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Chapter Text

Where does magic come from?

That is a question that not many truly ask as the believe that magic has always simply existed in their families was but a known fact in the world. The simple knowledge that some were gifted with magic and some were not was all that they ever seemed to care to know. 

But you see, I know the answer to that question.

Long ago, in the ancient lands of Greece, a child was born beneath a sky heavy with stars. Her name was Hecate. Even as an infant, strange signs followed her: animals gathered at her cradle, fires burned without consuming, and the air seemed to hum softly when she drew breath. The villagers whispered of omens, of curses—but Hecate did not wither beneath fear. She grew strong within it.

As she came of age, she discovered she could see magic—not as something hidden, but as threads woven into all things: the flame's restless spirit, the river's patient strength, the pulse of life in root and branch. She was curious, fearless, and endlessly experimental. Where others saw danger, she saw possibility. She carved symbols into stone, birthing the first runes. She spoke words into the wind, and they returned as the first spells. She crushed herbs under moonlight, and the world answered with the first potions.

By her twelfth year, dreams whispered lessons to her, voices older than the mountains. By her fifteenth, she could command the tides and summon storms. By her twentieth, she had woven so much of the world's essence into herself that she ceased to be only mortal. The same villagers who once muttered of curses now knelt in reverence. They called her goddess, and though she had not asked for the name, she came to wear it with pride: Hecate, the Goddess of Witchcraft.

But even divinity longs for companionship.

Hecate loved deeply, and once she bound herself to a mortal man. Their union brought forth children unlike any the world had seen. They bore sparks of her power but lacked her vastness, and so they learned to shape tools to channel it. The first wands were born—bridges between fragile flesh and unfathomable might. These children, and their children after them, became the first witches and wizards.

For many years, they mingled freely with mortals, giving rise to Half-bloods—bridges between two worlds. In time, some chose to bind their magic to others like themselves. From those unions, the first Pure-blood lines emerged, families steeped wholly in the gift, who would one day shape the destiny of magical kind.

Yet immortality has its own burdens. Hecate outlived her husband, and then her children, and their children after them. Her grief was endless, yet so was her heart. In an age long after her first family, she found love again—not in a mortal this time, but in a wizard of formidable power. From their union sprang a new line, one destined to echo through centuries. That family would be known as the House of Evans, carrying within it the goddess's spark, her legacy of magic, and her enduring love for the world she had helped shape.

Centuries unfurled like parchment. Civilizations rose, kingdoms crumbled, and still the children of Hecate endured. Families grew vast, their bloodlines weaving like rivers that split and rejoined. Some crafted banners and sigils, naming themselves Houses, binding together kin and cousins under common cause. And among these Houses, three orders emerged, each setting itself apart: the Noble, who traced lineage through centuries of power; the Royal, who claimed not just blood but rule over men; and the rarest of all, the Imperial, for there could be only one such line.

The Imperial House was no ordinary family.

Their name was whispered with both reverence and fear, for they claimed descent not merely from Hecate's children but from Hecate herself, through a line unbroken and unyielding. Their banner was silver and black, their crest a star cradled in a serpent's coils, and their words were simple: Dominari per Arcanum—to master through magic.

They were the House of Evans.

Unlike other families, the Evans did not rely upon the wands that were slowly becoming the tools of wizardkind. While others carved wood, strung core to timber, and bent spells through crafted channels, the Evans bent magic with will alone. Their blood carried command, their veins sang with sorcery. Where others spoke incantations, they whispered only thought. Where others waved their wands, Evans raised their hands empty, and fire, storm, and shadow obeyed.

Other Houses feared them. Respected them. Envied them. And quietly, some conspired against them. For such power, unmediated and absolute, unsettled even allies. Yet the Evans endured, imperial and unassailable, their influence stretching through centuries.

But empires seldom remain eternal.

Whispers grew over time. That the Evans were too powerful. That they meddled too deeply. That even Hecate's blood might one day thin and falter. There were mutterings of betrayal, of alliances turned sour. Records that once spoke proudly of the Imperial House began, curiously, to vanish. Entire archives contained gaps where their names should have been written. Scholars who sought proof found only fragments, broken seals, scattered rumors.

And then, one night—so the story went—the House of Evans was gone.

No battle recorded. No massacre chronicled. No graves to mourn, no survivors to account. The Imperial line, which had stood for centuries as the pillar of magical blood, vanished as though erased. Not merely their bodies, but their existence. Villages that once bore their crest stood empty, their stones crumbled without memory of who had laid them. Wizards who had once sworn fealty woke with strange hollowness, unable to recall faces they should have known. It was as if the world itself had been rewritten, the House of Evans plucked from its fabric like a thread, leaving only the faintest trace that they had ever been at all.

Only whispers remained. That perhaps they had grown too close to the origin of magic. That they had dared a power even they could not hold. That Hecate herself had reclaimed her blood, folding it back into shadow. Or, darker still, that they had not vanished but hidden, waiting for a time when their bloodline would again claim dominion.

And so it was that the question remained, passed from tongue to tongue, generation to generation, unanswerable and yet unavoidable.

Where does magic come from?

The tale of Hecate was a beginning. The rise of the Houses was a continuation. But the truth, as ever, was hidden in silence, waiting for the day it would break through once more.

Centuries rolled forward like a tide, each leaving behind broken shells of memory, each grinding the world into a shape neither Hecate nor her first children could have imagined. Muggles multiplied, building villages that became towns, towns that became sprawling kingdoms. Their fires burned brighter with each discovery—iron and steel, glass and ink, compasses to lead them, maps to claim what had never been theirs. With knowledge came ambition, and with ambition came fear. For where the powerless gather in great numbers, they will always look with suspicion upon the few who can shape the world with little more than a gesture.

It began quietly, with whispers and sidelong glances, with gossip in muddy taverns of healers who mended wounds too swiftly, or midwives who whispered charms over stillborn babes and coaxed their lungs to cry. But whispers became warnings, and warnings became shouts. Pitchforks were lifted, torches lit, and soon the children of Hecate learned the hard lesson: their gifts made them gods in secret, but devils in the eyes of men.

The great houses disagreed on how to respond. Some, like the Noble and Royal families, saw little reason to hide. Were they not born of magic? Was it not their right to rule? But the Imperial House, wise beyond arrogance, knew the tide could not be stopped by pride alone. The Muggles were too many, and magic—though mighty—could not shield witches and wizards from the hate festering in every unlit corner. Even an empire of sorcery could be drowned beneath a flood of mortal suspicion.

It was in these troubled years that four figures rose from obscurity to shape the destiny of their kind.

Godric Gryffindor, warrior bold and lion-hearted, carried fire in his blood and steel at his side. Helga Hufflepuff, gentle in hand yet indomitable in spirit, gathered the outcasts and taught them loyalty as others taught letters. Rowena Ravenclaw, wise and far-seeing, walked dreams as easily as hallways, and it was in one such dream—a vision of a warty hog leading her to a cliff above a deep and secret loch—that she found the resting place of what would become their greatest legacy. Last of the four was Salazar Slytherin, cunning and proud, who believed that purity of blood was purity of purpose, and whose ambition cut sharper than any blade.

Together, they raised walls of stone higher than cathedrals, stronger than fortresses, imbued with enchantments so deep they hummed in the marrow of the land. Thus was born Hogwarts: a sanctuary, a bastion, a citadel of learning where the young could grow without fear of the flames outside their doors. And though the castle's halls rang with laughter and the clash of wands, shadows lingered, for even among the four, distrust bred seeds of division that would one day split the school itself.

Yet for all its wonder, Hogwarts was but a single stronghold. Beyond its wards, the world darkened.

The Salem Witch Trials swept across the New World like wildfire, a frenzy of fear and faith twisted into cruelty. Mothers burned at the stake, daughters drowned beneath stones, fathers hung from gallows, their only crime the suspicion of magic whispered by a jealous neighbor. Though few true witches perished—most too cunning to be caught—the bloodlust of Muggles shook the wizarding world to its core.

It was then the Imperial House of Evans called a summit the likes of which had not been seen since Hecate herself walked the earth. From every continent they came—shamans of Africa, alchemists of Arabia, storm-callers of the East, druids of the northern isles, enchanters of the icy wastes. They gathered in a hall carved of white marble and bound with spells that stilled the wind, the sea, even the turning of the stars overhead. There, under the unyielding gaze of the Evans patriarch, the first International Confederation of Wizards was formed.

Arguments raged like storms. Should they reveal themselves openly and demand their place above mortals? Should they retreat deeper into secrecy, abandon the world they had once guided? Should they strike back in vengeance for every witch slain, every wizard hunted? Voices thundered in a dozen tongues, each cloaked in the weight of pride and fear.

At last, it was the Imperial House who silenced the chamber. The Evans heir—tall, clad in robes stitched with golden thread that shimmered without torchlight—spoke but a single truth: "To rule a world that hates us is to rule ashes. To burn them is to burn ourselves. We must become unseen, or we will become extinct."

