"Harry Potter."
Nathael's voice was low, almost as if he were tasting the name on his tongue like an unfamiliar wine. He sat on the windowsill of his room at the Leaky Cauldron, watching the fine rain fall over Diagon Alley. Celestia, curled up on a blue velvet cushion she'd demanded from the pub's owner, paused mid-groom. Her ears swiveled toward him, and her sapphire-blue eyes narrowed with curiosity.
"What about Harry Potter?" she asked, licking a paw with feigned indifference—though her tail flicked ever so slightly.
"The whole Leaky Cauldron is talking about him," Nathael said, not looking away from the street. "It seems this September will be his first year at Hogwarts. And he's no ordinary student. He's the Boy Who Lived. The one who defeated Voldemort."
Celestia let out a soft snort.
"A one-year-old defeated Voldemort?"
"That's what they say," Nathael replied, shrugging. "They call him 'The Boy Who Lived.' Some wizards even take off their hats when they mention his name. Others say he has a lightning-shaped scar that glows when dark magic is near."
"Nonsense," Celestia said dryly. "Voldemort—though his influence was mostly confined to Britain—was… formidable. Even in Germany, where our family barely noticed his rise, he was spoken of in whispers. They said he could split souls with a glance, that his spells cast no shadow, that even the oldest magical shields couldn't withstand his Avada Kedavra."
Nathael nodded.
"I know. And though the Grauheims always stayed clear of wars, even my mother once mentioned feeling a disturbance in the European magical network the night he fell—like the fabric of the world had torn… and then been hastily stitched back together."
"Exactly," Celestia said. "And now you expect me to believe a baby—without a wand, without training, without even knowing how to speak—defeated him with a cry?"
Nathael smiled.
"I'm not saying I believe it. I'm just saying that's what everyone repeats as if it were gospel."
"Well, I don't believe it," Celestia said, sitting up with regal dignity. "Unless…"
She paused, as if weighing a remote possibility.
"Unless Harry Potter was born with an exceptional magical constitution—something like the Grauheims'. One that allowed him to manipulate arcane magic from the cradle. If his body possessed a natural affinity for primordial spells, perhaps he could have deflected the curse—not by will, but by instinct. Like an ancestral shield."
Nathael nodded slowly.
"That's an interesting theory. But…"
"But the Potters aren't of ancient blood," Celestia finished. "Not in the way we understand it. In our family's library archives, there's a record of European magical lines. The Potters do descend from Ignotus Peverell, yes—but their lineage diluted centuries ago. They married Muggles, common wizards, half-bloods. They lack the blood purity needed to harbor an arcane constitution. They don't even have animal companions. They're just… talented wizards. Nothing more."
"Then…" Nathael said, "do you think it was one of his parents who did it?"
"Someone did it," Celestia said. "Someone with enough power—or enough desperation—to break the laws of magic that night. Perhaps James. Perhaps Lily. Or perhaps… someone else no one has mentioned. But it wasn't the child. Not on his own."
Nathael fell silent for a moment. Then a slow smile spread across his lips.
"Whatever the truth is… my stay at Hogwarts is going to be very interesting."
Later, as he walked along the edge of Knockturn Alley—that place where shadows had teeth and whispers had a price—Nathael was approached by a hooded figure.
"Mr. Grauheim," said a soft but firm female voice. "I have news about the Eye of Thoth."
Nathael wasn't surprised. He knew his network of intermediaries was efficient. And discreet.
"Speak."
"A private collector in Istanbul is willing to pay five thousand Galleons. Pure gold. No questions asked."
"Does he know the object's origin?"
"He knows it's Egyptian. He knows it's authentic. And he knows not to display it publicly. That's enough."
Nathael nodded.
"Accepted. Send the magically sealed confirmation through Gringotts. Once verified, the artifact will be delivered to the agreed location."
"Done."
The figure vanished into the mist as if she'd never been there.
Nathael returned to the Leaky Cauldron with a light step. Five thousand Galleons. Not a fortune, but a good start—and, above all, a clean transaction. No blood, no curses, no magical debts.
