The ruins of the Gaunt shack had never won any awards for curb appeal. If there was a competition for "Most Likely to Be Haunted by Angry Ghosts with Serious Family Issues," this place would take the gold medal, the silver medal, and probably demand to speak to the manager about why there wasn't a platinum option.
Generations of inbreeding, Dark magic, and what could charitably be called "questionable life choices" had left their mark on the property. The grass grew in patches that looked like someone had spilled bleach in geometric patterns. The trees leaned away from the house as if they'd collectively decided that photosynthesis wasn't worth the psychological trauma. Even the local wildlife had filed a formal complaint with the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, citing "hostile work environment" and "unreasonable exposure to existential dread."
But tonight was different. Where once the air had hummed with the kind of malevolent energy that made your teeth ache and your soul consider early retirement, now there was only the lingering scent of ozone and that peculiar emptiness that followed really impressive magical explosions.
Hades materialized in the ruins like smoke given an attitude problem. One moment there was empty air, the next moment there was a tall, pale figure in black robes examining the destruction with the kind of calm intensity that suggested he'd seen plenty of magical disasters but still found them professionally interesting.
If you'd ever wondered what the Lord of the Dead would look like if he spent his weekends reading philosophy books and practicing meditation, Hades was your answer. He had the kind of quiet presence that made you want to sit up straighter and maybe apologize for something you'd done in third grade. His dark hair was perfectly styled in a way that suggested either divine grooming powers or access to a really good supernatural hairdresser. His eyes held depths that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, and possibly the invention of the cronut.
"Well," he murmured, kneeling to examine the debris more closely, his voice carrying the kind of calm authority that made mountains pay attention when he spoke. "This is... thoroughly destroyed."
The ring that had once belonged to Marvolo Gaunt—ornate, cursed, and containing enough Dark magic to make a necromancer reconsider their career choices—now lay in pieces smaller than the hopes and dreams of a Slytherin seeking Gryffindor house points. But nestled among the wreckage, completely untouched by the divine fire that had reduced everything else to cosmic dust, was something that made Hades pause.
The Resurrection Stone sat there like it was waiting for a bus, its black surface reflecting starlight in ways that suggested it had been forged in workshops where physics was more of a friendly suggestion than an actual law.
"Thanatos," Hades said softly, picking up the Stone with the careful reverence of someone handling a family heirloom that could accidentally resurrect your embarrassing relatives. "I should have known you'd leave your toys lying around."
The Stone pulsed once in his palm, and suddenly Hades was hit with a wave of memories that felt like someone had just played his greatest hits album directly into his brain. He remembered the early days when gods still walked among mortals without having to fill out paperwork in triplicate, when his youngest brother had been obsessed with the idea of creating objects that could bridge the gap between life and death.
Three artifacts, crafted with the kind of divine skill that made mortal wizards weep with envy and write strongly worded letters to the Department of Mysteries. The Resurrection Stone, which could call forth shades of the dead—assuming they weren't too busy being dead to answer. The Elder Wand, which could command death itself through magical superiority and a really impressive intimidation factor. And the Invisibility Cloak, patterned after Hades' own Helm of Darkness, which could hide its wearer from Death's notice entirely.
The Deathly Hallows. Mortals had built entire legends around these artifacts, usually missing the point by several miles and at least three dimensions. They thought mastering death meant conquering it, defeating it, maybe challenging it to arm wrestling and winning two out of three falls. But death wasn't something you conquered—it was something you learned to understand, to work with, to accept as part of the cosmic order while still complaining about the paperwork.
Rather like what James Potter had just demonstrated, actually.
Hades smiled, and it was the kind of expression that would have made his PR department very happy if he'd had one. James had proven himself worthy in ways that transcended mere magical ability. The mortal wizard had faced death willingly, not to defeat it but to protect his family. That kind of courage deserved recognition—and possibly a gift certificate to a really nice restaurant, once James figured out what he could and couldn't eat with his new divine dietary restrictions.
The Stone pulsed again, and through its connection to its siblings, Hades felt the exact location of the other two Hallows. Both were in the same place, which was either a remarkable coincidence or someone was collecting divine artifacts like they were rare trading cards.
The Invisibility Cloak should have been with James—the Potter family had been its guardians for generations, chosen for their particular talent for understanding that sometimes the best way to deal with death was to politely avoid its attention until you'd finished whatever heroic nonsense you were currently involved in.