So was born the Statute of Secrecy, a covenant that bound the magical world apart from the Muggle one. Spells of concealment wrapped cities and castles; memory charms swept across villages like fog; great beasts were hidden, their roars silenced, their wings cloaked. An entire world folded itself into the cracks of another, vanishing behind a veil invisible to mortal eyes.

And for a time, there was peace.

Yet scarcely a decade passed before calamity struck.

The Imperial House of Evans—so long the pillar of magical authority, their bloodline stretching unbroken to Hecate herself—vanished. Not slain, not overthrown, not exiled. Vanished.

One winter's night, their great estate upon the cliffs of Dover still burned with lantern light, its towers crowned in frost, its banners snapping in the sea wind. By dawn, it was gone. Not just the estate. Not just the family. But everything.

Records that had filled libraries were blank. Portraits faded from their frames. Coins once minted with their sigil tarnished to base metal. Even memories blurred like ink in rain. Wizards who had sworn fealty could no longer recall their oaths. Witches who had studied under Evans tutors found themselves grasping at empty recollections, unable to remember the names of the very mentors who had shaped their craft.

It was as though the House of Evans had been drawn behind a curtain and locked away from time itself.

The wizarding world reeled. Some whispered it was divine punishment, that the Evans had flown too close to Hecate's throne and been struck down. Others swore dark magic was to blame, that jealous rivals had woven a curse to erase the greatest dynasty of all. Still others claimed the House had never truly existed, that they had been nothing but a dream, a story to frighten Pure-blood children into obedience.

But the world knew better. They had existed. They had ruled. And now they were gone.

From the ashes of that vanished empire, a new order rose. Without the Imperial line to guide them, the Confederation faltered, splintered, and dwindled into little more than ritual and ceremony. In its place the Ministry of Magic grew, practical and bureaucratic, more concerned with parchment than prophecy. Ministers replaced emperors; laws replaced bloodlines. The age of dynasties ended, the age of governance began.

But magic does not forget.

It lingers in the blood, hidden in branches of family trees thought broken, concealed in hearts where destiny waits patiently for its hour. And though the world believed the Imperial House of Evans lost forever, their fire had not been snuffed out. It lived on, silent and unseen, in a single child born of unlikely union.

Now, this is not a tale of the history of the Wizarding World, nor of the signing of the Statute, nor even of the vanished Evans whose shadows stretch long across centuries.

This is the story of a Wizard that goes by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle, but not the story that you will know. 

No, this is the story of how magic itself intervened in the world and caused the birth of one of the greatest and most powerful wizards in human history. And pray tell how did this powerful wizard come to be? And how is the infamous Tom Riddle a part of it all? 

Well then let me tell you the story of Harry Potter, son of James Potter, heir of the Royal House of Potter, and Lily Evans—the last hidden descendant of the Imperial line.

And how he became known as Hadrian Marvolo Potter, the Lord of Darkness. The Serpent King. The God of Magic. 

I welcome you.... to my Wizarding World.

Chapter Text

I have always hated the wizarding world.

No—that is not precise. Precision matters. I do not hate all of it. I hate what it became. I hate the cowards who cling to outdated traditions, the fools who bleat about blood purity as though heritage is the measure of strength. And above all, I hate one man.

Albus Dumbledore.

The name is a curse upon my tongue.

He sits atop his ivory tower, feigning wisdom, a master manipulator who pulls the strings of this pitiful society. And the world calls him good. They kneel at his feet, blinded by his honeyed words, believing his hand to be gentle when I know it for what it is: the grip of a serpent, strangling the future. He is the architect of my downfall. The warden of the prison in which I was forced to play their role for me: the Dark Lord.

I never wished to become this.

The title sits ill upon me, like armor too heavy to move within. I wanted power, yes. Strength, always. I wanted to be Minister of Magic, the only position from which real change could be forged. But fate—if such a thing exists—has shackled me to a throne of ash.

The voices return.

They scratch at the back of my skull, whispers without language, suggestions without form. They tell me to destroy, to kill, to conquer. They have been with me for years now. Sometimes I think they were born the night I split my soul the first time. Sometimes I fear they were always there, waiting. I resist them, though often it feels less like resistance and more like drowning in an endless tide.

I shift upon my chair—a throne, or the mockery of one. My legs cross, my fingers tap against the carved armrest. The Gaunt Manor is silent, save for the low groan of timbers under winter's chill. The house of my ancestors is little more than ruins dressed in shadow, but it serves. The old stones listen. They remember blood.

A shiver runs across my spine. My breath comes uneven, sharp with effort. I press my thumb to the temple, shutting my eyes against the pressure of those damned voices. Burn this cursed world, kill the blood-traitors. Rage war, become the Dark Lord and destroy the Wizarding World! 

Always the same. Always wanting the same damn thing, this damn voice seemingly controlling me my entire damn life.

I do not know how many regrets I have amassed. Too many. The war spiraled beyond me. The masks and rituals, the killing, the endless slaughter—none of it was my original design. I sought to lead, to purge weakness, to reshape. Yet here I am: a monster, a terror spoken of to children in bedtime tales. A cautionary shadow.

The sudden crack of apparition pulls me from reverie. The air shudders, and I sense it immediately: one of mine, arriving within the wards. The hurried cadence of footsteps down the hall tells me he rushes. Few dare disturb me unless with reason.

A knock comes at the library doors.

"Enter," I commanded, my voice level, smooth as glass.

The great doors creak open, and Severus Snape enters. His dark robes trail behind him like spilled ink, his head bowed. He smells faintly of potions and damp stone, as he always does. He moves with the wariness of one accustomed to walking along the edge of a blade.

"Severus," I drawl. "You come in haste. Speak."

He bows, stiffly, and the faintest quiver betrays nerves. "My Lord," he begins, his voice oily, careful, "I bring news… of a prophecy."

A prophecy. The word chills me, though I do not show it. Prophecies are treacherous things, dangerous threads that bind the future in ways even I cannot control. My eyes narrow.

"Go on," I say.

He swallows, then recites with deliberate clarity:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

The words linger in the air like smoke.

I drum my fingers against the wood, thoughtful. Prophecies twist truth with riddles. They do not lie, but they do not reveal the whole. Which child? Which family? Whose defiance? My mind turns sharply.

I snap my fingers. The sound echoes through the chamber, and another apparition crack splits the silence. Lucius Malfoy appears, elegant as ever, though even his poise bends beneath my call. He bows low.

"My Lord."

"Lucius," I say, my voice calm but edged with steel. "Tell me: which of my enemies has thrice refused my summons?"

He hesitates, then answers: "Frank and Alice Longbottom, my Lord. They have defied you on three occasions. As have James Potter and his wife—the Mud blood, Lily Potter."

Snape stiffens at the name. I do not miss it.

I turn my gaze upon him, lingering, letting the silence sharpen into a blade. He clears his throat, uneasy. Then, carefully, he speaks: "My Lord… I beg only for this. If you must choose… spare her. Spare Lily."

Ah. So there it is.

The breath in the room tightens. Malfoy shifts uncomfortably, though he dares not speak. I regard Snape coolly. Inside, a dozen calculations ignite. His plea is born not of loyalty to me, but of personal attachment. Love. Pathetic, dangerous love. Yet useful, perhaps. A man who begs can be bound.

I let the silence stretch until he trembles faintly beneath my gaze.

"You presume much," I say at last, voice low and cold. "To beg favors of me."

He bows deeper, nearly crumpling. "My Lord… I live to serve. Only this I ask."

I wave a hand, dismissive, though my mind churns as I realize I have but a mere two months before the seventh month ends. "Leave me, when a child is born, notify me."

Both bow, retreating with measured haste. The doors close, and once more I am alone.

The firelight dances across the walls, shadows stretching long. I lean back in my chair, hands steepled. The prophecy echoes again in memory: born as the seventh month dies… mark him as his equal. Equal. The word strikes me like venom. I have no equal.

And yet…

The voices stir once more. Find the child of the prophecy and kill them, kill the blood-traitors!

Chapter Text

I could smell them before I saw them.

Their fear seeped through the manor like oil—thick, rancid, impossible to wash. A congregation of jackals in stolen finery, assembled to witness the footfall of their sun. The old hall itself seemed to bow beneath them; mortar complained, ancestral bones shifted, as if the house recognized the ritual about to begin.

I apparated into the center of that sea of trembling bodies. My robes arrived with the sound of a storm breaking—cloth snapping, shadow spilling. Every head dipped, every knee hit cold stone. The scrape of boots was a hymn; the hush that followed, an offering. They did not dare look up. They did not need to. I knew their hearts by their silence.

I walked the length of the chamber to the throne of black oak and iron I had carved out of fear and history. When I sat, the movement itself was a sentence. I let the quiet grow heavy until it hurt.

"Rise," I said.

