The night air was crisp, the wind rushing past Harry's ears as he soared through the sky, the stars glittering like scattered diamonds overhead. Beneath him, Altair's powerful wings beat against the air, unsteady at first but growing stronger with every passing minute.
Harry could feel the tremors of excitement rippling through his hatchling's body, the sheer wonder of his first flight taking over. Altair let out a deep, warbling croon that vibrated through his entire frame.
"This is… everything, Mother," Altair breathed, his voice awed, almost reverent.
Harry swallowed thickly, his chest aching with emotion. "You were meant for this," he said, reaching out a hand to run along Altair's smooth, pale scales. "I'm so proud of you."
Altair let out another rumbling sound, this one softer, content.
For the first half-hour of their flight, Harry stayed close, using his air magic subtly to keep Altair steady when his wings wobbled or when a gust of wind threatened to push him off balance. Each time, the dragon adapted, learning the feel of the air, how to shift his wings just so to stay aloft.
He was a natural.
The feeling of flying like this—free, unchained, with no fear of being struck down—made something in Altair soar higher than his body ever could. For the first time in his life, he was weightless.
Harry let out a soft chuckle as Altair dipped down slightly before correcting himself again. "You're getting better."
The dragon huffed. "It's still hard."
"You've been in the air for an hour, and you haven't crashed once. That's already impressive."
Altair preened slightly at the praise, though his breathing had grown heavier from exertion. "Can we stop soon?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah, we'll land for a break."
They glided down towards a secluded stretch of land, landing in a clearing surrounded by trees. Altair stretched his wings out wide, shaking them slightly before folding them neatly against his back. Harry hopped down and stretched as well, his muscles stiff from sitting for so long.
As they rested, Harry used his magic to gather fresh water for Altair to drink. The dragon rumbled his thanks before lapping it up eagerly.
"We're not far now," Harry murmured, running his fingers through Altair's scales absentmindedly. "Maybe another half hour, and you'll see your new home."
Altair let out a pleased chirp, tail swaying slightly.
Once he was rested, they took off again, flying at a slower pace this time. Harry had been so focused on getting Altair home that he almost didn't notice the subtle glow coming from his hand.
He blinked, looking down. His Peverell lord ring was glowing.
Frowning, he pointed his hand downward, and the glow brightened.
What the…?
Curious, he urged Altair to slow down as he scanned the landscape below. At first, nothing seemed out of place. Just rolling hills, patches of forest, and winding roads.
Then he saw it.
Yew trees.
Not just one or two scattered about—there was an entire cluster of them, forming a natural path.
The Path of Yew.
His mind raced, recalling everything he had studied in the journals and books he had recovered from the Peverell vault. The Peverell Keep was said to be hidden along the Path of Yew. Could this be it?
The thinning line of yew trees led towards the edge of a graveyard, where a single massive yew tree stood, towering over the rest. As they passed overhead, the glow from his ring intensified to an almost blinding brightness.
That tree. That graveyard.
He had to go down there. He had to see it for himself.
But he hesitated.
Altair had been flying for hours, pushing himself to his limits. It wouldn't be fair to make him keep going. He needed to get his hatchling home first.
With one last lingering glance at the great yew tree, Harry turned his gaze forward, focusing on the path ahead.
"Let's go home, Altair."
The dragon gave a tired but contented chirp, following his mother's lead as they continued towards the cove.
~
The moon hung high in the sky, casting its silvery glow over the cove as Harry and Altair finally reached home. The cool night air was filled with the sound of the crashing waves, the scent of salt and damp earth grounding Harry after the long journey.
Nox and Lyra were huddled near the cliffside, their massive forms curled protectively around Lyra's young hatchlings. Their glowing eyes flickered towards him as he landed, but neither made a move to attack. He had warned them he would be bringing his newest hatchling home today.
Altair's claws dug into the soft sand as he landed, his large frame shifting slightly as he stretched his wings out for a moment before folding them. He let out a surprised chirp, shifting his feet. "Mother… what is this?" he asked, tilting his head down towards the ground.
Harry chuckled, hopping off Altair's back and stepping beside him. "It's sand," he explained, running his fingers through it before letting it slip through his fingers. "It's soft, isn't it?"
Altair made a rumbling noise, shifting his weight and kneading his claws into it experimentally. "It feels strange… but nice," he admitted, lowering his head to sniff at it curiously.
But then, he paused. His nostrils flared, his blind side turning slightly as he tried to focus. He sniffed again, his head angling towards where Nox stood. "Is that…?" He turned his head fully now, pointing his half blind eyes towards her. "Are you my sister Mother told me about?"Nox flicked her wings out and let out a loud, dramatic huff. "I am," she declared proudly, stepping forward and lowering her head so that her golden eyes met his milky white ones. "I am Nox, Mother's first hatchling. And you are… different than I imagined."
Altair, despite his sheer size, ducked his head slightly, shuffling his wings. "Mother said I was different," he said shyly. "But he said I was still his."
Nox let out a snort, then, to Harry's amusement, she circled Altair like she was inspecting him, tilting her head as she examined his pale scales, his wings, and his posture. "You are big," she finally admitted, "but you are soft."
"I… I can be strong," Altair said, shifting his wings uncertainly.
Before Nox could respond, a blur of movement suddenly rushed towards them.
Lyra's three hatchlings, still small but full of boundless energy, came bounding up to Altair.
The first one, a sleek black hatchling with silver speckled wings, leapt up onto Altair's wing, gripping the thick membrane and scrambling to climb up. The second, a chubby golden-scaled hatchling, scuttled under his tail, letting out curious clicking sounds as it sniffed at his legs. The third, a deep emerald-coloured hatchling, eagerly butted its head against his side, testing his balance.
Altair let out a startled yelp, stumbling back slightly, his wings flaring as he tried to figure out what was happening. "What—?!"
Harry burst into laughter at the sight of Altair being overwhelmed by three tiny dragons. "I think they like you," he said, grinning.