But instead, both remaining Hallows were currently residing in a tower room in Scotland, surrounded by the magical signatures of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which meant either James had lent them to someone, or someone had taken them without asking—and Hades had strong opinions about people who borrowed divine artifacts without proper paperwork.
"Time for a road trip," he murmured, and dissolved into shadow with the casual ease of someone who'd been doing dramatic exits since before drama was invented.
* * *
The Headmaster's office at Hogwarts looked like what would happen if a magical antique shop had a passionate affair with a curiosity museum and their offspring decided to specialize in items that hummed ominously in the night. Portraits of previous Headmasters lined the walls, most of them pretending to sleep while actually eavesdropping on everything that happened. Delicate silver instruments whirred and clicked and occasionally made sounds that suggested they were either measuring something very important or composing avant-garde music.
But tonight, the office's usual atmosphere of "organized chaos with a side of academic mystique" had been replaced by something that felt more like "frantic magical emergency with a dash of approaching doom."
Hades materialized in the center of the room like a shadow that had suddenly remembered it was supposed to have substance. The Helm of Darkness rendered him completely invisible to mortal senses—a handy feature when you needed to do a little divine reconnaissance without triggering every magical alarm system in a fifty-mile radius.
The office was empty, but magical trinkets scattered around the room were having what could only be described as electronic nervous breakdowns. A silver instrument that looked like a telescope crossed with a very ambitious clock was spinning so fast its various arms were creating small sonic booms. Other devices were chiming, humming, and in one case playing what sounded like a funeral march in B minor.
"Someone's having a busy night," Hades observed, moving with the fluid grace of someone who existed partially outside the normal laws of physics and therefore didn't have to worry about bumping into furniture.
He wasn't interested in Dumbledore's collection of mysterious gadgets, impressive though they were. He was interested in the two objects his divine senses had detected—objects currently residing in a wooden chest beside the Headmaster's desk like prisoners awaiting trial.
The chest was protected by enough magical wards to make Gringotts bank security look like a neighborhood watch program. But divine power had certain advantages over mortal magic, like the ability to politely ask reality to step aside for a moment while you handled some family business.
Hades opened the chest with hands that cast no reflection in its polished wood surface. Inside, nestled in silk wrapping that probably cost more than most people's annual salary, were his brother's remaining masterpieces.
The Invisibility Cloak lay at the bottom like liquid moonlight, its silvery fabric shimmering with power that remembered being forged in workshops where time was negotiable and the laws of physics were more like friendly suggestions. Even through his divine immunity, Hades could feel its pull—the same fundamental magic that powered his Helm of Darkness.
Above it, wrapped in protective cloth covered with runes that probably meant either "Handle with Care" or "Property of Someone Who Will End You if You Break This," was the Elder Wand.
Hades lifted the wand carefully, and memories flooded back like an overeager tide. The last time he'd seen this particular artifact, it had been in the hands of a young wizard with more ambition than sense and a dangerous fascination with the boundaries between life and death. That hadn't ended well for anyone involved, including several innocent bystanders and a small village that had required extensive renovations.
The wand pulsed with recognition, acknowledging divine authority rather than mortal ambition. Through its magical signature, Hades could read its recent history like a very violent autobiography. Decades with a Dark wizard whose idea of interior decorating involved skulls and whose hobbies included torture and monologuing. Then a brief period with someone whose magical aura tasted like lemon drops and phoenix song—definitely Dumbledore.
But why did the Headmaster have James's Cloak? That was the question that made Hades's divine nature shift into something that mortals would have recognized as protective parental mode. The Cloak belonged to the Potter bloodline by right, tradition, and cosmic law. James should have had it with him during these dangerous times, should have been using it to protect his family.
Instead, it was here, locked away like some kind of strategic reserve or—and this thought made Hades's eyes narrow dangerously—like a trophy taken from someone who might not have given it willingly.
"Interesting filing system you have here, Headmaster," Hades murmured, his voice carrying harmonics that only divine artifacts could hear. "Very... presumptuous."
The thought of someone taking advantage of his stepson—and wasn't that still a wonderfully strange concept—triggered something in Hades that gods in more bureaucratic pantheons would have recognized as Protective Family Mode. It was the same instinct that had once led him to personally drag an entire army of the dead to the surface world when someone had kidnapped Persephone. The same drive that made him extremely dangerous to anyone who threatened those under his protection.