They rose with the obedience of animals that know their master's voice. Their faces were masked—pale, blank, bone-crafted grins that had become the emblem of dread across the country. It was a relief to them to be behind masks; confession could be stolen from an open face, but terror hidden under porcelain was safer.

"Report," I said, and the word snapped like a lash.

Mulciber answered first, a hound eager for praise. He painted pictures of burning hamlets and charred thresholds, his voice trembling with the kind of zeal that confuses brutality for faith. "The blood traitors in Devon, my Lord," he announced. "Purged. Their houses are ash. No survivors."

I let the image settle. "And the Aurors?"

"Slain," he added, as if the word were a medal.

Efficient. I nodded once, deliberately. The murmurs in my head—ancient, hungry—wanted more: Weak. Sloppy. Sacrifice less mercy. Spill more blood. Drown them all. I folded them back, keeping the madness as an instrument rather than a master.

The litany continued. Yaxley detailed tortures that had slipped into sadism, and Avery stumbled through excuses about a botched ambush. I bored him with the flatness of a man whose patience was a currency already spent. He attempted to explain; I cut him off with a flick of my wand and the Cruciatus took his protest into screams. His pain sounded like prayer—coerced, filthy, effective.

"Disappoint me again," I told him, voice colder than the stone, "and pain will be the last kindness you receive."

He choked. I let him writhe until the show tired me. Then I ceased it, as if mercy were mine to grant or withhold on a whim.

Nott's nervous mouth produced a weak, ill-timed excuse about intelligence lost to incompetence. Cowardice—so familiar, so boring—grated like sand in a wound. I raised my wand without a word.

"Avada Kedavra."

Green light, clean as a blade. Nott folded; his body hit the floor with the mundane finality of failed paper. Silence reasserted itself, thick and more valuable than any coin. The room inhaled as one; for a breath they were all children again, waiting for the rod.

I let my fingers drum the arm of my throne, watching the fear sharpen in the faces around me—delicious and bitter in equal measure. Their obedience was not love. It was terror, and terror is a stronger bond.

My gaze skimmed across those I had bent to my will, the loyal and the useful, the frightened and the fanatic, until it rested on the center of all consequence. The word left me like a blade thrown into still water.

"The prophecy," I said. It hung in the air between us—alive, cold, inevitable. "Tell me, has a child been born?"

Lucius stepped forward with the ceremony I had taught him—bow precise, every movement measured for effect. "My Lord," he intoned, voice silk over steel. "On July 30th, the Longbottoms had a son named Neville Longbottom. The next day, the Potters had a son as well and I believe that the Potter brat is who the prophecy is talking about."

At Lily's name the air seemed to thicken. A muscle in Snape's shoulder jumped, a secreted ripple of feeling quickly staunched into his usual lacquer of control. I noted it and kept it, a small ledger entry against a future day. The other voices—my own darker instincts, the whispers of things older than us—threaded through my head. Mark them. Burn them. Take their children and drown the world in grief.

"Two children," I said, tasting the syllables. "Both born as the seventh month dies, now who should I select? If I am wrong, I would hate to bring forth my own downfall."

The calculus of fate sat on the table between us. Choose wrong and catastrophe; delay and the world might elude our grasp. Either could be ruined.

"Harry Potter," I decided, the name striking like lightning and leaving me colder for its passage. It was not a decision made from mercy or malice but from calculation; he was the fulcrum around which prophecy might tip. "He will be the one that I will go after. I will deal with the little brat myself."

Bellatrix shuddered with anticipation, a creature electrified by promise. She smiled as if the world had become a private theater in which only she was allowed to perform carnage. "My Lord," she breathed, voice raw and reverent. Her devotion had always been an ache on the edge of fanaticism—beautiful, dangerous, entirely hers. "What of the Longbottoms?"

I allowed the shadow of a smile to pass across my face—an invitation to cruelty. "You, Bella, will ensure their line ends. Spare no form of subtlety; terror will do what open death cannot."

She gave a laugh that was more a war-psalm than anything human. She dropped to her knees like a dog begging a bone and looked at me as if I were both altar and god. "It will be my honor," she whispered, eyes alight with a frightening pureness.

Then Pettigrew spoke.

The sound of his voice in that chamber was small, as if it belonged to someone trying not to be heard by the rats nested in the walls. Peter—thin-lipped, twitching, forever a scent of fear—had the nerve to intrude upon a gathering of wolves. He flinched; I was delighted in the tremor. His presence had always been a stone in my shoe—annoying, yet oddly indispensable. Cowardice, after all, has its uses.

"My Lord…" he began. The syllables stuck in his throat.

I let him squirm a little longer. Threat is clearest when it is slow. "What is it, Pettigrew?" The question was a blade sheathed in silk.

He swallowed visibly. "I… I know where they are. The Potters. They entrusted me as their Secret Keeper. They hide in Godric's Hollow."

The chamber seemed to inhale at once. The voices inside me banged their drums—go, strike, end it. I could almost see the boy, small and pale, sleep-breathing in a cottage whose windows would soon be smoke.

"You did well, Pettigrew," I said, and my tone was an obsidian calm. "On Hallowe'en you shall take me there to kill the boy."

Relief nearly knocked the breath from his body. "My Lord—why wait until Hallowe'en?" The question was a mistake born of panic and ignorance.

The wand was in my hand before I felt the movement. It rose to his throat with the languid inevitability of death itself. Magic thrummed, thick and hungry, ready to snap. "DO NOT QUESTION ME, RAT," I said, and the shout that buckled from me was not wholly mine—ancient fury and present rancor braided together. My voice broke on a note too high to be tamed, and for a moment the chamber saw the monster I had become.

Pettigrew crumpled, the last of his bravado collapsing into pure animal fear. He clawed at the ground, voice like a squeal. "Y-yes, my Lord! Y-yes!"

The hall exhaled. The flattery of silence returned; the Death Eaters edged closer like moths to a lantern. They wanted violence because violence was easy and immediate; they wanted to taste the boy's blood and be done with it. They did not see, or perhaps they did and did not care, that cruelty without calculation is only noise.

I let them be hungry. Hunger makes men stupid.

I could feel the old thirst — not for blood alone but for a whole world rearranged, for a seat at the center of that rearrangement. Power has a weight. I had learned to measure it by the tremor in a man's hand when you name his child. I had learned to taste it in the silence that follows a command. The prophecy was a hinge; on one side, a door to ruin, on the other, the place where I would finally secure what had been torn from me.

Snape watched me, the question in his dark eyes a blade folded in silk. His loyalty is a complicated thing; there are debts no potion can brew away. I felt, for a fraction of a breath, the map of his esteem — a narrow alley where my face sometimes softened, where something like gratitude hid beneath the layers. I dismissed it. Softness is a betrayal.

Preparations were made in the margins: charms to cloud sight, whispers sent to crooked officials, a list of names to be erased. Hallowe'en was not a whim to me but a chess move, set up with exacting cruelty. Bellatrix would take the Longbottoms — she would make fear an artform — while I struck at the trunk of the prophecy itself.

As the murmurs rose and plans sharpened, I turned my face to the tapestry-strewn darkness beyond the torchlight. Gods and prophecies and the thin human lives tied to them — all of it bent toward one end. I felt my hands on the world as if I could squeeze and shape it into something that would never, ever hurt me again.

Pettigrew's whimpering faded. The hall filled with the dry rustle of cloaks and resolve. In the hush, I spoke only one thing, for the words were prayer and edict both.

"Mark Hallowe'en," I said. "And get ready."

I lowered the wand slowly, forcing my breath steady. The voices clawed for control, laughing at me, through me. I felt my composure slip, then snap back into place like a mask.

"Leave me," I commanded.

The meeting dissolved. They fled, one by one, vanishing with sharp cracks of apparition until only silence remained.

I sat frozen, my hand trembling where it gripped the armrest. Why—why did I lose myself so easily now? Each outburst felt less like mine and more like his. Voldemort. The name I chose, the mantle I created—yet it was not wholly me. A second self, twisted and ravenous, tearing at my mind.

I left the hall and returned to my chambers. There, upon the bed, lay Nagini.

She stirred as I entered, lifting her great head. Her scales gleamed faintly in the candlelight, her eyes unblinking, steady.

"Hello, my Lord," she hissed, voice curling in my mind.

"Old friend," I answered in Parseltongue. The language soothed me, a balm upon the raw edges of thought. I sank onto the bed beside her, pressing a hand against her cool, sinuous form.

She studied me with unsettling intelligence. You roared tonight. The halls shivered with your rage.

"I am losing control," I admitted. The words burned, but they were true. "The voice is louder than ever. It twists my thoughts, drives me to madness."

Nagini's coils shifted, pressing against me with something like comfort. You have split your soul too far. The pieces cry to be whole. Each fragment is a wound. If you keep tearing, there will be nothing left to command.

I closed my eyes, stroking her scales. "And yet, I cannot stop. Power demands sacrifice."

But not all sacrifice is survivable, she said. Be careful, Tom.

