
The boy looked up when they entered.
"Hello, Uncle Clement."
"Hello, Cyrus."
Clement crossed the room and ruffled his nephew's hair.
Cyrus attempted to look offended, but his smile gave him away.
Then he looked at Marcellus.
"Hello."
"Hello."
A pause followed.
Cyrus closed his book and placed it on the table.
"Would you like to see something?"
Marcellus blinked.
He had expected a greeting, perhaps a few awkward questions, and then a return to reading.
He had not expected an invitation.
"Yes."
Cyrus's face brightened.
He reached beneath the table and brought out a small wooden box.
Inside lay several carved figures: a dragon, a mooncalf, a kneazle, and what appeared to be a particularly disgruntled-looking toad.
"I made these," Cyrus explained. "Well, mostly. Father helped with the dragon's wings."
Marcellus picked up the mooncalf.
It was surprisingly well made, with a rounded body, long legs, and large eyes.
"You made this?"
Cyrus nodded.
"I like making things when I'm not reading."
Marcellus looked at him with renewed respect.
He had found a fellow engineer.
Or at least the beginnings of one.
"Can I have the dragon?"
Cyrus laughed.
"No."
Marcellus looked up, startled.
Then Cyrus grinned.
"I'm joking. You can borrow it, but you have to give it back."
Marcellus narrowed his eyes.
"I know how borrowing works."
"Of course you do."
"I do."
Cyrus laughed again.
It was not a loud laugh, but it was warm and entirely unforced.
Marcellus decided that he liked him.
The afternoon might have continued with the two boys examining the wooden figures, had a knock not sounded at the front door.
Castor rose.
"That will be our visitor."
"Our visitor?" Clement asked.
"Didn't I mention it? Andrew's son has returned from Brazil. He sent word that he would be bringing something for the boys."
Clement raised an eyebrow.
"From Brazil?"
"Apparently."
Castor opened the door.
A tall, sun-browned wizard stood on the doorstep, dressed in travelling clothes that looked as though they had seen better days. A battered leather satchel hung across his shoulder, and a few leaves were caught in his hair.
He smiled when he saw Castor.
"Still keeping the entire family in order, I see."
"Someone has to."
The visitor laughed and clasped Castor's hand.
"Good to see you, cousin."
"And you, Tristan."
Marcellus looked up sharply.
Tristan.
One of the descendants of Adam I.
He had heard the name before, though he had not yet met the man.
Tristan entered the sitting room and greeted Clement before crouching to address the boys.
"So these are the young McArdours I've heard so much about."
Cyrus looked at him curiously.
Marcellus was more direct.
"Did you bring something?"
Tristan laughed.
"Straight to the point. I like that."
He set his satchel on the table.
"I did, actually. Two presents, as it happens."
He opened the bag and carefully lifted out two travel cages.
Inside each was a raven.
The first bird was glossy black, with bright, intelligent eyes. It perched calmly on a wooden branch, studying the room as though it were deciding whether the occupants deserved its attention.
The second raven was slightly smaller, with a faint blue sheen across its feathers. It hopped from one end of its perch to the other, occasionally tilting its head to inspect the people around it.
Cyrus rose from his chair.
"Oh."
It was the first word he had spoken since Tristan entered, and it was accompanied by an expression of such genuine delight that Marcellus immediately turned to look at him.
Cyrus approached the cages slowly.
"They're beautiful."
"They are," Tristan agreed. "And they're both yours, if your father agrees."
Cyrus turned towards Castor, his eyes wide.
Castor folded his arms, pretending to consider the matter.
"That depends. Do you intend to care for them properly?"
"Yes!"
"Feed them?"
"Yes!"
"Clean their enclosure?"
Cyrus hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Tristan burst out laughing.
"Ah, there it is. The first crack in the negotiations."
"I'll do it," Cyrus insisted.
Castor smiled.
"Then we shall discuss the practical arrangements. A raven is a responsibility, not merely a pretty bird."
"I know, Father."
Cyrus looked back at the raven.
His expression had softened.
Marcellus watched him with interest.
His cousin was not usually so openly expressive. But the birds had clearly touched something in him.
Tristan turned towards Marcellus.
"And this one is for you."
He opened the second cage.
The smaller raven hopped onto the edge of its perch and gave a sharp, inquisitive croak.
Marcellus stared at it.
A raven.
A real, living raven.
