"Celestia, it's getting late."
Nathael stood by the door of their room at the Leaky Cauldron, dressed with impeccable elegance: a fine white linen shirt, a black waistcoat edged with silver threads woven into minor protective runes, dark trousers that made no sound when he moved, and a long cloak of enchanted wool that rippled faintly, as if breathing with a life of its own. His ebony-and-dragon-heart wand rested in its sheath—hidden but within reach. Everything about him radiated composure, readiness… and barely contained impatience.
Celestia, on the other hand, stood before the full-length mirror Madam Malkin had insisted on gifting them "as a professional courtesy," admiring herself with a mixture of vanity and meticulous care. She wore a small pale-blue cape with silver-silk trim that shimmered under magical light. Her collar—an ancestral piece of blackened silver engraved with the Grauheim crest in Norse runes—hung proudly on her chest. But what truly drew attention was her hat: a tiny creation of dark felt, tilted slightly to the left, adorned with a genuine phoenix feather (a gift from Nathael after an auction in Prague) and a crescent-moon brooch that shifted color with her mood. At that moment, it glowed deep blue—esthetic concentration.
"Perhaps I should try another hat," she murmured, adjusting the brim slightly. "This one is a bit… bold."
Nathael sighed.
"Celestia."
"Mmm?"
"It's getting late."
This time, she looked at him. Her sapphire-blue eyes blinked, as if only just remembering they had a destination.
"Oh. Right. Of course." She straightened, flicking her tail with dignity. "But I don't want to look poorly in front of the others. After all, I'm the companion of the son of Matriarch Sabine—not just any feathered feline with pretensions."
Nathael couldn't help but smile.
"No one questions your status, Celestia. But if we keep this up, we'll be the last to arrive. And you know how Anneliese feels about tardiness."
Celestia stiffened slightly. Then, with surprising speed, she leapt down from the dressing table, shook her cape into place, and strode toward the door.
"Then let's hurry. Punctuality isn't just courtesy—it's magical discipline."
Nathael nodded, relieved. He knew that, however long Celestia took with her appearance, she would never fail in her duty to the bloodline.
They stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into a gray afternoon. The air smelled of impending rain and contained magic. Without drawing attention—not even the goblins at the front desk noticed them—Nathael scooped Celestia into his arms and turned on the spot.
Apparition enveloped them, and in an instant, they stood on the bank of a solitary river, surrounded by dense, silent forest. There were no paths, no signs of human life—only the murmur of water and wind through the pines.
"I've never come this way before," Nathael said, studying the landscape with a mix of nostalgia and unfamiliarity. "The last time I was in Britain, I was twelve, and my father brought me through the Welsh route. Other times, it's been from Istanbul, then from Cairo… once even from Rio de Janeiro, though I'd rather not recall how I ended up hanging from a tree with a monkey demanding banana tribute."
Celestia purred, amused.
"That monkey was a jungle spirit. And you offered it an Egyptian grimoire. Not your finest negotiation."
"It was my worst," Nathael admitted. "But I learned never to bargain with creatures that don't wear clothes."
They both chuckled softly.
Before them, in the middle of the river, a small mound of black stone emerged from the water, covered in luminous moss. Barely visible, but Nathael recognized it instantly: the Grauheim Threshold.
"It's time," he said.
He drew his wand and, in a clear, resonant voice, spoke a spell in Ancient Celtic—a language so few modern wizards could even pronounce without burning their tongue:
"Tír na nÓg, fáilte romham.
Oscail an bealach le fuinneamh na n-áiltean."
The words vibrated in the air like submerged bells. The water around them stilled. The leaves on the trees ceased their dance. And from the mound, ancient stones rose from the river, assembling into an arched bridge glowing with golden runes. At the center of the mound, a key of blackened silver appeared, floating gently—a tree inverted, the symbol of the family.
"Let's go," Celestia said, urgency in her voice. "I don't want to be late."
Nathael said nothing, but thought: She was the one who spent twenty minutes choosing between three hats.
They crossed the bridge with firm steps. At its center, Nathael extended his hand and touched the key. Celestia placed her right paw on the same surface.
A flash of white light enveloped them.
When their vision returned, they were in another world.