At her use of my true name, something fragile stirred within me. I had not been Tom in so long. To the world, I was only Voldemort now, the Dark Lord, the terror. But to her… I was still something else.

"I promised you," I murmured, "I would find a way to break your curse. To free you from this shell. That promise I keep, no matter what becomes of me."

She dipped her head, her voice softer. Then guard your soul more wisely. Hide what you have made. Or they will be your undoing.

She was right, I can not afford to have my horcruxes discovered and destroyed.

I summoned my most trusted—or least incompetent. Lucius, Bellatrix, and young Regulus Black arrived at my call, each bowing deeply.

"You will safeguard my treasures," I said, my voice sharp. "Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Bellatrix—you will hide it in your vault at Gringotts. The diary, Lucius, you will guard until I need it. Regulus—" I paused, watching the young man's eyes flicker with something almost defiant. "—you will keep Salazar's locket. Hide it where no one will find it."

They bowed, though I caught the flicker of doubt in Regulus's gaze as he took the locket. A dangerous spark. One to be snuffed out, if it grew.

"As for Ravenclaw's diadem, it will rest within Hogwarts, where no eye will think to seek it. The ring of my grandfather I shall place within the Gaunt hovel, to honor the filth from which I rose."

They obeyed. They always obey. Yet I saw the cracks, the faltering devotion. Only Nagini remained constant. Only she saw me—not the Dark Lord, not the legend, not the monster. Only Tom.

When they were gone, I sank back beside her, pressing my forehead against her scales.

"Soon," I whispered. "Soon it ends. Either I consume the voice, or it consumes me."

Chapter Text

The night was silent when I arrived. Godric's Hollow. A place reeking of history, of old magic layered into the soil itself. I stood upon the cobblestoned path, my cloak whispering in the cold October wind, and beside me scurried the rat. Peter Pettigrew—my most pitiful servant.

He quivered, as always, the stench of fear clinging to him like sweat. He gestured down the lane with his stubby hand.

"There, my lord," he whispered, voice squeaking. "That one—the cottage with the lamp burning. The Potters' home."

I barely gave him a glance. I did not need the rodent to tell me; I could feel it. Wards wrapped about the little house like a gossamer veil, invisible to mortal eyes, but they bent around me as though bowing to their master. Foolish charms. Dumbledore's protections were riddled with flaws, always reliant on sentiment. Sentiment was weak.

"Stay here," I commanded, my voice cold, final.

Peter flinched as if struck. "Y-yes, my lord. Of course, my lord."

He would wait. He would not dare do otherwise.

I stepped forward. The wards parted before me like mist. With a flick of my wand, I sent a spell hurtling at the door.

"Bombarda!"

The door exploded inward, wood splintering, iron hinges shrieking as the pieces clattered across the floor. Smoke curled from the blasted frame. I entered, and there he was—James Potter.

He stood in the hallway, wand already raised, hair wild, hazel eyes burning with desperate resolve. The Heir of Potter, though stripped of his title by his father's disdain. A disappointment of a man by bloodline standards. And yet—there was strength in him, the kind that sentiment sometimes forged.

"Voldemort," he spat, as though the name were poison.

I gave him the courtesy of a bow of my head, the old Pureblood ritual still lingering in my memory. "Heir Potter. You stand between me and the child. Yield him to me."

His grip tightened on his wand. "Over my dead body."

I smiled. "That can be arranged."

The duel began.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, wand lashing forward.

I swept my wand upward. "Protego!" The disarming spell shattered against my shield in a burst of sparks.

I retaliated immediately. "Confringo!"

The hallway wall erupted where James had stood a moment before. He had thrown himself aside, landing in a crouch. Clever. Faster than I expected.

"Stupefy!" he roared.

"Protego Maxima." The red jet slammed into my shield, rippling it but failing to break it.

He countered again, relentless, a barrage of spells flying from his wand. "Flipendo! Incarcerous! Expulso!"

I moved like smoke, and cut precise arcs. His ropes disintegrated before reaching me. His blasting curse seared the floor at my heels. Sparks hissed in the air, painting the little cottage with deadly light.

"Impressive," I murmured, sidestepping another spell. "You've trained well, Potter. But skill without vision is wasted."

"Vision?!" he snarled. "Your vision is death and slavery!"

I answered with a flick of my wrist. "Crucio!"

He barely rolled aside in time, the curse striking the wall where paint bubbled and peeled. He scrambled to his feet, face pale, sweat dripping down his brow. His chest heaved with every breath. Yet he still stood. Still defied me.

Enough.

"Expelliarmus!" My voice cracked like a whip. His wand flew from his grasp, spinning end over end.

"Petrificus Totalus."

His body snapped rigidly. He toppled like a statue, crashing onto the floorboards with a hollow thud.

"Stupefy."

A crimson flash washed over him. He lay motionless now, unconscious, his defiance extinguished but not destroyed.

I exhaled slowly. Relief stirred in me, strange and unwelcome. I had not killed him. Somehow, in this rare moment of control, I had stayed my hand. A flicker of Tom Riddle remained in me still.

I turned away from the fallen Potter and ascended the staircase, each creak of the old wood echoing in the silence. The air grew heavy with tension, as though the house itself held its breath.

At the top of the stairs, a door. A faint glow leaked through its crack.

I entered.

The nursery was small, simple. Toys scattered across the rug. A crib by the window, its white paint gleaming in the lamplight. And there—Lily Potter.

She stood before the crib, fiery hair cascading around her face, green eyes blazing with fury and fear. She held no wand in hand, though I saw the glimmer of it on the table beside her. She had chosen to shield her child with her body. Foolish. Noble. Both.

"Lily," I said softly. The name tasted strange on my tongue. "Step aside."

She shook her head, jaw set. "Not Harry. Please—not Harry."

"The child is marked by prophecy," I told her, voice like ice. "He must die."

Her hand twitched toward the wand. I acted before she could.

"Expelliarmus. Petrificus Totalus. Stupefy."

Her wand flew away. Her body stiffened, collapsing to the floor, unconscious. She fell gracefully, almost peacefully, her hair splayed across the rug like fire.

I stood before the crib.

The boy lay within, small and fragile, wide green eyes gazing at me in innocent confusion. No fear. No understanding.

I lifted my wand.

"Forgive me," I whispered. "This is beyond my choice."

The voice rose in my head then, hissing, urging, demanding. Kill him. Kill the boy. Destiny is yours, seize it, destroy him—

I fought for breath, sweat beading at my temple. Control slipped like sand between my fingers.

I raised my wand higher.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light blazed. It struck the child's forehead—

—and rebounded.

The room exploded in light and thunder. I felt agony tear through me as though my very soul were ripped apart. A searing pain burned my chest, my skull, my very essence.

And then—

Time froze.

The light hung in the air like shattered glass suspended. Lily's body lay mid-fall, James downstairs caught in silence. Even the crying of the child halted.

And she was there.

A woman of impossible beauty, silver-white hair tumbling like a river of moonlight. She wore robes woven with stars, a wide-brimmed witch's hat atop her head. Power radiated from her, vast and endless, suffocating in its enormity. I knew, with a certainty that made my heart seize, that she could erase me with a thought.

She smiled, eyes alight with amusement.

"Hello, my dear descendant," she said, her voice a melody that echoed across eternity. "I think it is time I intervene… before the world is destroyed by that old fool."

My throat tightened. Words deserted me. My knees almost buckled under the weight of her presence.

If Dumbledore was the sun that I could never seem to reach... This woman was a damn Supernova. 

And I—Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord feared by thousands—was nothing more than a child before her.

Chapter Text

Silence.

That was the first thing I noticed. No whispers. No hissing voices clawing at the edges of my thoughts, no gnawing command seeping into my skull. For the first time in decades, my mind was my own.

And the source of that silence stood before me, alabaster skin gleaming faintly in the frozen light, her hair a cascade of moonlit silver. The woman's eyes burned like ancient stars, and her grin curved sharp and knowing.

My throat worked, but words refused to come. My body, once so full of certainty and venom, trembled like a child's. I wanted to demand answers, to ask her what manner of sorcery she wielded to still even my inner torment—but I could not. My tongue was lead.

Her hand shot forward with terrifying swiftness. Fingers colder than stone clamped to my face, her nail digging deep into my forehead. Pain lanced through my skull, searing, blinding.

I screamed. "What—what the hell—!"

The pain ceased as suddenly as it had come. She shoved me backward and I staggered, clutching my brow. My vision swam, my breath ragged.

Her voice came, melodic, edged with cruel amusement. "Better?"

I blinked, realizing… realizing what was wrong. Or rather, what was missing.

It was quiet.

Truly quiet.

For the first time since boyhood, the constant whisper that had plagued me—the insidious suggestions, the malicious urges—was gone.

I froze. My heart was hammered.

"…What did you do?" My voice was hoarse, barely mine.

The woman tilted her head, her smile widening. "I removed a parasite."

"A… what?"