He had read about the intelligence of corvids in his previous life. Ravens could solve problems, recognise individuals, remember faces, and communicate in surprisingly complex ways.
In this world, there was a reasonable chance that a magical raven could do considerably more.
He approached the cage.
The bird tilted its head.
Marcellus tilted his head in return.
The raven croaked.
Marcellus smiled.
"I like him."
Tristan chuckled.
"Her, actually."
Marcellus paused.
Then he looked at the raven again.
"I like her."
Cyrus laughed.
"You're going to have to learn to tell them apart."
"I can tell them apart."
"How?"
Marcellus thought about it.
"Their faces."
Cyrus stared at him.
Then both boys burst into laughter.
Tristan looked pleased.
"Well, it seems the two of you have found something in common already."
The adults settled the practical arrangements over tea.
Tristan explained that he had spent several years in Brazil studying magical creatures, particularly species that behaved differently from their European counterparts. His work had taken him deep into forests and remote settlements, where he had encountered creatures that few British wizards had ever seen.
He had returned to Britain for a visit and decided to bring something special for the younger members of the family.
"The ravens are not ordinary birds," he explained. "They're intelligent, highly observant, and capable of forming strong attachments to the people who care for them. They are not pets in the sense that a kneazle might be a pet. They need space, stimulation, and regular attention."
Clement nodded thoughtfully.
"Have you trained them?"
"To a degree. They understand several commands, and they're accustomed to human company. But I would rather the boys build a relationship with them than treat them as obedient servants."
Castor glanced towards Cyrus, who was sitting beside the cage, speaking softly to the raven.
"I suspect he'll manage that."
Cyrus had already begun asking Tristan questions.
What did the raven eat?
How far could it fly?
Could it recognise people after long absences?
Did it understand spoken language, or merely associate certain sounds with actions?
Tristan answered patiently.
Marcellus listened with equal fascination, occasionally interrupting to ask his own questions.
By the time the tea had cooled, the two boys had learned more about ravens than most children their age would have thought possible.
"One final thing," Tristan said. "They need names."
Cyrus looked at his bird.
"I was thinking of calling him Corvus."
Tristan smiled.
"A fine name."
Marcellus considered his raven.
He wanted something that sounded suitably dignified, but not so pretentious that it would become embarrassing when he was older.
He thought about it for a moment.
"Rook."
Cyrus looked at him.
"That's a different bird."
"I know."
"Then why call her Rook?"
"Because I like the name."
Cyrus considered this.
Then he nodded.
"Fair enough."
Tristan laughed.
"Well, there you are. Corvus and Rook."
Cyrus carefully opened the cage door under Tristan's supervision and offered Corvus a small treat.
The raven hopped forward and took it from his fingers.
Cyrus smiled so broadly that Marcellus almost failed to recognise him.
"There," he whispered. "We're going to get along."
Marcellus crouched beside Rook's cage.
The raven approached him cautiously, then pecked lightly at his finger.
He pulled his hand back in surprise.
Cyrus laughed.
"She likes you."
"She bit me!"
"She barely touched you."
"She attacked me."
"You're going to have a difficult time with dragons if you think that was an attack."
Marcellus glared at him.
Cyrus grinned.
For a moment, they looked at each other.
Then Marcellus began to laugh.
Cyrus joined him.
The two boys spent the next several minutes comparing their birds, arguing about which one was more intelligent, and making increasingly elaborate predictions about what they would teach them.
Neither argument reached a satisfactory conclusion.
Both boys considered this entirely acceptable.
Later, while the adults were discussing Tristan's work in Brazil, Castor called the boys over to the sitting room.
"There is something else I thought you should know," he said.
Cyrus settled beside his father, while Marcellus climbed onto a cushion near Clement.
"Your family is more than the houses we live in or the business we share," Castor began. "It is also the people who came before us, and the choices they made."
He glanced towards Tristan.
"Your branch of the family has always had a particular interest in magical creatures. That tradition has taken some of our relatives far beyond the Isle of Man. Tristan is only the latest example."
Tristan raised his cup.
"Somebody has to discover what lives in the places the rest of you are sensible enough to avoid."
"Your definition of sensible has always been questionable," Castor replied.
Tristan grinned.
Then Castor turned back to the boys.
"But today, I want to tell you about Nathaniel."
Marcellus straightened.
He had heard the name before, but he knew little about the man.