Lyra, who had been watching tensely from her spot, relaxed slightly when she saw Altair make no move to harm her young. She lowered her head and let out a soft, approving rumble.
Altair, though still stiff with uncertainty, carefully folded his wings to avoid knocking the tiny hatchlings off. "Mother said no harm would come to me," he said hesitantly. "So… they are safe?"
"They are," Harry reassured him, stepping forward and placing a hand against Altair's snout. "They're just curious. You're family now, so they want to know you."
The words seemed to settle something in Altair. He stilled, allowing the hatchlings to climb on him, their tiny claws pressing against his wings as they explored their new, much bigger nest mate.
The silver-speckled one flapped its tiny wings, scrambling onto Altair's back and chirping excitedly. The golden one licked his leg, making a disgusted face at the taste of his scales before chirping at him again.
Altair let out a low, bemused sound. "They are… strange."
Nox let out a chuckle. "You'll get used to them."
Harry smiled, warmth filling his chest as he watched Altair finally being accepted into the cove.
"I already carved out your cave," Harry said, motioning towards the spot next to Nox's. "I put some charms inside to make sure you're comfortable. There's a fresh water source inside, and it'll stay warm no matter the season."
Altair turned towards it, sniffing the air. He let out a pleased sound, then lowered his head towards Harry. "Thank you, Mother."
Harry stroked the bridge of his snout, smiling softly. "Welcome home, Altair."
Nox, unable to resist, let out a snort. "Mother always finds the strangest nestlings."
Harry shot her a look, but it only made her huff in amusement, her tail flicking playfully against the sand.
Altair let out a soft, contented sound, shifting his weight comfortably as the hatchlings clambered over his wings. The tension he had carried for so long, the fear of chains and darkness, seemed to fade away.
For the first time in his life, he was truly free.
And he was home.
~
The morning air was crisp and fresh as Harry mounted his Firebolt, casting his Veil with a thought before kicking off into the sky. His heart thrummed with excitement as he soared over the countryside, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting golden streaks over the land below.
He had barely slept the night before, his mind buzzing with the image of the yew trees, of the glow from his ring guiding him towards something he had sought for so long. He knew—deep in his bones—that he had found something important.
Following the sparse but clear path of yew trees, he flew steadily until he spotted the small, picturesque town nestled along the banks of a winding river.
Landing just outside the town in a secluded wooded area, he dispelled his Veil, adjusting his cloak before making his way towards the town's heart. He followed the telltale presence of the yew trees, the ancient path they created leading him deeper into the land.
Eventually, he found himself at the entrance of a small, quiet churchyard. A weathered sign stood near the entrance, the words carved in an old but precise hand.
The Llangernyw Yew
The moment his eyes landed on the massive, gnarled tree in the distance. It was colossal.
Its thick, twisted trunk splitting into numerous offshoots, its ancient bark lined with deep, timeworn fissures.
The closer he walked, the brighter his Peverell ring glowed, pulsing gently against his skin.
Harry's gaze dropped back to the sign, his curiosity piqued by the history recorded there.
This yew tree is estimated to be over 4000 years old. It is believed to be tied to the ancient spirit of Angelystor, the "Recording Angel," said to whisper the names of those fated to die within the year. One man, upon hearing his name, scoffed at the legend… only to be found dead beneath the yew before the year's end. Ever since, the locals have feared the tree, calling it the 'Tree of Death.'
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. Fitting.
Magic thrummed beneath his skin as he stepped closer, feeling the pull of the yew's presence. It wasn't just ancient; it was alive with power.
He ran his fingers over the weathered bark, moving towards the heart of the tree—the space where its centre had fragmented, leading to the offshoots. It was almost as if something had once been there but had long since been removed.
Slowly, he reached into the hollow with his right hand.
Nothing happened.
He frowned, glancing at his still-glowing ring. With a moment's thought, he lifted his hand, pressing the Peverell ring towards the dark, hollowed-out centre.
The glow intensified and the air around him seemed to shift.
A shimmer—like heat waves over a summer road—spread from the ring's light, rippling outward, revealing an impossible, semi-transparent archway within the tree itself.
He could see through it, the image beyond distorted as though looking through water.
With cautious determination, he pressed the ring further, and the archway began to solidify, its swirling transparency settling into tangible, ancient stone.
Then, he heard it.
A deep, echoing click, like the tumblers of a great lock finally falling into place.
The gates were real.
He stepped up onto the split trunk, the natural curve of the tree acting like a small bridge leading directly to the now-fully-formed gates.
With one last deep breath, he placed a hand against the cold stone and pushed and they swung open without resistance.
Sprawling landscapes stretched before him, untouched by time. The sky was an ethereal shade of twilight, as if caught between day and night, casting a soft glow over the land. Rolling hills, thick forests, and shimmering lakes painted a landscape straight out of myth.
Magic pulsed in the air like a living thing, the ground thrumming beneath his feet.
Creatures roamed freely, some he recognised, others he had only ever read about.
A small herd of thestrals grazed peacefully in the distance, their skeletal, winged forms moving with eerie grace.
Bowtruckles clung to the silver-barked trees, their tiny limbs curling protectively around the branches as they observed him with beady eyes. Some kind of glowing small insects flew through the wild flowers.
Everything about this land felt… old. Sacred.
Then, about a mile up, nestled against a rocky outcrop at the base of the hills, he saw it. A keep.
The structure was gothic, its dark stone walls standing resolute against the passage of time.
Spiral towers jutted towards the sky, their rooftops adorned with intricate, wrought-iron designs. The massive wooden doors were reinforced with silvered runes that gleamed faintly, and above the entrance, carved into the ancient stone, lay the Peverell Crest.
A slow smile spread across his face, his fingers curling around the Peverell ring as he took a step forward.
For the first time, he stood on the land of his ancestors. And it was magical.
~
The grand doors of the keep groaned open, the ancient wood shifting against its silvered hinges as Harry stepped inside.