"A brain parasite curse," she explained, as if lecturing a child. "Insidious magic, seeded into your mind while you were still young. It latched onto your thoughts, guided your instincts, whispered commands so softly that you believed them to be your own. It's why you never had full control."

My stomach clenched. My hands shook, though I hid them in the folds of my robes. "Who?"

"Who else?" Her laugh was like wind chimes, sharp and mocking. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The 'greatest wizard of the age.'"

Her words struck like curses.

I staggered back a step, heat rising in my chest. "…Lies. He could not—"

She cut me off with a flick of her wrist. "Who do you think whispered to your mother, poor Merope Gaunt, to use a love potion on your father? Who do you think kept you in that miserable orphanage rather than guiding you elsewhere? Who do you think has sat back all these years, letting you play the Dark Lord while he polishes his reputation as the saint of the Light?"

My breath came fast, ragged, fury boiling in my veins.

"You mean—" My voice cracked. "—I was his puppet? All this time?"

"Of course." She arched a silver brow. "Every atrocity you regret, every decision you thought was yours… nudged by him. You were his foil, Tom. His shadow, to make his light shine brighter. And now—" her eyes slid toward the frozen crib "—he intends the same for this child. To mold Harry Potter into his little sacrificial lamb, destined to die just in time for Dumbledore to swoop in and 'save the day.' The cycle repeats. Unless…"

My teeth ground together. Rage, shame, horror—emotions I thought I had purged from myself flooded back with suffocating force.

The voice. The urges. The war. The endless spiral into monstrosity.

Dumbledore.

That sanctimonious bastard.

I wanted to tear the world apart with my bare hands.

I forced my voice low, dangerous. "Why tell me this? Who are you to meddle in my life?"

Her smile softened, though her eyes burned brighter still. "Because, dear boy… I will need you."

The weight of her gaze crushed me. For the first time in my life, I understood what it was to be prey before a predator. She did not simply carry magic—she was magic.

She extended her arms in a graceful gesture. "As for who I am? I am Hecate. The first witch. The flame from which all others were lit. The ancestor of every witch and wizard who walks this earth. Including you, Tom Riddle."

My heart skipped.

Hecate. A name whispered in fragments across dusty tomes, half-myth, half-divinity. No scholar ever agreed if she lived or if she was a legend. And here she stood before me, solid, terrifying, undeniable.

Hecate moved like a thought. One moment she stood across the room, the next she was at the crib, fingers hovering just above the frozen child. The air around her rippled, the torches bending low as if in reverence.

"Though I am bound to all witches," she murmured, "I am more closely tied to one above all others."

Her eyes flicked to me, then back to the boy. "Young Harry Potter. My tenth great-grandson."

I turned sharply, my pulse a hammer in my ears. "Him?"

"Yes." The word glided from her lips like a blade across silk. Her expression was not just smug but radiant, a predator's pride in the strength of her bloodline. "He carries my blood in its purest form. He could even rival me, given time."

I stared at the child. Even frozen in time, he radiated power like heat off stone. My magic prickled in recognition.

"From the Potter line?" I asked warily.

Hecate's laugh filled the chamber, deep and rolling, like thunder echoing over mountains. "Not the Potters, Tom. His mother. Lily Evans."

The name hit me like a blow. "Evans? A Muggle-born?!"

Her eyes glittered with something ancient, older than contempt. "You think the Ministry's little labels define truth? Foolish boy. Long before the Ministry existed, before the Statute of Secrecy, the Imperial House of Emrys ruled magical Britain. They held my banner and my blood. They kept the old ways. And when the Salem trials burned their kin, they vanished—by choice. Their records destroyed. Their name scrubbed of power. What you call Muggle-born are often their scattered heirs."

I felt my breath catch. "Why have I never heard of this?"

"Because they erased it." Her smile was like a knife unsheathed. "When witches first walked the world, all were my descendants—half-bloods born from mortal fathers and my own magic. But only the House of Emrys—my House, born of my union with the quite dashing young Sebastian Emrys—carried my bloodline making them the only true Pureblood family that carried my gifts. When they disappeared into the mundane world, they chose a new name: Evans. A name safe enough to be forgotten."

I stared at the child again. "He's their heir?"

"He is," she said softly. "And through him, my line could be restored." She turned back to me, her gaze hardening. "I want you to return the House of Evans to its glory, Tom. Change the wizarding world for the better. Tear out the rot. Rule it, reshape it, burn away the lies. That is what I ask of you."

My instincts screamed, and my rage coiled. "So that's it. Another puppet. You want me to be your instrument."

Her laugh rolled again, genuine and terrifying, curling around me like smoke. "No, Tom. I've no need for puppets. I want a show. A spectacle. You will act as you will. Rise or fall, it will be of your own making. I will only watch."

She stepped closer, and the air thickened until I could hardly breathe. The torches went out one by one, plunging the room into shadow save for her eyes—twin green suns burning through the dark.

"I am offering you a choice," she said, her voice now low, intimate, inescapable. "Take my hand. Train under me. Learn what you never could at Hogwarts. When the time comes, you will wake inside this child's body, keeping your power, your knowledge, your will. In five years, the original boy will be beaten to death by his uncle—a meaningless end. You will take his place, and the world will never know."

Her hand extended, pale and flawless, yet heavy with the weight of eternity.

I stared at it. At her. At the boy. My mind roared like the sea. A chance to live free of Dumbledore's whispers. A chance to rebuild, to wield power untainted. A chance to destroy him. A chance to reshape everything.

But also—her words lingered—entertainment. She would watch, as one watches a play.

"What's your angle?" I hissed. "What do you gain from this?"

Her grin widened, terrible and beautiful. "A good story. That is all. Do not mistake me for your old headmaster. I will not pull your strings. I will simply…enjoy watching what you do with them."

I drew a slow, steady breath. My choice crystallized.

I reached.

Her fingers closed around mine like a trap of steel. The world shuddered. Stone cracked underfoot. My vision blurred as the walls bent inward, twisting into a spiral of green fire.

"Then it's decided," she whispered, her lips at my ear. Her breath was cool and smelled faintly of storms. "Good luck, Tom Riddle. You'll awaken in five…perhaps ten years. In his body. Make something magnificent of it."

She flicked her finger against my forehead.

Agony tore through me. Every nerve screamed as if my soul were being unstitched, re-threaded. The familiar wrench of Apparition magnified a thousandfold. Darkness swallowed me whole.

The last thing I heard was her laughter—wild, triumphant, echoing into the void—and her voice, soft and sharp as a knife:

"Do not disappoint me."

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

My eyes snapped open.

For a moment I didn't know where I was—or who I was. Pain swallowed me whole, searing through muscle and bone, a scream lodged in my throat but smothered by the sharp rattle of broken lungs. Each breath felt like shards of glass scraping down my throat. My ribs shifted—wrong, caved in, splintered. Something deep inside me was punctured; I could feel blood flooding where it had no right to be.

But there was more than pain. There were memories. Not mine—yet now inseparably mine. A boy's small hands, blistered from scrubbing floors. A cupboard under the stairs. The shrill voice of a woman calling him freak. A fat, smirking boy who learned cruelty like it was a sport. A man whose piggish eyes lit with satisfaction whenever the child cried.

Harry.

I knew the boy's life in a blink, like a parasite of memory had been grafted to me. I felt his hunger, his despair, his desperate loneliness. And with it came fury—Tom Riddle's fury. My fury.

Because now there was no longer a boy named Harry Potter, nor a man called Lord Voldemort. There was only me.

Hadrian.

The name slipped into my mind, sharp and inevitable. A merging. Not Tom. Not Harry. Something stronger, bound by both bloodlines, both histories. Hadrian Marvolo Evans. Yes—that fit. Evans… Hecate's Imperial bloodline. Power ancient and unyielding.

I sucked in a ragged breath, then another, as something strange began to stir inside me. My magic. No, not just my magic—our magic, mingling, stretching, expanding like wildfire through veins too frail to contain it. It hurt—Merlin, it hurt. Bones cracked, shifted, mended. Bruises burned away into nothingness. My lungs knitted, ribs aligned. The agony was so sharp I nearly blacked out, but beneath it there was something else: release. Freedom. As if every fracture was a chain snapping.

When the pain ebbed, I was left shaking, sweat slicking my skin, but whole. Stronger than whole.

I sat up, pressing my palm to the cupboard door. Locked. Of course. My lips curled. In my other life, I'd been locked away, too. Wool's Orphanage, doors that never opened unless the matrons willed it. And in Harry's? The Dursleys had done the same. How poetic.

I pushed lightly at the wood, irritation simmering. If only I had a wand—

A sharp click echoed. The lock snapped open. The door swung wide.

I froze. My pulse quickened. That… hadn't been Harry's usual accidental magic. No wild surge, no half-controlled push. That had been deliberate. A wish, and magic had obeyed.

My mind raced. Hecate's words stirred in memory. Her bloodline doesn't require tools.

I lifted my hand, willing softly: Lumos.