These artifacts belonged to Harry Potter now. By right of inheritance, by divine decree, and by the simple fact that Hades said so, which carried considerable weight in most cosmic jurisdictions.
He lifted both artifacts with the reverence due to items crafted by divine hands for divine purposes. The Cloak seemed to sigh with relief as it recognized the touch of its spiritual creator, while the Elder Wand hummed with satisfaction at being handled by someone who understood exactly what it was capable of—and more importantly, what it shouldn't be used for.
"Don't worry," he told them quietly, his voice carrying frequencies that existed somewhere between sound and thought. "You're going home. Eventually. After some... modifications."
Because here's the thing about divine artifacts: they were powerful, certainly, but they'd been crafted for a simpler age. An age when the biggest threat facing a young wizard was maybe a dragon or a particularly aggressive Dark wizard, not the complex web of politics, prophecy, and cosmic manipulation that Harry Potter would have to navigate.
His son—and that relationship was going to require some very careful explanation eventually—needed protection that could adapt to threats that hadn't existed when Thanatos first crafted these artifacts. Protection that could grow with him, learn with him, and maybe occasionally offer advice when he was about to do something spectacularly stupid in the grand Potter family tradition.
Fortunately, Hades knew exactly who to call for that particular favor.
* * *
In the adjoining chamber that served as Dumbledore's private quarters, Albus Dumbledore was having the kind of night that reminded him why he'd always preferred teaching Transfiguration to working in magical law enforcement.
He'd been dreaming of lemon drops and the peaceful days when his biggest problem was students trying to sneak out of their dormitories, when every magical monitoring device he owned decided to throw a collective tantrum. The sound they made together was like a symphony orchestra where every musician was playing a different song and none of them were particularly good at their instruments.
Dumbledore sat up in bed, his usually twinkling blue eyes now sharp with the kind of alert attention that had made him one of the most feared duelists of his generation. His long silver beard was disheveled from sleep, making him look less like a wise headmaster and more like someone who'd just been electrocuted by a particularly vindictive magical carpet.
"Well," he muttered, reaching for his half-moon spectacles, "that's either the most energetic thunderstorm in recent memory, or someone's having a very bad night."
The monitoring devices were still making their unholy racket, painting a picture of magical disturbance that stretched across multiple dimensions of reality. Whatever had happened, it involved power on a scale that made regular magical conflicts look like disagreements over library fines.
And it was centered on Godric's Hollow.
Dumbledore's blood went cold—or rather, colder, since it had been running pretty chilly ever since he'd realized that his carefully laid plans might not account for every variable in the cosmic equation. The Potter family was supposed to be safe. The Fidelius Charm was supposed to be unbreakable. Peter Pettigrew was supposed to be trustworthy.
Recent events were suggesting that maybe "supposed to be" wasn't as reliable as he'd hoped.
Moving with the kind of speed that would have surprised people who thought of him as a kindly old grandfather figure, Dumbledore headed for his desk to contact Hagrid. The half-giant was discrete, loyal, and capable of assessing dangerous situations without making them worse—qualities that were surprisingly rare in the wizarding world.
But as his hand reached for the communication device, his fingers encountered empty air where they should have found familiar wood.
The Elder Wand was gone.
For approximately three seconds, Albus Dumbledore experienced the kind of shock that came from discovering your most carefully guarded secret had been casually violated by an unknown party. It was the intellectual equivalent of finding your diary being read aloud on the wireless, except the diary contained detailed plans for manipulating the fate of the wizarding world and the wireless audience included everyone who might want to stop you.
The Elder Wand never left his side. Never. It had been beside his bed when he went to sleep, protected by enough defensive charms to make Gringotts security look like a suggestion box with a "Please Don't Touch" sign. The fact that someone had managed to take it without triggering a single alarm suggested either unprecedented skill or power that operated on a completely different level than anything he'd encountered before.
"No, no, no," he muttered, moving toward the wooden chest where he stored other items of... strategic importance. "This cannot be happening. Not now. Not when everything depends on—"
He opened the chest and found exactly what he'd feared he would find: nothing but expensive silk wrapping and the lingering scent of profound magical disappointment.
The Invisibility Cloak was gone. The Cloak that had belonged to the Potter family for generations, that he'd borrowed on the night of Harry's birth with promises to return it when the danger passed. The Cloak that was one-third of the most powerful magical combination ever created.