The air inside was thick with magic. It wasn't just present—it hummed in the very walls, coursing through the foundation, woven into every stone and rune that adorned the structure.
The entrance hall was massive, the high-vaulted ceiling arching impossibly overhead, adorned with chandeliers that glowed with soft, bluish-white flames. The walls were lined with dark wood panelling, intricate carvings depicting swirling constellations and runic arrays that pulsed faintly under his gaze.
He walked forward cautiously, his boots clicking against the polished obsidian floors, the smooth surface reflecting the flickering glow of enchanted torches.
A massive staircase of black marble curved upwards at the centre of the hall, splitting into two separate directions leading deeper into the keep. Thick tapestries hung along the walls—woven depictions of battles, magical creatures, and what looked like great figures from history, all moving like the portraits at Hogwarts.
His magic buzzed against his skin, excited.
Harry ran his fingers along the smooth stone wall, feeling the warmth of ancient power seep into his palm.
"This is mine…"
His chest ached at the thought. He had searched for so long. Since he was eleven. And now… here it was.
Suddenly, the air popped loudly.
Then again.
And again.
Harry spun around just as five house-elves appeared before him, their small, wizened faces bright with emotion.
The eldest of them—a small, hunched elf with wrinkled hands and brilliant silver eyes—stepped forward first, bowing low.
"Master has returned."
The others followed suit, their large eyes shimmering with something akin to relief.
"Uh…" Harry blinked, startled. "You were expecting me?"
"Expecting, waiting, praying," the elderly elf rasped. "It has been over four hundred years since the last Lord Peverell walked these halls. The keep has been kept in waiting… sealed until the bloodline returned."
Harry's throat tightened. Four hundred years…
The house-elf straightened, folding his hands together. "I am Caelum, Head Steward of the Peverell Keep." He gestured to the others. "This is Lyric, Tova, Miren, and Dren. We have long cared for these lands, ensuring that when the true heir arrived, it would be ready to welcome him."
Harry exhaled shakily. "I—thank you. I didn't… I have been searching for a long time."
Caelum's ears twitched, a faint smirk curling his lips. "It wouldn't do for just anyone to find our secrets, Master. Only those of the bloodline could ever reach the gateway. The Peverell ring would lead the way when the time was right."
"I've been looking for this place since I was eleven." Harry murmured. "I only found it since I was flying on my dragon."
"And yet, you would not have found it if you were not flying a dragon, would you?" Caelum remarked, eyes twinkling mischievously.
Harry let out a small, wry laugh. "No. I wouldn't have."
The elves exchanged startled glances.
"You were riding a dragon, Master?" Lyric asked, her tiny hands clasped in awe.
Harry shrugged. "I don't own them, they're more like family."
Tova nearly swooned, and Caelum coughed, looking deeply amused.
"Is it common, then?" A voice suddenly echoed through the room. "For wizardkind to ride dragons these days?"
Harry startled, turning toward the source of the voice—his gaze landing on the large portrait hanging at the far end of the hall.
The man in the painting looked to be in his early forties, with sharp, high cheekbones, shoulder-length black hair, and intelligent, piercing green eyes. He wore dark, formal robes, trimmed with silver runes, and a chain of office rested over his chest. His expression was one of careful amusement, lips curled in a knowing smirk. A name plaque rested beneath the portrait.
Harry stepped forward cautiously.
"You must be Ignotus," he said, tilting his head slightly.
The portrait gave a slow nod. "And you… are the heir I have waited centuries for."
"You have no idea how glad I am to finally find this place," he admitted, running a hand through his hair.
Ignotus hummed, studying him. "The keep always reveals itself in due time. You would never have found it before you were meant to."
"Why?" Harry asked curiously. "I spent years searching. What was stopping me?"
Ignotus leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his knuckles. "The Peverell keep does not exist in the normal world."
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
Ignotus gestured lazily to the open archways beyond the hall.
"This land is separate," he explained. "Detached from normal space. We built it this way—created a world outside the world, where the magic of our ancestors could thrive, untainted by the influence of others."
Harry's breath caught. "You created this?"
Ignotus smirked. "It took decades. My family was a family of creators—artificers, enchanters, ward weavers. My brothers and I constructed this land."
Harry's heart pounded with excitement. "You created an entire magical realm?"
"Indeed," Ignotus confirmed. "The gateway in the yew tree is the only entrance, moved several times before we were satisfied with its protections."
Harry exhaled, awe-struck. "This is… unbelievable."
Ignotus chuckled. "It is yours now. Your land, your keep, your knowledge. There is much to learn, but you will find that the Peverell legacy is vast."
Harry looked around the hall, his fingers unconsciously brushing over the Peverell ring. He had spent so long looking for his roots. For something that truly belonged to him.
~
Harry shifted uncomfortably as Ignotus' expression darkened. The flickering candlelight of the grand Peverell library cast long shadows over the ancient stone walls, the magical instruments and celestial maps surrounding them humming with quiet energy.
Ignotus folded his hands together, staring intently at his descendant. "So this… Albus Dumbledore searches for our knowledge?"
Harry nodded grimly. "I don't know exactly what he's after—whether it's the Hallows, or this keep, or something else entirely—but he's been obsessed with me and my bloodline since before he I even knew I was a wizard. He stole the Potter grimoires, and I wouldn't put it past him to be searching for the Peverell Keep."
Ignotus sighed, rubbing his temple. "This is… troubling. Many have sought to steal what is ours. They have always searched for the secrets of our family, for our blood carries power far beyond that of ordinary wizards."
Harry frowned. "You mean the Hallows?"
Ignotus let out a mirthless chuckle. "The Hallows were mere trinkets compared to what we once were. No, Harrison… I speak of something far greater."
The portrait leaned forward, his piercing green eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Before I tell you, before I reveal to you the truth of the Peverell bloodline, you must understand our history. You must know where we came from, and why we do not belong in this world."
Harry blinked, startled. "What?"