Light blossomed, not from a wand, but from my palm. A sphere of soft white brilliance floated there, obedient, pure, bending entirely to will. No incantation, no wand movement. Just thought.

A grin tugged at my lips. Oh, yes. This was better than anything I'd imagined.

I stepped out, the ball of light floating beside me. The Dursleys' house was quiet, shadows long across the carpeted stairs. My feet carried me into the kitchen, where the clock read 6:36 a.m. Almost morning.

My stomach growled, Harry's body still pitifully underfed despite the rapid healing. No matter. I would eat. And why not test my new abilities while I was at it?

I moved about the kitchen, unfastening locks with the flick of a thought. Pans drifted into the air. Ingredients hovered, chopping themselves under invisible blades. Bacon sizzled, eggs cracked and scrambled. Pancakes flipped gracefully without spatula. The rich scent of breakfast filled the air.

I poured milk into a cup, savoring the first cold mouthful, when I heard it—footsteps.

I turned at the sound of footsteps, expecting the lumbering gait of Vernon.Instead—Petunia.

She froze in the doorway.

I took her in properly now—not through Harry's blurred, childish eyes, but my own. She was in her late twenties, thin to the point of sharpness, like a knife honed too fine. Her nightgown clung loosely to her tall, bony frame. Her face, plain but not ugly, carried the brittle beauty of someone who had spent her life trying to be more than she was. With a few potions—skin smoothed, hair thickened, cheekbones lifted—she might even be striking. Attractive, in a cold way.

But her eyes ruined it. They betrayed everything. Fear. Contempt. Hatred.

Her mouth opened, a breath drawn for a scream. I flicked my wrist; the silencing charm took hold like an invisible hand closing her throat. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

She clawed at her neck, wild-eyed, and bolted for the stairs.

"Oh no, Auntie," I murmured, amused.

Reality folded at my whim. One moment she was at the foot of the staircase, the next she reappeared—abrupt, bewildered—slammed into a kitchen chair across from me. Not Apparition. Not a spell. Just my will reshaping the world.

Petunia's face went chalk-pale. She strained against the invisible binds, but my will held her fast.

I sat calmly at the table, lifting my teacup with deliberate precision. "Sit," I said, though she was already seated. "Breakfast is ready."

Her glare was vicious, but beneath it I tasted her fear. Delicious.

I cut into a sausage, letting silence stretch like a noose before I spoke again."I should clarify something. I am not Harry Potter."

Her head jerked, confusion warring with horror.

"That boy," I continued, "is dead. Beaten, starved, broken. Your husband's handiwork. Your own complicity. You killed him as surely as if you had plunged a knife into his heart."

Her lips trembled, words useless without sound.

I leaned forward, eyes narrowing, voice low and cutting. "Tell me, Petunia. If the roles were reversed—if Vernon and you were slaughtered, and Dudley was sent to live with your sister—would she have done to your son what you did to hers? Would she lock him in a cupboard? Beat him? Starve him? Force him to play servant in his own home?"

Her breath caught.

"No," I hissed softly. "She would have raised Dudley as her own. She would have taken him in, loved him, protected him. Even after losing you. Even after losing everything."

Tears welled in Petunia's eyes, spilling silently down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook. She tried to speak, but only a dry rasp came out.

"You murdered what was left of your sister," I went on, quieter now but no less sharp. "You murdered her son. Every blow, every insult, every moment of neglect—you drove the knife deeper. And now here you sit, across from the ghost you made."

Petunia bowed her head. Her face crumpled. She began to cry in earnest.

I let the silence linger a heartbeat longer, then released the silencing charm with a flick of my fingers. Her sobs filled the kitchen, thin and broken.

"Eat," I said simply.

Her knife and fork trembled as she lifted them. She glanced at the food, then back at me with a mix of shame and fear. And then she ate.

I smiled faintly, cold but satisfied, and sipped my tea.

Chapter Text

I flicked my fingers, and the silencing charm unraveled like a pulled thread. Petunia jolted in her chair, hands flying to her throat. Air rushed over vocal cords, but it took several false starts before sound returned to her.

Her first words came out like broken glass. "What… what have you done to me?"

"Nothing permanent," I said softly, folding my napkin with deliberate care. My voice was calm, steady, almost too adult for the small body I wore. "Merely a precaution until we could speak."

Her hand still at her throat, she glared at me with brittle fury. "Speak? About what?" Her voice was sharp, jagged—fear trying to disguise itself as anger.

I leaned back, teacup cradled in both hands, letting the silence grow heavy. "About who you are, Aunt Petunia. About who we are."

Her sneer deepened. "We? Don't you dare—"

"You and I," I interrupted, my voice quiet but weighted like a hammer, "are the last living members of the Pureblood House of Evans. Once, long ago, we were known as the Emrys—the ruling bloodline of magical Britain. The true descendants of Hecate herself."

She froze. Just for a second. But enough.

I smiled faintly. "Ah. You've heard the names."

Her fingers dug into the edge of the table. "Fairy tales. Nonsense. Old stories from my grandmother when I was a girl. Merlin, Hecate—just stories. That's all they were. Stories for children."

"Stories," I echoed softly. "Yes. And who better than Dumbledore to ensure that's all they ever were to you? A clever lie to tell you that you were born without magic, that you were lesser. A lie to keep you weak, bitter, resentful. Because you and my mother held more power in your fingers than he could ever dream."

Her lips thinned. Her knuckles went white where they gripped the table. "I have no power. I'm a Muggle. He told me so himself. That's why—" she faltered, swallowing hard, "that's why Lily got to be special. And I didn't."

I let the silence press down on her until she couldn't bear it. Then, slowly, deliberately: "No. That's why he wanted you to believe you weren't special."

Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing, jaw trembling.

And then it happened—my magic flexed without my willing it. The kitchen seemed to dim and sharpen all at once, colors bending. For the first time, I could see it—magic itself, flowing like rivers of colored light through the air. Pink and white, red and gold, shimmering threads lacing through everything.

And in Petunia… there it was. Weak. Twisted. Like a star half-buried under ice. A block, a dam choking off what should have been a torrent.

"You were born with magic," I said quietly.

The color drained from her face. "Liar."

"You were born with it," I repeated, my voice carrying no hint of doubt. "I can see it now. You're full of it, but something—someone—has bound it, sealed it away from you."

Her chair screeched as she surged forward, palms slamming onto the table. "Don't you dare toy with me like this!"

I didn't even blink. My five-year-old face remained still, but my eyes—cold, adult—pinned her where she sat. "Why would I waste the effort? You think I need to convince you? I'm telling you what I see. What I know."

Her breath came ragged, fury and confusion twisting her features. "No… no, he said… he said I was nothing, I was ordinary, I was—"

"Dumbledore," I said, and the name came out like venom.

She stilled.

"Of course it was him," I continued, voice soft but sharp as a knife. "He needed you weak. Powerless. Resentful. A perfect jailer for the nephew he intended to break. Do you really think it coincidence that the boy who carried such destiny ended up in your home, under the roof of a woman who hated magic? No, Petunia. That was orchestration. Manipulation. The so-called 'Greater Good.'"

Her hands clenched into trembling fists. "So he… he did this? To me?"

I tilted my head. "Who else?"

For a long moment she said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper: "Can it… can it be undone?"

Her eyes lifted to mine—raw, unguarded, desperate. The mask had fallen. There was a hunger there now, sharp and aching.

"Yes," I said simply. My child's voice held an adult's certainty. "But not for free. Not without cost. Not without change."

She swallowed hard, lips parting, and I saw the tears begin to rise.

I leaned forward, the small hands of a five-year-old folded neatly on the table but the weight of an ancient predator behind my eyes. "Now you begin to understand, Aunt Petunia."

She gasped, the sound half-sob, half-laugh. Her eyes flooded, tears slipping down cheeks too proud to ever welcome them. She pressed trembling hands to her mouth as if to hold back the storm breaking inside her.

"All these years," she choked. "All these years I hated her because she had what I didn't. Because she was chosen and I wasn't. I thought… I thought something was wrong with me. That I was broken. That I was nothing."

Her shoulders shook, tears falling freely now. "And all the while it was stolen from me. Stolen, locked away, smothered—Merlin help me, I…" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing in earnest.

I watched her carefully, not unkindly. There was no triumph in this, only confirmation. The woman who had been my jailer, my tormentor's accomplice, was herself a prisoner. A puppet dancing on Dumbledore's strings.

And oh, how sweet it was to cut the strings.

When her sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, I spoke again. "You are not broken, Petunia. You are not powerless. You are Evans blood—part of the Imperial blood-line."

She lowered her hands slowly, eyes red, cheeks wet. She stared at me as if trying to measure the weight of my words against the years of lies she'd swallowed.

Finally, her voice cracked, fragile and yearning. "And… you'd help me? You'd… free it?"