Cyrus looked interested, too.
"Nathaniel was the father of Victor and Nicator," Castor explained. "He belonged to an earlier generation of our family, but his influence reached far beyond the estate."
"Was he a dragon breeder?" Marcellus asked.
"He understood the family business, but he was much more than that. He was a philanthropist, a politician, an expert in wizarding law, and eventually the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Marcellus stared.
The head of the DMLE?
That was no minor accomplishment.
"What did he do?" Cyrus asked.
Castor smiled.
"Quite a lot. But to understand Nathaniel, you must understand the world in which he lived."
He leaned back in his chair.
"He witnessed the rise of Gellert Grindelwald and recognised the danger he posed. Grindelwald wanted to reshape the world according to his own beliefs, placing wizards above Muggles and insisting that his ambitions were justified by the greater good."
Marcellus listened carefully.
He remembered Grindelwald from his previous life: the dark wizard who had gathered followers across Europe and whose defeat by Dumbledore had become one of the defining events of modern magical history.
"Did Nathaniel fight him?" he asked.
"Yes. He helped organise resistance to Grindelwald's supporters and used his influence to assist people who were threatened by them. He understood that opposing a dark wizard required more than winning duels. It required people willing to stand up, institutions willing to act, and laws that could be used to protect the innocent."
Cyrus leaned forward.
"Was he involved in the final battle?"
"Not in the duel between Grindelwald and Dumbledore, no. Nathaniel's work was different. He helped people, organised support, and fought the movement through the means available to him."
Castor paused.
"Not every hero is remembered for defeating an enemy with a wand."
Marcellus thought about that.
In the stories he remembered, power had often been measured in terms of magical ability. The strongest duelists, the most gifted inventors, the people capable of extraordinary feats.
Nathaniel's reputation seemed to rest on something else.
He had understood that a society could not be defended by powerful individuals alone.
It required institutions.
It required laws.
And it required people willing to use their positions to protect others.
"What did he do as head of the DMLE?" Cyrus asked.
"Nathaniel was a formidable legal mind. He understood how laws were written, how they were interpreted, and how they could be abused. During his time in the Department, he worked to improve investigations, strengthen the enforcement of magical law, and ensure that influence and family connections did not place people beyond its reach."
"Did everyone like him?" Marcellus asked.
Castor laughed.
"Certainly not. Nathaniel had little patience for people who expected their wealth or bloodline to protect them from the consequences of their actions."
Clement smiled faintly.
"That sounds familiar."
Castor pointed at him.
"Exactly. Your father has inherited some of those qualities."
Marcellus looked at Clement with renewed interest.
His father had studied finance and law in the Muggle world, negotiated business contracts, managed the estate's finances, and sheltered refugees despite the danger.
Perhaps that was not a coincidence.
Perhaps the family had spent generations cultivating a particular way of looking at the world.
Castor continued.
"Nathaniel was also a philanthropist. He believed that wealth carried responsibilities. He supported families in difficulty, helped magical creature handlers injured in their work, and contributed to charitable causes throughout Britain."
"What about the Mithra temple?" Marcellus asked.
"That was established through the generosity of Adam II, who donated his property for the purpose. Nathaniel supported charitable work connected with the family's religious traditions, but the original donation was made by Adam."
Marcellus nodded.
He was beginning to understand the distinction between the family business and the family culture.
The McArdours shared an estate because their ancestors had divided the property among their descendants, and the family had found a way to preserve the enterprise without depriving the individual branches of their inheritance.
They shared profits according to ownership and rewarded the people who did the work.
But they also shared a history.
And that history contained examples of people who had used their wealth, knowledge, and influence for purposes beyond their own enrichment.
"Was Nathaniel a good man?" Cyrus asked quietly.
Castor considered the question.
"I believe he was. But he was not perfect, and I doubt he would have wanted us to pretend otherwise. He made mistakes, disagreed with people, and sometimes pushed too hard for what he believed was right."
He looked at both boys.
"What mattered was that he tried to leave the world better than he had found it."
Marcellus sat quietly.
He thought of his own previous life, of the ambitions he had carried and the ways he had measured himself against his brother.
He had wanted to build something extraordinary.
He still did.
But Nathaniel's example suggested that achievement could be measured in other ways.
A person could build a business, study a subject, or acquire wealth.
The more important question was what he did with those things.
When the conversation ended, Tristan took the boys outside to introduce them to their new companions.