Ignotus raised a hand, and the room darkened. Shadows stretched along the walls, twisting into strange, unfamiliar landscapes. The very air shifted, vibrating with something old.
"Let me tell you a story," Ignotus murmured, voice distant. "A story of a land lost to time… and a family that did not belong to this world."
~Ignotus' POV – Centuries Ago~
The sky was burning.
Smoke choked the air, the scent of scorched flesh and iron clinging to the wind like a lingering death knell. The once-great towers of Peylan stood silhouetted against the orange haze, their banners in tatters, flames licking hungrily at the stone.
Ignotus clenched his fists as he and his brothers stood before their father in the Council Chamber, the heavy doors barred behind them. The sounds of battle echoed through the halls—clashing steel, screaming, the desperate cries of their people being cut down like cattle.
"Father, we cannot abandon them!" Antioch snarled, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Let us fight—let us end these invaders!"
"We are the last of the Peverell line," Cadmus added, his voice raw with fury. "The people need us. We can rally them, drive them back—"
"Our fate was sealed the moment the Council betrayed us." Their father's voice was heavy, lined with grief as he turned to face them. His once-strong frame seemed smaller under the weight of inevitability, his silver-threaded robes flickering with the glow of firelight. "The world is not ready for what we are, my sons."
Ignotus felt his stomach tighten. He knew his father spoke the truth, but it did not make it any easier to bear.
The Peverells had been hunted for generations—feared, envied, desired. Other lands whispered of the secret behind their power, how each son of their bloodline wielded more magic than entire legions of sorcerers.
Some believed they had been gifted an artifact—something that made them gods among men.
Others knew the truth.
"We are not normal wizards," their father continued solemnly. "We have never been. We do not draw magic as others do—we become it. We channel the very veins of the earth, the lines that weave through this world. That is our gift… and our curse."
Ignotus shuddered. He knew.
He had felt it.
The way his magic flowed differently than those around him, the way it resonated with life and death alike.
Antioch was a warrior—his magic could forge power into steel, creating weapons that cut through reality itself.
Cadmus was a master of earth, shaping landscapes, bending the very land to his will.
And Ignotus…
He had always known there was something different about him. His magic did not settle in mere elements.
It touched souls.
With his touch, he could heal or he could end. He could reach into the very essence of life itself.
Their father looked upon them with sorrowful pride. "The world will never allow us peace. They will come for us. For our magic. They will enslave us to unlock the power we hold, and they will destroy everything we have built in the process."
A deep rumbling shook the chamber walls. The invaders were nearly upon them.
Their father turned, stepping onto the dais where an ancient stone circle was carved into the ground, its runes pulsating with an eerie blue light.
Ignotus felt his breath catch. "Father…?"
The older man turned, his gaze gentle. "This is my last gift to you, my sons."
"No," Antioch whispered, his voice breaking. "No, you cannot—"
Their father held up a hand.
"I have poured everything into this ritual. The knowledge of our people lies within this." He lifted a small leather bag, inscribed with the sigil of their house. "You must protect it, Ignotus."
Ignotus felt his knees weaken. "Father, please—"
"There is no other way." Their father's voice was resolute. "You must leave this world. You must survive. I have seen the vision granted by the earth itself. Fire will consume our city. Our people will be slaughtered. And you… you will be shackled, used as tools to rip apart the fabric of magic itself."
Antioch slammed his fist against the wall. "We can fight—"
"We will lose."
A shattering boom echoed through the chamber, and the heavy doors splintered.
Their father turned, stepping fully into the ritual circle. The runes flared to life.
"The ritual have been set," he murmured. "You will find yourselves in a land untouched by our ancestors. A land where you can start anew."
Ignotus' breath came fast, his heart pounding in his chest. "Father—"
"You must live," their father whispered, Clutching at the crystal necklace around his neck, one they all shared.
The chamber doors burst open.
Dark-cloaked figures surged forward, steel gleaming in the firelight and the runes beneath them started to flash.
His father standing firm, sword in hand, against the oncoming tide of their enemies. Then he did something shocking, he spilt his own blood to fuel the ritual, a dagger in his heart by his own hand, the crystal around his neck glowing and beating along with the ritual circle. Power flowed through the necklaces like a chain reaction.
"It was the only way. Forgive me, my sons."
The he breathed his last and a terrible tearing sensation ripped through Ignotus' chest, a pulling like he was being wrenched from his very existence—
Darkness. Then—what looked to be the stars rushing past, faster than they can count.
A sudden, crushing emptiness.
He landed hard, knees slamming into soft earth.
The scent of unfamiliar trees filled his lungs, the sky overhead vast and foreign.
Cadmus groaned beside him, his hands gripping the dirt, his eyes wild with grief. Antioch lay prone, trembling.
Ignotus gasped, staring at the land before them. A valley stretched out beyond the trees, untouched by war, peaceful and still.
His father's words echoed in his mind.
"You will find yourselves in a land untouched by our ancestors."
A sudden sound broke the silence—
The sharp clang of metal against metal.
Ignotus' fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, his breath hitching.
They were not alone.
~End flashback~
Harry inhaled sharply as the library snapped back into focus, the weight of the story settling over him.
"Your father sent you to this world instead?" Heart still heavy with the weight of Ignotus' story.
Ignotus looked at him with some humour and just said, "No, this is the second world we travelled to. That is a story for another time."
Harry just looked at him in disbelief.
Ignotus' expression was unreadable.
"You are the last of our line, Harry," he said softly. "And there are those who still wish to claim what is ours. This knowledge, of magic and gateways to other worlds is a dangerous thing in another's hands. We must protect it."
~
Harry's mind was still reeling from Ignotus' revelations as he stepped back into the main hall of the cottage.
"We were not of this world."
"Magic did not flow through us, we became it."
Ignotus' words repeated in his head like an incantation.