I smiled faintly. "In time. But know this, Aunt Petunia—I don't give without cost. I have plans. I will tear down the rotted corpse of the Wizarding World and rebuild it anew. Their history is lies, their power corrupted, their so-called leaders blind men steering a sinking ship. I will not let their decay drag us down. When I rise, it will be different."

Her lips trembled. "And you want me to… what? Join you?"

I set my teacup down with a soft click. "I want you to choose. You can embrace what you are, stand with me, carve a place for yourself in the world that denied you… or you can continue the path you've walked—fear, bitterness, denial—and be left behind. Abandoned again. Forgotten."

Her fists clenched on her lap. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, almost fiercely: "I'll join you."

The conviction in her voice surprised even her. She blinked, as though realizing what she'd said, then nodded quickly, as if to cement it. "Yes. I'll join you. I'll… I'll talk to Vernon. He has always trusted and supported me, taken my own anger for the magical world. Should I tell him.. he will support me in my choice to join you."

I arched an eyebrow. "Will he? Or will he cling to the petty comfort of normalcy, the delusion of superiority he wields over you and the boy? I will say this only once, Petunia: I will have no qualms killing those who stand in my way. Family or not."

She flinched, the blood draining from her face. Meekly, she nodded. "I… I understand."

"Good."

I flicked my hand, loosening the invisible bindings. She startled as sensation returned, muscles trembling with the rush of freedom. Slowly, she rose to her feet, wavering slightly.

At the doorway she paused, turning back. Her eyes, still damp, held something I hadn't expected: regret.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For everything. For what I did to him. To you."

I regarded her in silence, face unreadable. After a moment, I inclined my head once.

She swallowed, then slipped out of the kitchen, her footsteps fading into the hall.

I sat alone at the table, the remnants of breakfast before me, the air still humming faintly with power.

Chapter Text

The kitchen felt different that morning.

Not because the light was any brighter, or the tea any hotter, but because of who sat across from me. Vernon Dursley had taken the day off work — his tie still knotted but loosened, his shirt stretched across his chest like a drum. The man was a mountain of meat and bluster, his moustache quivering slightly as he studied me.

I studied him in return.

The same beady eyes, the same ruddy cheeks as before… and yet there was something new. A wariness, perhaps. A flicker of understanding that whatever boy he had beaten, starved, and locked beneath the stairs was not the boy now staring back at him.

I let the silence linger, sipping tea from my cup with perfect table manners — back straight, pinky angled just so, the way my tutors in another life had drilled into me. Vernon cleared his throat, an awkward rumble, before speaking.

"You're not him," he said at last, voice low. "Not the boy."

"No," I agreed softly, setting the cup down. "Not the boy you had killed last night."

His shoulders stiffened. Petunia, pale and hovering near the counter, flinched at the bluntness of my words. But I pressed on, relishing the way the man's moustache twitched like an angry cat's tail.

"I am not the same boy from last night." I told him. "And I have no intention of playing the whipping post for your frustrations ever again."

Vernon's thick fingers drummed against the tabletop. "Then who are you really? What are you?"

I smiled faintly. "That depends on how much truth you're ready to swallow."

He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. His eyes narrowed, calculating. For all his brutish exterior, the man was not entirely stupid. "Petunia says you're… different. Told me how you act like an adult and know things you didn't before. I didn't believe it till I saw it."

I inclined my head. "She is correct."

"And those plans?" His eyes bored into mine. "What do they mean for us?"

At last, the heart of it. The protective father, the stubborn husband. For all his faults, Vernon Dursley was not a man to hand over his family lightly.

"They mean opportunity," I said smoothly. "But only if you stand with me."

He grunted, unimpressed. "Opportunity, eh? Sounds like you're angling to drag us into your world. And I want nothing to do with that freakish lot."

"Ah, but you're already entangled," I countered. "Your wife's blood ties bind you to it. Your son's cousin dragged it into your home. You think shutting your eyes makes it vanish? No. The Wizarding World has always been there, looming over you. You simply lacked the vision to see it."

His jaw worked. "So you're saying we've got no choice."

"There is always a choice," I said lightly. "You can stand with me — and benefit — or you can refuse. But know this: refusal means abandonment. And abandonment, in my world, is death."

Petunia's breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth. Vernon only scowled deeper, though I saw the tremor in his thick fingers. He wasn't a fool. He understood threats when he heard them.

"Suppose we… stand with you," he said slowly. "What then? What's your grand plan?"

I allowed myself a thin smile. "To tear down the Wizarding World brick by brick and rebuild it. Their Ministry is a carcass, rotting from the inside. Their traditions, twisted by hypocrisy. I will either dissolve it entirely or seize control and reforge it in my image. Either way, the world that despised you, Petunia, will fall."

Her eyes widened, a strange light flickering there — fear mingled with something like hope.

Vernon, however, snorted. "Big talk for a boy who barely reaches the table."

"Appearances deceive," I replied calmly. "I have the power of lifetimes behind me. And I will not squander it. You asked what it means for you? It means protection. It means elevation. It means being more than petty people in a Surrey suburb. I will restore my family's House — the House of Evans — to the grandeur it deserves. And you, Vernon Dursley, may sit as a branch of it."

He blinked. "Restore it? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means embracing truths your kind would call barbaric," I said, my voice cool. "The laws and customs of Pureblood society are older than your fragile kingdoms, and some of them would horrify your neighbors. For instance—" I folded my hands neatly atop the table. "Unlike Muggles, wizardkind can marry within their own family without fear of deformity or disease. Our blood is not chained by your limitations. Should a Pureblood line falter, it is required by law for the last heir to take multiple wives, to seed the line anew. Our children remain healthy, strong. That is the nature of magic."

Vernon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you saying…" He ground the words out, moustache bristling. "Are you saying you'll need to… produce an heir with Petunia?"

Across the table, Petunia went stiff, her eyes wide.

I laughed — a genuine, cold laugh that echoed in the small kitchen and made both of them flinch. "Oh, Vernon. Must you always leap to such crude conclusions? No. I have no interest in bedding your wife. Though your discomfort is amusing."

His cheeks purpled. "Then what the devil are you saying?"

"I will perform a ritual," I explained smoothly. "A blood adoption. It will bind your branch of the family into mine. You, Petunia and Dudley will carry the Evans name. Perhaps when Dudley has a child they will be born with magic, though not to the degree it does in me. You, Vernon, will never wield it — but you will carry the prestige of a wizarding House. That is more than most Muggles could dream of."

He fell silent, digesting my words. His thick fingers drummed on the wood, slow and heavy. Petunia, pale but oddly hopeful, looked between us.

Finally, Vernon exhaled, a long gust of breath. He shifted in his chair, standing with surprising heaviness. His eyes, small though they were, met mine with something like resignation.

"Alright," he muttered. "You want us bound into your House. You want us to stand with you. Fine. We'll do it."

Petunia gasped softly.

Vernon's eyes hardened. "But don't think I'll roll over easily. You threaten my family, you hurt them, and I don't care what kind of freakish tricks you've got — I'll find a way to end you."

Defiance. I admired it, even as I dismissed it.

I inclined my head, lips curving faintly. "Spoken like a man worthy of standing at my table. You have my respect, Vernon Dursley. Few dare to glare into the eyes of power without blinking."

He grunted, uncomfortable with the compliment, and straightened his shirt. Then, awkwardly — stiffly — he bowed. Not deeply, not gracefully, but enough.

"My… lord," he said roughly. "Have you any tasks for me?"

The sight of Vernon Dursley, red-faced and bowing, nearly coaxed a laugh from me again. Instead, I allowed myself only a smirk.

"Yes," I said. "I need my name changed. Hadrian Marvolo Evans sounds perfect. I will need you to drive us to the Leaky Cauldron, I will show you the way."

Vernon straightened, moustache twitching. "That's it?"

"For now." I sipped my tea again, savoring the bitterness. "But soon, there will be much more."

And with that, the Dursleys were mine.

Chapter Text

The car rumbled down the motorway, the faint squeak of the windscreen wipers marking time against the drizzle. I sat in the back seat, staring out the window, my chin propped in my hand as grey London rolled by. Vernon's meaty hands gripped the wheel, his moustache twitching every so often as he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror.

Petunia sat rigidly in the passenger seat, lips pressed thin, eyes darting between her husband and me as though unsure which of us might snap first. Beside me, Dudley fidgeted with the seatbelt, round face pressed to the glass.

"Where are we going?" Dudley asked for perhaps the fifth time, his voice a mix of suspicion and eagerness.

"To the Leaky Cauldron," I said simply, not looking away from the window.

"What?" Vernon barked.

"The entrance to the Wizarding World," I replied, voice calm, even bored. "A pub, of sorts. Ordinary people like you would never notice it. Charms hide it from Muggle eyes."

"Muggles," Vernon muttered, the word sour in his mouth. "That's what you lot call us, isn't it? Like we're dirt."

I tilted my head, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Not dirt. Simply… limited. Blindfolded, stumbling through a world you do not understand."

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing, focusing on the road instead.