Someone had taken two of the three Deathly Hallows from under his nose, past his defenses, without so much as a by-your-leave or a thank-you note.
Dumbledore sank into his chair—not the dramatic, controlled descent of a man making a point, but the genuine collapse of someone whose careful plans had just been scattered by forces he didn't understand.
"Think, Albus," he murmured to himself, his usually twinkling blue eyes now sharp with the kind of analytical focus that had made him the youngest professor in Hogwarts history. "The timing cannot be coincidental. The disturbance at Godric's Hollow, the theft of the Hallows—they're connected. But how? And by whom?"
The questions multiplied faster than he could process them, each more troubling than the last. Had Voldemort somehow discovered the location of the Potter family? Had the Dark Lord breached the Fidelius Charm and attacked? Were James, Lily, and little Harry even still alive?
But if Voldemort had won, if he'd somehow defeated the Potters and claimed victory, why would he need to steal the Hallows? He already knew about their power—Dumbledore had been counting on that knowledge to drive the Dark Lord's actions in predictable directions.
Unless...
Unless someone else was involved. Someone with power enough to challenge Voldemort directly, knowledge enough to locate the Hallows, and motivation enough to disrupt carefully laid plans that had taken years to arrange.
For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore felt genuinely afraid. Not of death—he'd made peace with mortality long ago. Not of failure—he'd survived enough defeats to know they weren't the end of the world.
No, he was afraid of the one thing that terrified him more than any Dark Lord or magical catastrophe: the possibility that he'd been wrong. That his careful manipulations, his strategic sacrifices, his grand plan to save the wizarding world might have been based on incomplete information and flawed assumptions.
And if he was wrong about this, what else might he be wrong about?
Outside his window, dawn was beginning to creep across the Scottish highlands, painting the sky in shades that reminded him uncomfortably of phoenix fire. Somewhere out there, events were unfolding that would reshape the wizarding world in ways he couldn't predict or control.
For a man who'd spent his entire adult life believing that he could plan for every contingency, it was a deeply unsettling realization.
* * *
In the divine realm that existed in the spaces between mortal reality—where physics went to retire and the laws of causality were more like friendly suggestions—Hephaestus was having a perfectly pleasant evening working on what could generously be called "challenging commission work."
The forge god's workshop looked like what would happen if a Renaissance artist's studio had a passionate affair with a nuclear physics laboratory, and their offspring decided to specialize in creating things that shouldn't technically be possible but were anyway. Divine tools hung from walls that existed in more dimensions than most mortals could count. Anvils that had been forged from compressed starlight sat next to hammers that could reshape the fundamental forces of reality, assuming reality was cooperative and had filled out the proper forms.
Currently, Hephaestus was working on a trident for one of Poseidon's many nieces—something that could control tidal patterns while also serving as a fashionable accessory for formal underwater occasions. It was the kind of project that required both divine craftsmanship and a thorough understanding of aquatic fashion trends, which made it more challenging than most gods realized.
He looked exactly like what you'd expect from a divine smith if you imagined someone built like a mountain that had decided to take up metalworking as a hobby. Tall, broad-shouldered, and possessed of the kind of steady strength that came from hitting things with hammers for several millennia, he had the rugged features of someone who worked with fire and metal and occasionally molten concepts that didn't exist in normal reality.
"Hephaestus," came a familiar voice from the shadows, carrying the kind of calm authority that made even divine anvils pay attention.
"Uncle," Hephaestus replied without looking up from his work, divine senses having detected the familiar power signature long before Hades actually materialized. "Pleasant evening for meddling in mortal affairs, I assume? You've got that particular 'I've been adopting people again' energy about you."
Hades stepped out of the shadows like smoke deciding to become solid, carrying three objects with the careful reverence due to items that could accidentally reshape reality if handled carelessly. "I need a favor."
"Of course you do." Hephaestus finally looked up from the trident, which was currently glowing with bioluminescent patterns that suggested it was either nearly complete or preparing to achieve sentience. "Gods never visit family just for social calls anymore. What's the occasion this time? Please tell me you haven't adopted another mortal. Father's still processing the paperwork from the last one, and that was three centuries ago."