The Peverells had fled an entire world, carrying their knowledge with them—knowledge that wizards of this world weren't even capable of comprehending. The ley lines, the power to weave magic into elements, into life itself. It made sense, in a twisted, terrifying way, why Dumbledore was so obsessed with his lineage.
But before Harry could drown in the weight of it, a familiar voice called to him.
"Harry," Luna's voice was distant, dreamy, but lined with something… off.
Harry turned sharply and found her standing near a section of the cottage's wall, her silver eyes trained on the aged stone with an unsettling intensity. The shifting light of the torches made the carvings seem to pulse, as if something unseen was weaving itself into their forms.
Luna reached out a hand, her fingers just barely grazing the surface.
"The branches have shifted… the decision set."
Harry felt a chill run down his spine.
Luna's voice had changed—gone was the light, airy tone she usually carried. This was something else. Something deeper.
"The Phoenix will interfere, lose to him and lose all you hold dear."
Then, as suddenly as it came, the light in her eyes shifted back to clarity.
Luna blinked, her dreamy expression returning, tilting her head at Harry's alarmed stare. "Oh… you look like you've seen a Wrackspurt herd."
Harry let out a slow breath, steadying himself. "You… you just said something, Luna. About branches and the phoenix—"
Luna gave him a perplexed look, tilting her head. "Did I?"
His stomach twisted.
Not only did she not remember what she had just said, but there was also something else—
Blood.
A thin stream of crimson was trickling down from her nostril.
"Luna, you're bleeding," he said sharply, stepping closer to her.
She blinked down at it, unfazed. "Oh… how curious."
Harry, however, was far from calm.
This wasn't the first time this had happened. Her visions were becoming more frequent, her cryptic words more urgent—and now this? He could see the toll it was taking on her.
"Luna, this has to stop," he said, voice firm. "Your visions, they're hurting you."
Luna smiled serenely. "Oh, don't be silly, Harry. They've always been strange."
"Not like this," he argued. "I'm taking you to see Tazgira. She's a healer—Grimbok's mate. I want her to make a diagnosis potion for you, see if there's any way to detect what's happening to you when these visions happen."
Luna hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. "If it will make you feel better, Mother, then I'll go."
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. She only ever called him that when she wanted to lighten the mood.
"Now," Luna said, her usual dreamy smile returning. "Where is this new little one of yours?"
At that, Harry couldn't help but grin, thinking of Altair.
"Come on," he said, leading her outside. "You'll love him."
Lyra and Nox were curled around Lyra's hatchlings, the tiny dragons playing excitedly, pouncing at each other with little bursts of smoke and barely-there embers. Their hissing, chirping sounds of Parseltongue filled the air.
And among them—
A pale form, towering over the tiny hatchlings.
His snowy white scales gleamed in the sunlight, and even though his half-blind gaze was clouded, the way his head perked up at their approach made Harry's heart swell.
He knew.
"Mother!" Altair greeted excitedly, his tail curling in the sand.
Harry laughed, moving forward as Altair sniffed the air.
The young dragon tilted his head toward Luna, his nostrils flaring.
"You smell strange," Altair said hesitantly. "Are you like the smelly dog?"
Luna burst into laughter. "Oh, Harry, who told him that?"
Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That would be Nox."
The black dragon lifted her head proudly. "It is a fitting name."
Altair sniffed again, considering Luna. "Are you our nest-mate?"
Harry smiled. "Yes, Altair. This is Luna. She's my closest friend—practically family."
The young dragon hesitated before stepping closer, sniffing at Luna's hair. She, in turn, simply reached out and ran her fingers along his snout, her expression delighted.
"Oh, Harry, he's beautiful," she whispered in awe. "His magic is so warm."
Altair preened under the attention, his tail thumping against the sand.
Then he glanced back toward Harry. "I am hungry, Mother. Nox said she would teach me to catch big fish."
Harry chuckled. "Then we'd better get you some food, huh?"
Altair rumbled happily. "Mother…"
Harry hesitated slightly before asking, "I would like to ask someone here, to see if they can heal you."
The young dragon shuffled closer, pressing his snout lightly to Harry's shoulder. "You would not ask this unless it was needed… but if you believe someone can help my eyes…"
Harry exhaled, his chest tightening. "Only if you're comfortable with it, Altair. I don't want to force you into anything. But I'd like to try."There was a long pause before Altair finally nodded.
"I trust you, Mother."
Harry let out a breath of relief, a fond smile curling his lips.
"Thank you," he said. "Now, let's go catch you some fish."
As Altair busied himself with Nox, learning how to properly hunt, Harry turned to Luna.
"I think it's time I called in a favour," he said.
Luna blinked. "For what?"
Harry smirked. "To kidnap Charlie Weasley."
Luna simply smiled. "Oh, what a wonderful idea."
Harry snickered. "I need someone with actual dragon knowledge. Someone who won't panic at the sight of Altair and who can—hopefully—help."
Luna nodded. "Charlie will do it. He has a soft heart for dragons. And for you, it seems."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not getting into that conversation again."
Luna only giggled.
Then, her expression softened. "Thank you, Harry."
He frowned slightly. "For what?"
She smiled, eyes shining. "For always looking out for us."
Harry hesitated, then simply bumped his shoulder against hers. "Always."
~
The Wizengamot chamber was already buzzing with tension when Harry entered, the familiar murmur of voices bouncing off the stone walls as he made his way to his seat. Today's session was unlike the others. Today, they would finally hear the full truth.
He adjusted his plum-coloured robes as he stepped into the neutral faction's section, nodding politely to a few of the lords and ladies who had slowly begun warming up to him over the past months.
"Lord Potter-Black," Lord Greengrass greeted, his tone polite but firm. "A remarkable feat, apprehending two more criminals. Truly, no fear."
Harry gave him a small, respectful smile. "I didn't have the luxury of fear, Chief Warlock. I have far too much to accomplish."
Lady Westfield, an older witch with silver streaks in her hair, nodded approvingly. "And your efforts were not wasted. Tell me, how is Heir Black doing?"