It wasn't just a place. It was home in the deepest sense of the word. An ancient forest where the trees seemed to watch with invisible eyes, and the air was so thick with magic it felt almost drinkable. In the center of a clearing stood an immense oak, rising like a living temple. Its roots spread like veins of the earth, and its bark glowed with a soft golden luminescence. From it emanated an energy so powerful that even Nathael—accustomed to ancient relics—felt a shiver run down his spine.
At the foot of the tree stood a mansion of stone and ancient timber, seamlessly woven into the landscape. It had no towers or battlements, yet every window, every door, every tile seemed carved with magical intent. It was beautiful, yes—but also… watchful.
Before they could take another step, a soft, deep voice full of quiet authority echoed from the porch shadows.
"I thought you wouldn't arrive on time."
Nathael and Celestia turned instantly.
Seated with perfect grace on a moss-covered stone bench was a white cat, older than Celestia, her fur still immaculate but streaked with silver around her ears and tail—the marks of time, experience, and silent battles. Her eyes were the same sapphire blue, but deeper, wiser. She wore a simple collar of aged leather, with a small silver plaque bearing the familiar crest—but with one additional rune: the sigil of the feline matriarch.
Selene was forty years old. She had been Sabine Grauheim's companion since birth, and together they had guided the family through decades of shadows and secrets. She wasn't immortal, nor mythical in the grand sense—but she was, without question, the most respected cat of her lineage.
"Mother," Celestia said.
And in that single word, all her pride vanished. She didn't bow or scrape—but her posture shifted: more respectful, more humble. She was the only being in the world before whom Celestia lowered her guard.
Nathael smiled. However proud his companion might be, Selene was the matriarch of her feline line, and her presence commanded a natural order even Celestia dared not challenge.
"Selene," Nathael said with a playful nod. "Did you like the gift I sent from Istanbul? The kraken-ink inkwell. I thought you might use it to write your memoirs. Though, knowing you, you've probably already etched them into moonstone."
Selene regarded him with an expression caught between affection and exasperation.
"The inkwell is exquisite. Though kraken ink tends to stain parchments if not sealed with phoenix wax. Your mother had to enchant three scrolls before they stopped screaming."
Nathael laughed.
"I didn't know ink could scream."
"Only kraken ink during mating season," Selene said dryly. "But thank you. It was… unusually tender for a Grauheim."
"I try to keep balance," Nathael said. "Greed and courtesy."
Selene nodded, then looked at Celestia.
"You look well. Though that hat is a bit… theatrical."
"It's elegant," Celestia replied—but without offense. "And the feather is genuine."
"I noticed," Selene said, eyes assessing. "Western phoenix feather, freshly molted. Rare on the market. Nathael must have paid a fortune."
"Only half what it was worth," Nathael said with a smile. "The seller didn't know what he had."
"Of course not," Selene said. "Few can tell the difference between a phoenix feather and an enchanted vulture plume. But you… you were born with a hunter's eyes."
Celestia lowered her gaze for a moment—not in shame, but in contained pride.
"Thank you, Mother."
A respectful silence followed. Then Nathael asked,
"Has Anneliese arrived yet?"
"She was the first to arrive," Selene said. "Promptly at six, as always. Lysander, however… is in the kitchen, trying to help the house-elves prepare the welcome tea. He taught them a charm to make the leaves spiral as they steep. The elves are enchanted. One has already cried from joy."
Celestia huffed softly, but her eyes sparkled with affection.
"Lysander was always too sweet for this world."
"The world needs sweetness," Selene said. "Even if it won't admit it."
She rose with flawless grace.
"The others are already in the parlor. You're the last."
Nathael nodded. Sabine Grauheim—matriarch, guardian of the purest bloodline—did not summon meetings without reason.
Selene turned and began walking toward the house. Celestia followed—not beside her, but a step behind. A sign of respect.
Nathael caught up, adjusting his cloak. At the carved oak door—bearing the Grauheim tree in relief—he paused.
Inside, the light was warm. Low voices murmured, parchment rustled, and magical teacups chimed softly. The air smelled of dried herbs, beeswax… and something else: tension.
"Ready?" he whispered to Celestia.
"Always," she replied—though her tail twitched slightly.
Nathael took a deep breath. Then, hand on the wrought-iron doorknob, he pushed the door open.