"Actually," Hades said with the tone of someone about to deliver news that would require extensive explanation and possibly stress drinking, "I've adopted two more. A mortal wizard and his infant son. Well, technically I've made the wizard partially divine and claimed the baby as my spiritual son, but the principle remains the same."
Hephaestus set down his hammer—carefully, because divine tools had been known to cause geological incidents when dropped casually—and stared at his uncle with the expression of someone who'd just been told their favorite nephew had decided to collect venomous snakes as a hobby.
"Uncle," he said slowly, "we really need to discuss your impulse control issues. How many mortals does this make it now? Twelve? Fifteen?"
"I don't keep count," Hades replied with the dignity of someone who absolutely kept detailed records but wasn't going to admit it. "But they were special circumstances. The wizard was cursed, his wife was desperate, and they performed a summoning ritual that was so badly pronounced it should have brought them a confused accountant instead of me."
"And yet you decided to help them anyway."
"They asked nicely. And they threatened to make my afterlife uncomfortable if I didn't, which showed remarkable initiative for mortals."
Hephaestus shook his head in the fond exasperation of someone dealing with a family member who consistently made questionable decisions but somehow always managed to make them work out. Then his craftsman's eye fell on the three objects Hades had placed on his workbench, and his expression shifted to professional interest mixed with genuine surprise.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, lifting the Elder Wand with the careful touch of someone who recognized divine craftsmanship when he saw it. "These are Thanatos's work. The Deathly Hallows. Where in the nine realms did you find them?"
"Scattered across Britain like lost toys," Hades replied, his voice carrying the particular mix of affection and exasperation that came from dealing with family members who were brilliant but organizationally challenged. "Our nephew always was terrible at keeping track of his creations. I found the Stone in some ruins, while the other two were locked away in a mortal's study like museum pieces."
Hephaestus examined the Elder Wand more closely, his divine senses analyzing its construction with the expertise of someone who'd been creating impossible things since before impossibility was properly defined. The wand was beautiful work—elegant, powerful, and imbued with the kind of subtle enchantments that took true skill to appreciate.
It had also seen considerable use, and not all of it had been pleasant.
"This one's been through some rough times," he observed, divine perception recoiling slightly from the psychic residue of Dark magic that clung to the artifact like spiritual grime. "Some of these magical signatures... your new son will be wielding this?"
"Eventually," Hades confirmed. "When he's old enough to understand what it means to carry such power. When he's learned enough about responsibility to use it wisely. When he's survived enough of adolescence to make rational decisions about universe-altering magical artifacts."
"So... when he's thirty?"
"I was thinking forty, actually."
Hephaestus grinned, the kind of expression that suggested he was already planning something that would make his nephew's life considerably more interesting. "But first, you want them upgraded. Enhanced beyond their original specifications. Something tells me young Harry Potter is going to face challenges that even Thanatos couldn't have anticipated when he created these."
"The kind of challenges that come with being the son of a partially divine wizard who just ended a magical war by channeling enough death magic to destroy five soul-fragments simultaneously," Hades said. "Political pressure from mortals who want to use him. Magical threats from creatures that can sense divine heritage from three counties away. Divine politics from gods who view half-mortal children as interesting variables in cosmic equations. Plus the usual hazards of existing at the intersection of multiple worlds while attending a boarding school that treats life-threatening situations as educational opportunities."
"Ah," Hephaestus nodded sagely. "The full package, then. Comprehensive protection that can adapt and grow with him as he develops his abilities. Something that won't just defend against known threats, but can recognize and counter new types of danger as they arise."
"Exactly."
The forge god began moving around his workshop, gathering tools that existed in dimensions most physicists couldn't pronounce and wouldn't want to if they could. Divine hammers that could reshape reality at the subatomic level. Anvils forged from compressed starlight that had been aged in temporal fields until they achieved the perfect balance of hardness and malleability. Tongs that could handle concepts too dangerous for direct contact.
"This is going to be fun," he muttered, already beginning to disassemble the Elder Wand with techniques that would have made its original creator weep with professional envy. "It's been too long since I had a proper challenge. Most gods these days just want functional artifacts—swords that never dull, armor that deflects everything, jewelry that makes them irresistible to mortals. No imagination, no appreciation for true craftsmanship."
"How long will it take?" Hades asked, watching his brother work with the fascination of someone who understood power but had never been particularly crafty with his hands.