At this, Harry's expression softened. "Adjusting. It hasn't been easy, but he's getting there. I think, after twelve years in Azkaban, being free is something he's still coming to terms with."
Lord Greengrass hummed in agreement. "Give him time. It took my cousin months to recover after a brief stint there." Making to move to the Chief Warlock podium.
Before Harry could respond, the doors of the chamber were thrown open with a resounding boom, and the room went silent as the prisoner was escorted in.
Barty Crouch Jr.
His pale face bore the telltale marks of time spent in confinement, his lips twitching into an eerie smirk as he was led to the chair in the centre of the room, iron cuffs clamping around his wrists. The chains slithered upwards, locking into place, and they administered the Veritaserum.
Madame Bones stood, her expression sharp as she began the questioning.
"State your full name for the record."
"Bartemius Crouch Jr.," he answered smoothly.
"And how did you escape Azkaban?"
A chuckle slithered past his lips. "That would be thanks to my dear, departed father," he drawled. "He smuggled me out using Polyjuice Potion—forced my poor, dying mother to take my place."
A ripple of horror spread across the room.
"He kept me under the Imperius Curse for years," Barty continued with an unsettling grin. "Until, of course, his control wavered and I escaped back to my Master."
Bones narrowed her eyes. "And how did you come to be stationed at Hogwarts?"
"Simple," he said lazily. "My master needed Potter for the ritual. My job was to enter him into the tournament and ensure he won."
Harry clenched his jaw as murmurs rose again.
"Not that I really had to do anything," Barty mused, his eyes flicking toward Harry. "Potter handled the competition far better than expected. More skill than any of the others combined."
Harry didn't react, but he noticed the way certain members of the chamber looked at him with new consideration.
"And who was in charge of carrying out the ritual?" Bones pressed.
Barty's eyes darkened with reverence. "That would be Wormtail," he sneered. "Peter Pettigrew tended to our Lord's fragile form, saw to it that the ritual was carried out properly."
The chamber doors opened again as Peter Pettigrew was dragged inside, bound in heavy enchanted shackles.
The once-timid man looked frailer than ever, his watery eyes darting around in terror.
Madame Bones wasted no time administrating the truth serum. "How did you escape Ministry custody during transport to Azkaban?"
Pettigrew let out a small whimper before confessing, "I—I was rescued by Augustus Rookwood! He—he came in disguise, he set me free and sent me to Crouch!"
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the room.
Bones turned to one of the Aurors. "Send a unit to arrest Rookwood immediately."
Some of the Dark Faction members shifted uncomfortably, and Harry made a note of those who looked the most uneasy.
The questioning continued, and soon enough, it was clear that there was more than enough evidence to confirm Lord Voldemort had returned.
Bones inhaled deeply before making the declaration.
"There is ample evidence before us that the Dark Lord has arisen once more."
Chaos erupted.
Some Wizengamot members were shouting in disbelief, others were whispering hurriedly amongst themselves. The Minister himself, Cornelius Fudge, had gone pale before standing abruptly, shaking his head.
"No. No, this is madness. I refuse to believe this—Potter is lying—he's been coached—"
Harry stood sharply, his magic crackling around him as he cut through the noise.
"That's rich," he said coldly, "coming from the man who has built his entire career on bribes and lies."
Gasps filled the room.
Fudge turned beet red. "How dare you—!"
"How dare I?" Harry repeated icily. "Minister, you are the reason Britain is in this situation in the first place. Instead of preparing for the possibility of war, you have chosen to sit in denial, allowing Death Eaters to walk freely with their blood money while you fill your pockets."
Several members of the chamber nodded at this, agreeing.
Madame Bones cleared her throat, regaining order. "The facts remain. We must prepare accordingly. I propose more aggressive wartime tactics, increased security measures. And those taking part shall be sworn to secrecy."
A murmur of agreement spread through the chamber.
The moment the trials were adjourned, the discussions among the Wizengamot members naturally shifted toward the state of Hogwarts. The rumours had been swirling for weeks—Dumbledore hadn't been able to secure a replacement for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position.
And it seemed Cornelius Fudge had been waiting for this exact moment.
Harry had just settled back into his chair when the Minister loudly cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself.
"Well, seeing as we are speaking of Hogwarts," Fudge began, his voice carrying an air of manufactured nonchalance, "I do believe that we must address the glaring issue of staffing. As I'm sure many of you are aware, the esteemed Headmaster has yet to find a new professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts."
There was a wave of murmurs among the Wizengamot members. Some were nodding in agreement, others were exchanging concerned glances.
Fudge smiled, clearly interpreting the murmurs as support. "Therefore, I believe it is in the best interest of our great institution—our future generations—to ensure they are taught by someone qualified and trustworthy. Someone who understands the importance of structure and obedience."
Harry narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious.
Fudge's smile widened, and then—
"I propose my undersecretary, Madam Dolores Umbridge, to fill the position."
A sharp silence settled over the chamber.
At Fudge's side, Dolores Umbridge, draped in her sickly-pink robes, gave a small, simpering giggle. "Oh, Minister, you are too kind!" she said in her high-pitched, sickly-sweet voice. "But, of course, I would be honoured to shape the minds of our dear little children. I do believe that the Ministry's influence would do wonders for their education."
Harry stared at her.
Then, before anyone else could speak, he asked the most damning question possible.
"And what are her qualifications?"
Silence.
The simpering expression on Umbridge's face faltered for the briefest moment before she covered it up with another shrill giggle.
"Qualifications?" she repeated.
Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Yes. Her teaching credentials. Surely the person being placed in charge of defence at Hogwarts has appropriate training? Perhaps she previously served as an Auror?"
Fudge's smile slipped. "That—that is hardly the point, Potter."
"I think it is exactly the point, Minister," Harry countered smoothly, keeping his voice steady and calm. "And it is Lord Potter-Black, Minister."
Several lords and ladies nodded in agreement, watching with interest.