When he entered his room, he found Celestia reading a letter floating before her, held aloft by a suspension charm.
"Your mother," she said without looking at him. "Sabine."
Nathael frowned. He took the letter carefully. The parchment was cream-colored, sealed with black wax bearing the Grauheim crest: a tree whose roots twisted into runes. The handwriting was firm, elegant, unmistakable.
My son,
I have learned you met with Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts. Do not ask how. The Grauheim network sees more than many believe. I do not know why he summoned you, but I trust your judgment. Only remember this: we are hunters, not players. Do not let yourself be seduced by the Britons' games of power.
I expect you home this weekend. Anneliese will also be present.
With affection and anticipation,
Sabine Grauheim
Nathael sighed.
"Anneliese…" he murmured.
Celestia purred softly.
"My brother will be there too."
Nathael looked at her.
"Lysander?"
"Yes," Celestia said, a mix of fondness and resignation in her voice. "Always so… uncertain. Though Anneliese treats him as if he were a treasure. Which, I suppose, he is. But he spends all his time asking if he cast his spells correctly, if his fur is neat, if he truly deserves to be her companion."
"At least he's not as proud as you," Nathael said with a smile.
"Pride isn't a flaw," Celestia retorted. "It's a defense. And in our line, it's necessary."
Nathael sat on the bed, staring at the letter.
"My mother rarely interferes in my decisions. That she mentions Dumbledore… means rumors are already spreading. And if there are rumors, someone is talking."
"Or someone is watching," Celestia said. "But that's normal. The Grauheims aren't invisible—just discreet. And discretion draws attention."
"True," Nathael said. "Though I don't understand why she wants me there this weekend. Sabine hates unnecessary gatherings."
"Perhaps it's not unnecessary," Celestia said. "Perhaps there's something that can only be said in person—something that can't be written, not even with magical ink."
Nathael nodded. He knew his mother was matriarch of the main Grauheim branch—the oldest, the purest. Every member of this line was born with a companion from Celestia's lineage: white cats with blue eyes, ancestral magic in their blood, and a bond so deep with their humans they could feel their emotions from miles away.
Sabine had Selene—Celestia and Lysander's mother. Anneliese, Nathael's elder sister, had Lysander. And Nathael… had Celestia.
It was a closed circle. Sacred. Rarely broken.
"Anneliese…" Nathael said, a note of weariness in his voice. "Always so strict. So cold. The cousins call her 'the winter shadow.' She says emotions cloud judgment. That magic must be pure, precise, without noise."
"But she cares," Celestia said. "In her way. When your wand broke in Norway, it was she who sent the Eastern phoenix core to repair it. Without a word. She just left it in your room with a note: 'Don't be careless.'"
Nathael smiled.
"Yes. That's Anneliese."
"And Lysander…" Celestia said, her voice unusually tender. "He admires your boldness. Says you do what he only dreams of. But that Anneliese protects him too much."
"Perhaps because she knows he's more sensitive," Nathael said. "Not all companions are like you, Celestia. Not all are born with certainty of their place in the world."
"No," she said. "Some have to find it. And that… hurts."
They fell silent for a moment. Outside, the rain grew heavier.
"So…" Nathael said. "Shall we go?"
"Of course we'll go," Celestia said. "One doesn't say 'no' to the matriarch—especially not when the heir is present."
Nathael rose and walked to the wardrobe where he'd stored his new cloak.
"I just hope it's not another lecture about 'the duty of pure blood.'"
"If it is," Celestia said, leaping onto his shoulder, "at least I'll have Lysander to mock his attempts at juggling augurey feathers."
Nathael laughed.
"That would be a sight."
"Worse than watching a goblin tango," Celestia said.
"Nothing is worse than that."
They looked at each other—and for a moment, the tensions of the magical world, the rumors about Harry Potter, Dumbledore's mystery, and the weight of their lineage… all of it faded away.
They were just Nathael and Celestia. Hunter and companion. Siblings of fate.
And for now, that was enough.