"Harry's currently fifteen months old and has just survived his first assassination attempt from a Dark Lord," Hephaestus mused, divine flames beginning to dance around the Resurrection Stone as he started the delicate process of enhancing its connection to the realm of the dead. "Given Potter family history, I'd estimate we have perhaps ten years before he needs these at full power. Maybe less if he inherited his father's talent for finding trouble in places where trouble shouldn't technically be possible."
"Potter family history?" Hades asked, though something in his tone suggested he suspected what was coming.
"Uncle," Hephaestus said, looking up from his work with the expression of someone about to deliver uncomfortable truths, "the Potter bloodline has been documented for over eight centuries. Every single generation has managed to accomplish something that required either incredible bravery, remarkable stupidity, or both simultaneously. They specialize in impossible situations, dramatic gestures, and solutions that work despite violating several fundamental laws of magical theory."
He gestured at the artifacts with a hammer that could theoretically be used to fix a broken heart if you knew the right techniques. "James Potter made a deal with the Lord of the Dead to father a child, then channeled enough divine essence to destroy artifacts hidden across an entire country while fighting the most feared Dark wizard in recent memory. This was Tuesday night for him."
"Your point?"
"My point is that Harry Potter is going to be exactly the sort of mortal who ends up needing legendary artifacts before he's legally old enough to buy his own wand." Hephaestus returned to his work, divine power flowing through him as he began reshaping the fundamental nature of the Deathly Hallows. "I'll have preliminary versions ready within a few years—basic protections that can grow with him. Full upgrades available as he develops his abilities and faces increasingly ridiculous threats to his existence."
The divine forge roared to life around them, flames that burned in colors that didn't exist in the mortal spectrum creating heat that could reshape the fundamental forces holding reality together. In that fire, the Deathly Hallows began their transformation from legendary artifacts into something that transcended even mythology.
The Elder Wand would become more than just a focus for magical power—it would serve as a bridge between realms, capable of channeling divine essence safely while adapting to its wielder's needs. As Harry grew stronger, so would the wand, developing new capabilities to match new challenges.
The Resurrection Stone would evolve beyond its original purpose of calling shades from the realm of the dead. Instead, it would become a tool for understanding the true nature of life and death, a means of communication across the boundaries of existence, and a source of wisdom from ancestors who had walked the line between mortal and divine realms.
The Invisibility Cloak would gain capabilities that surpassed even Hades' original Helm of Darkness—not just hiding its wearer from mortal sight, but concealing them from magical detection, divine attention, and the kind of cosmic forces that took professional interest in beings who existed at the intersection of multiple worlds.
Together, they would make Harry Potter capable of surviving whatever the universe decided to throw at him—and knowing Potter family history, that was likely to be quite a lot.
"One more thing," Hades said as the transformation began in earnest, divine fire dancing around artifacts that hummed with pleasure at being properly appreciated. "When they're complete, I want them delivered personally. Not sent through magical channels or left where Harry might stumble across them by accident. Presented properly, with full explanation of what they represent and the responsibilities that come with wielding them."
"Naturally," Hephaestus replied, his attention focused on the delicate process of rewriting enchantments that had been crafted by gods and tested by centuries of mortal ambition. "Though that raises an interesting question—how exactly do you plan to explain to a teenage wizard that his stepfather is the Greek god of death and his new toys were upgraded in a divine forge by his uncle?"
"Carefully," Hades said with the tone of someone who hadn't quite worked out those particular details yet. "Very, very carefully."
"You know," Hephaestus added thoughtfully, "you could always start with something smaller. Work up to the full revelation gradually. Maybe mention that you're friends with some unusual people, see how he handles that before you drop the 'I'm an ancient deity and you're my adopted divine heir' conversation on him."
"That's... actually not a terrible idea."
"I have my moments." The forge god grinned as he worked, divine power flowing through the artifacts like molten starlight. "Besides, teenage mortals are surprisingly adaptable. They spend most of their time convinced that the universe revolves around them anyway, so finding out they're actually cosmically significant might come as less of a shock than you'd think."
The divine flames roared higher, and in their heart, the future began to take shape in ways that would echo through eternity. Three artifacts, reborn and enhanced, waiting for the day when a young wizard would need protection against threats that spanned multiple worlds and several different definitions of reality.
After all, some gifts were worth the wait.
And some families—mortal, divine, or somewhere in between—were worth any amount of cosmic paperwork.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!