"I—well," Umbridge sputtered. "I have—years of experience in the Ministry! My knowledge of the law is exemplary, and—"
"Yes," Harry cut her off, "but have you ever taught a class? Have you ever trained a student in practical defence? Have you ever even engaged in real combat?"
Her lips pursed. "I hardly think combat is necessary—"
Harry turned to the Wizengamot. "So, let me get this straight." His voice rang with incredulity. "You want to place a bureaucrat—with no field experience, no teaching experience, and no combat experience—into the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor?"
Fudge's face was turning a particularly violent shade of red.
"Education should not be about violence, dear boy!" Umbridge exclaimed, her voice artificially sweet. "It is about structure, theory, and understanding one's place in society."
Harry arched a brow. "Theory? What about the practical aspects? What about spellwork, duelling, counter-curses, self-defence?"
"Why, there is no need for such barbarism," Umbridge said dismissively, waving her hand as though shooing away a fly. "A proper understanding of theory will ensure our young ones are acceptable wixen when they enter the Ministry."
There was a collective sound of outrage from several members of the Wizengamot.
Harry stared at her, appalled. "So your plan is to have students read textbooks instead of learning how to protect themselves? You think they'll be safe because they can recite theory?"
"Of course!" Umbridge said proudly. "With the right education, there will be no need for such—such aggressive subjects! Hogwarts is a place of learning, not—"
"A place to raise defenceless victims?" Harry's voice was sharp. "Because that's what you're suggesting. What about their career aspects? Masteries?"
Umbridge's smile was starting to crack. "Now, see here—"
Harry ignored her and turned to Madame Bones, addressing her directly.
"Madame Bones," he said, his voice carrying over the chamber, "as Head of the DMLE, would you say that practical defensive training is essential?"
Bones sat up straighter, nodding firmly. "Absolutely. Without practical experience, students are left vulnerable in real-life scenarios. It is our duty to ensure they are properly equipped to handle threats."
Harry spread his arms. "Then I must ask—are there any Aurors who would be willing to take the position at Hogwarts? Even for one year?"
Bones's lips twitched. "I imagine there would be many volunteers."
A loud crack echoed through the chamber.
Fudge looked livid. "Now, see here! You are not the one who makes these decisions, Potter—"
"No, but I am a student at Hogwarts," Harry said coolly. "And I refuse to be taught by someone so unqualified."
Several members of the Wizengamot murmured in agreement.
Lord Greengrass tapped his cane against the floor. "Lord Potter-Black raises a fair point, Minister. If a proper educator has not yet been found, then it is only logical that someone with actual experience should take the role. And you have been reminded many times to use Lord Potter-Blacks title."
"I second this proposal," Lady Westfield said. "Hogwarts students have been subjected to incompetence for too long."
Fudge's jaw clenched. "This is preposterous! The Ministry has every right to—"
Bones cut him off, her voice firm. "I will personally see to it that an Auror is assigned the position. All those in favour?"
A roar of agreement filled the chamber.
Fudge's face was almost purple with rage. At his side, Umbridge looked like she had just swallowed an entire lemon.
Harry could practically feel the hatred radiating from them.
Congratulations, Harry. You just made some more enemies.
But he didn't care.
Because Hogwarts was not going to fall under the Ministry's control.
As it was, Dumbledor's hearing for his position as Headmaster was coming up in a few weeks and it doesn't sound like good news. For Harry.
~
The cove was quiet save for the distant crash of waves against the shore. The lantern between them flickered, casting warm light over their half-eaten dinner. Harry pushed his plate away, appetite dulled by the weight of the conversation.
Sirius took a slow sip from his firewhisky, his eyes lost in thought. "I never told you about me and Remus, did I?"
Harry looked up, curious. "No. I mean, I always wondered, but you never said anything."
Sirius exhaled, leaning back against the worn wood of the bench. "It was a long time ago. Before everything fell apart. Back when we were still in the Order, before—" He hesitated. "Before the war made us suspicious of everyone."
Harry stayed silent, letting Sirius speak at his own pace.
"I loved him," Sirius admitted. "And I think, in his own way, he loved me too. But then the rumours started. We knew there was a spy in the Order, and I—I started questioning everything. Everyone. And so did he. We let fear drive a wedge between us, and before we knew it, we weren't… us anymore."
Harry absorbed that, nodding slowly. He had seen the way Remus looked at Sirius lately, the quiet longing beneath his usual reserve.
Sirius gave a short, humourless laugh. "He's been hinting at… something. Getting back together. Having me rejoin the Order. But I don't know, Harry. I don't know if I'm ready for that."
Harry leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "You don't have to be. Azkaban—what you went through—it doesn't just disappear because someone's waiting for you."
Sirius looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you're right."
There was another beat of silence before Sirius hesitated. "The Order's looking for a safehouse. Remus mentioned it."
Harry tensed slightly. "And?"
"Well… I suggested Grimmauld Place."
Harry's stomach twisted. "Sirius—"
"I know," Sirius interrupted, rubbing a hand over his face. "I know what you're going to say. And you're probably right. But having someone on the inside, knowing what Dumbledore's planning…"
Harry let out a breath. "You don't owe him anything, Sirius. He hurt you just as much as he hurt me."
Sirius gave a half-shrug, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "I just thought I'd put it out there. But it's your decision."
"I'll think about it," Harry said, though his mind was already whirling with thoughts of Remus. Was he really trying to rekindle something with Sirius? Or was this another play in Dumbledore's endless game?
Sirius broke the momentary silence with a shift in subject. "You're okay with me dating a bloke, right?"
Harry blinked at him, startled. "Of course I am."
Sirius smirked. "Good. Because I don't think I could handle your judgmental face every time I looked at him."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't—"
"Alright, alright," Sirius cut in, grinning, but then his expression softened. "I just… I guess I don't know if you've ever had to deal with something like that."
Harry hesitated before he spoke. "There was someone. Petar."
Sirius's eyebrows lifted. "Petar?"