Corvus perched on Cyrus's shoulder under careful supervision, while Rook sat on a low branch beside Marcellus.
Cyrus was speaking softly to his raven.
"You'll have to be patient with me," he told the bird. "I've never had a raven before."
Corvus tilted his head.
"I know. I'm new to this, too."
Marcellus watched them with amusement.
"You know he can't understand everything you're saying."
Cyrus looked at him.
"Perhaps not. But he can still get used to my voice."
Marcellus considered this.
It was a reasonable answer.
"Fair enough."
He held out a treat to Rook.
The raven hopped closer, snatched it, and flapped her wings.
Marcellus laughed.
"I think she likes me."
Cyrus grinned.
"Perhaps she thinks you'll feed her more often than I feed Corvus."
"Then I'll have to make certain she does."
They spent the next hour exploring the garden, learning how to handle the birds, and making plans for their future adventures.
Cyrus showed Marcellus a quiet corner beneath an old tree where he liked to read when the house became too noisy.
Marcellus, in turn, told Cyrus about the dragon enclosures at the main estate and promised to show him the Welsh Spike-Tails the next time they visited.
"Are they dangerous?" Cyrus asked.
"Very."
Cyrus looked thoughtful.
"Then perhaps we should observe them from a distance."
Marcellus laughed.
"That is probably sensible."
"Good. I'd rather not be eaten."
"Neither would I."
They exchanged a grin.
By the time Clement announced that it was time to leave, Marcellus had forgotten that he had once regarded the visit as little more than an opportunity to investigate his cousin.
Cyrus was not merely a quiet boy who liked reading.
He was thoughtful, curious, occasionally mischievous, and considerably funnier than he first appeared.
And, most importantly, he seemed to enjoy Marcellus's company.
That was enough.
For now.
As Clement prepared to take his son home, Castor accompanied them to the entrance.
"Bring him again soon," Castor said. "Cyrus has been talking about little else since you arrived."
Clement smiled.
"I think Marcellus has found a friend."
"I think so, too."
Cyrus stood beside his father, holding Corvus's travel cage.
"Will you come again next week?" he asked.
Marcellus looked up at him.
"Yes."
"Good."
Cyrus hesitated, then added, "I'll find another book for you."
Marcellus grinned.
"Find one about dragons."
"I already have three."
"Then find one about flying cars."
Cyrus blinked.
"Flying cars?"
Marcellus froze.
He had spoken without thinking.
Cyrus looked at him curiously.
"What's a flying car?"
Marcellus considered his options.
He could explain the concept.
He could claim that he had invented it.
Or he could retreat into the safety of childish absurdity.
He chose the third.
"A car that flies."
Cyrus stared at him for a moment.
Then he began to laugh.
"That's ridiculous."
"Why?"
"Cars don't fly."
"Dragons do."
Cyrus opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then he looked towards the raven on his shoulder.
"He's got a point, Corvus."
Marcellus burst out laughing.
Even Castor joined in.
The journey home was considerably more pleasant than the journey there.
Marcellus walked as far as the carriage, though Clement still lifted him inside before he could object.
He decided not to argue.
Some battles were not worth fighting.
As the carriage rolled away from Castor's house, Marcellus watched his cousin waving from the doorway.
He waved back.
Then he settled against his father's shoulder, thinking about the day.
He had learned about Nathaniel, the ancestor who had fought Grindelwald through law, politics, and philanthropy.
He had met Tristan, a relative whose curiosity had taken him across the world in search of magical creatures.
He had received a raven.
And he had made a friend.
For the first time since his reincarnation, the McArdour family felt less like a collection of names and historical anecdotes and more like a living network of people, each with their own interests, responsibilities, and ambitions.
There was no single branch that embodied the family.
There was no single person who owned its history.
The estate belonged to the family collectively, divided into shares inherited across generations and sustained by the work of those who chose to run it.
Some managed finances.
Some cared for creatures.
Some studied law.
Some travelled to distant countries in search of knowledge.
And some, like Cyrus, simply wanted to understand the world one book at a time.
Marcellus looked down at the raven perched beside him.
Rook regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes.
He smiled.
He still did not know what kind of man he would become.
But he was beginning to understand the people who had shaped the world into which he had been born.
And perhaps that was the best place to begin.
After all, a family was not merely a name inherited from the past.
It was a world one learned to belong to.