"A Durmstrang student," Harry explained. "He trained with me during the Tournament. He—he was my first. First love, I guess."
Sirius's grin faded into something more understanding. "What happened?"
"He was stuck in a marriage contract," Harry said, his voice quiet. "He thought about breaking it. If I'd pushed him, if I'd had less restraint, he might have. But I couldn't do that to him."
Sirius studied him for a moment. "That must've been hard."
Harry shrugged. "It was. But I don't regret it."
Sirius gave a slow nod, then hesitated before asking, "Do you, uh, need to know anything? About… you know… relationships?"
Harry stared at him, heat rushing to his face. "I know the basics, Sirius."
Sirius barked a laugh. "Alright, alright. Just checking."
That night as Harry went to bed, and he found a pamphlet on his bedside table. Picking it up he saw an illustration of two wands and a cursive script, 'Gay magic and how to use it.' Blushing slightly, Harry read the spells that covered things like preparation, safety and cleanliness. What made him blush was the very realistic moving images of two men having sex. It was very informative, he thought.
~
Harry and Sirius stood outside of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the townhouse concealed between two unsuspecting Muggle homes.
"Well," Sirius muttered as the door creaked open, "welcome to the most miserable place on Earth."
Dust floated in the dim corridor, and the air smelled stale, thick with years of neglect. The once-grand Black family home was now nothing more than a ruin of its former self. Harry glanced at the peeling wallpaper, the tarnished silver candelabras, and the ancient carpet that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in decades.
"Bloody hell," Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If the Order is going to use this place, it'll take a miracle to clean up."
Before they could take another step, a loud crack echoed through the hallway, and a hunched figure appeared. Kreacher, the Black family's ancient house-elf, glared at them, his bloodshot eyes filled with disdain.
"Filthy blood-traitor returns," Kreacher muttered, his wrinkled hands twitching as he wrung the ragged fabric of his tea towel. "Brings the half-blood master with him. Kreacher serves the noble House of Black, but the house is disgraced, oh yes, disgraced—"
"Enough," Harry said sharply, stepping forward before Sirius could lose his temper. He fixed the elf with a piercing gaze, magic pressing lightly against Kreacher's form. "You forget yourself, house-elf. I am Lord Black now. Your master."
Kreacher flinched. His lip curled in contempt, but Harry could see something flicker in the elf's bulging eyes—surprise, uncertainty.
"You will show proper respect," Harry continued, his voice steady but firm. "The Black family has fallen far, but I will not tolerate you acting like a feral animal. You will not insult me, nor Sirius, and you will obey me as the Lord of this house."
There was a long silence. Kreacher trembled, glaring at Harry, then gave a jerky bow. "As my master commands," he gritted out, voice shaking.
Sirius blinked, clearly taken aback. "Huh. You handled that better than I ever did."
Harry just shook his head and moved deeper into the house. "Let's get this over with. We need to check the place for any Order potential."
They started with the main floor, clearing out old furniture, revealing hidden passages, and dodging several cursed objects Kreacher had hoarded. The Black family library was tucked away behind heavy iron doors, the books inside untouched for decades.
Sirius whistled as he scanned the shelves. "This is mostly just copies from Black Manor's real library—my mother's personal collection." He grabbed a few tomes, flipping through them with mild interest. "Nothing too dangerous here, but some interesting dark texts. We should block it off from the order anyway."
Harry nodded but felt a sudden pull, a whisper of magic brushing against his senses
Frowning, he followed the feeling, his feet guiding him through the house like an unseen force was leading the way.
"Harry?" Sirius called, but Harry barely heard him.
He moved past the library, through a narrow corridor, and down a set of creaking stairs into the kitchen. Kreacher's filthy nest lay in the corner, a mountain of rags, old Black family heirlooms, and assorted junk piled into a chaotic mess. And nestled within it was a locket.
Harry reached out, barely brushing his fingers against it before a wave of malevolent energy surged through him. He recoiled instantly, his heart pounding.
The magic was wrong—warped, sickly, familiar.
"Kreacher," Harry said carefully, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his gut, "where did you get this?"
Kreacher shrieked, suddenly hurling himself forward, grabbing at the locket with desperate, clawed hands. "No! Kreacher must not! No one must touch it!"
"Kreacher!" Harry commanded, magic pressing down on the elf again. "I am your master. Tell me. Now."
The elf trembled violently but obeyed. His voice was raw with years of grief and pain.
"Master Regulus…" Kreacher's hands tightened around the locket. "He took it. Took it from the Dark Lord's hiding place. He ordered Kreacher to destroy it, but Kreacher… Kreacher could not. It would not break. Master Regulus died for nothing…"
Kreacher let out a broken sob. Sirius echoing him, "Reggie." He whispered.
Harry exhaled sharply. Regulus Black had stolen a Horcrux. He had figured it out, taken it, and died trying to destroy it.
"I can destroy it," Harry said firmly. "You don't have to keep this burden anymore, Kreacher."
The elf jerked his head up, staring at Harry with something unreadable in his expression.
"You… can?"
Harry met his gaze. "Yes."
There was a long silence. Then, Kreacher slowly, reverently, lifted the locket from his nest and placed it in Harry's outstretched hands.
"For Master Regulus," Kreacher whispered.
"For Regulus," Harry agreed.
Sirius, who had been watching quietly and tearfully, sighed. "I can't believe my brother actually betrayed the Dark Lord."
Harry turned the locket over in his palm, a storm of thoughts brewing in his mind. If Regulus had stolen a Horcrux… how many more were out there? The had speculated more than four, and he was also sure that the presence he felt from the Lestrange vault was actually a horcrux as well.
He needed to take it to Grimbok, see what the goblin had learnt from his questioning of the curse breakers.
For now, though, he just met Kreacher's gaze and said, "You did the House of Black well, Kreacher."
The elf straightened slightly, and for the first time, he looked at Harry not with disdain, but with something close to respect.
Harry had work to do.