At last, I directed him off the main road, through a series of smaller streets, until the buildings grew older, shabbier. Dudley pressed his face to the glass, wide-eyed at the crumbling brickwork, the dingy shopfronts. Petunia pursed her lips tighter with each turn, as though the very air was unclean.

"Here," I said suddenly. "Pull over."

Vernon parked with a grunt, engine ticking as it cooled. I opened the door and stepped out, the rain misting my hair. The others followed — Vernon lumbering, Petunia clutching her handbag like a shield, Dudley bouncing slightly on his heels.

I led them down the pavement to a soot-darkened building squashed between two newer ones. Its windows were grimy, its sign barely legible, swaying in the damp breeze: The Leaky Cauldron.

Vernon frowned. "That? Looks condemned."

"You can't see it," I told him. "Nor can she." I nodded at Petunia, whose eyes slid right past the building. "The charms are clever. They make your mind dismiss what it doesn't wish to notice. But if you follow me, you'll manage."

Before Vernon could argue, I pushed open the warped wooden door and stepped inside.

The air changed instantly. Warmth washed over me, tinged with smoke, stale ale, and something distinctly herbal. The room was dim, lit by oil lamps and a few flickering candles. A low murmur of voices filled the space, along with the clink of tankards and the rustle of cloaks.

Witches and wizards crowded the tables — some laughing, some muttering, some hunched over bowls of stew. Their robes were a riot of color: emerald and plum, faded mustard and deep sapphire. To the Dursleys' eyes, it must have looked as though they'd stumbled several decades — perhaps centuries — into the past.

Petunia stopped short, her face blanching. Vernon's moustache twitched violently as he stared. Dudley, however, gave a low whistle. "Blimey. Looks like a costume party."

Every head turned at once.

The laughter died. The muttering ceased. Silence spread like a stain across the room. Dozens of eyes fixed on us — four figures out of place, one of them unmistakably me. Whispers rose, urgent and hissing.

I ignored them.

Behind the bar stood a man as wizened as the wood itself, bald on top with straggling white hair around his ears, face creased like old parchment. His eyes crinkled as he set down a glass.

"Good morning," he rasped, voice dry but oddly cheerful. "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron. What can I get you?"

"Nothing," I said evenly. "We're merely passing through. To Diagon Alley."

Recognition flickered in his eyes, though he said nothing, only nodding toward a door at the back. "Of course. Right through there."

"Thank you, Tom," I said, tilting my head. His brows rose at the name, but he nodded again.

The stares followed us as I led the Dursleys through the bar. Petunia kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Vernon puffed himself up, glaring at anyone who dared look too long. Dudley gaped openly at the owls perched in the rafters and the strange instruments scattered on shelves.

Through the back door, we stepped into a small, walled courtyard, damp and empty save for a few bins. Vernon scowled. "Well? Doesn't look much like a marketplace to me."

"Patience," I murmured, stepping to the wall. I counted bricks under my breath, then pressed three in quick succession.

The wall shivered. Bricks groaned, shifting, folding in on themselves until an archway yawned open. Beyond it, sunlight spilled onto cobblestones, and the roar of a bustling crowd burst through.

I turned, sweeping an arm toward the opening. "Welcome," I said softly, "to Diagon Alley."

We stepped through together.

The Dursleys froze.

Before us stretched a long, winding street alive with color and sound. Shopfronts leaned at odd angles, their signs creaking overhead: Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies. Cauldrons of every size glinted in windows. Books stacked higher than Vernon's head filled another. Candies whizzed and popped in displays, while a witch with a tray of roasted nuts called out to passersby.

The crowd was just as varied — wizards in long robes of every shade, witches with pointed hats adorned with feathers, children tugging at parents' sleeves. A young man swept by on a broom, chased by a laughing shopkeeper shouting after him.

Dudley's jaw dropped. "Wicked…"

Petunia muttered something that sounded suspiciously unnatural.

Vernon only shook his head. "Bloody ridiculous. Looks like a circus."

"To you, perhaps," I said calmly. "But this is the heart of commerce for wizardkind in Britain. Outdated, yes — much of it still clings to fashions from the eighteenth century, if not earlier. But here you will find everything a witch or wizard could need. Clothes, books, brooms, familiars, charms, potions, and more."

As we walked, Dudley pointed constantly. "What's that one?"

"Brooms," I said. "Transportation. Faster than your cars, though less comfortable. That shop sells Quidditch supplies — a sport, more violent than your rugby. That one, Flourish and Blotts, is where schoolchildren buy their texts. The candy shop sells confections that will turn your tongue green, or make you levitate briefly. All trivial, of course. The true power here lies ahead."

I gestured down the street. At the far end, towering above the crooked shops, stood a massive marble building. White stone gleamed in the sunlight, its steps wide and sweeping, its bronze doors tall and forbidding.

"That," I said, "is Gringotts. The only bank in our world. Run by goblins."

"Goblins?" Dudley repeated, eyes wide.

"Greedy, clever creatures," I explained. "They pride themselves on their craftsmanship and despise wizards for their dependency. They will smile to your face while plotting to cheat you blind. Even in my past life, I loathed them."

We mounted the steps. At the entrance, a plaque gleamed in the stone:

Enter, stranger, but take heedOf what awaits the sin of greed,For those who take but do not earn,Must pay most dearly in their turn.

Vernon muttered, "Charming."

Inside, the grandeur only grew. The hall stretched vast and gleaming, with polished marble floors and towering chandeliers. Behind long counters sat goblins — small, sharp-featured creatures with pointed ears and hooked noses, their long fingers scratching across ledgers. Wizards and witches queued before them, some deferential, some impatient.

The goblins' eyes, cold and calculating, followed us as we entered.

Dudley whispered, "They look like… like bankers crossed with bats."

"An apt description," I murmured.

I approached an empty counter. The goblin behind it barely glanced up, his voice dry. "Business?"

"I require access to the Emrys account and the Potter accounts," I said evenly. "In addition, I will be performing a blood adoption and a formal name change."

The goblin's quill still. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes narrowing. "That will require… much work." His tone dripped with annoyance.

"Then I suggest you begin," I said.

He scoffed, muttered something in his own tongue, and gestured sharply. Another goblin appeared, glaring. "Escort them," the first said. Then, with a glance at Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley: "The Muggles will wait outside. They are not welcome here."

I turned my gaze on him, calm but cold. "If a single hair on their heads is touched, you will dearly regret it."

The goblin faltered, eyes narrowing further. But he said nothing, only motioned us to follow.

We were led down a corridor, doors shutting firmly behind us. At last, we entered a smaller chamber, guarded by two armored goblins. The one who had escorted us sneered.

"House claims are taken seriously," he said. "Can you prove you are from House Potter?"

I raised an eyebrow, noticing him ignoring the name of Emrys, then slowly touched the scar on my forehead, the lightning bolt etched deep over my eye. A scar that should be famous to all of the Wizarding World "I am Harry Potter," I said flatly.

The goblin sniffed, unimpressed. "We require more than scars. Blood will tell."

He barked a command. Moments later, a younger goblin hurried in, carrying a tray. On it lay a parchment, blank but glimmering faintly, and a small knife etched with runes along its blade.

The tray was set upon the desk. The goblin gestured. "Prove it."

I picked up the knife, weighing it in my hand, studying the faint shimmer of enchantments along the edge. Then, without hesitation, I sliced my palm. Blood welled crimson. I let it drip onto the parchment.

It hissed.

Chapter Text

The parchment hissed when my blood touched it, searing hot, as though it had waited centuries for this moment. The fibers drank greedily, pulsing, and then—light. Golden fissures spiderwebbed across the surface, bright enough to sting the eyes, before curling letters rose out of the glow like shadows made solid.

The goblin snatched it before the last line had finished etching itself. His claws dug into the parchment as if afraid it might escape. Slitted eyes darted line by line, his gray skin paling with each word.

A goblin, paling. That was interesting.

His lips peeled back from sharp teeth, but no sound came out. He looked at me, looked back at the parchment, then down at my small frame. His expression trembled between outrage and fear, and the latter was winning.

I held out my hand. "Let me see."

He didn't move. Didn't even look at me. Just clutched the parchment tighter, his throat working.

My eyes narrowed. Wrong answer.

The document shivered. His claw tightened instinctively—but it made no difference. With a tug of will, the parchment ripped itself free of his grasp and slid across the desk into my waiting hand.

The goblin hissed, the sound raw, feral, but he didn't try to stop me. His gaze was fixed on me now, unblinking.

I lowered my eyes to the parchment. Words gleamed, each one a hammer striking iron:

Harry James Potter
Parents: James Charles Potter, Lily Rose Potter (née Evans)
Godparents: Sirius Orion Black, Alice Longbottom (née Prewett)
Date of Birth: July 31st, 1980
Physical Age: 5 years (63 years old)
Soul Age: 58 years
Status: Pureblood

Bloodlines:
– Royal House of Potter
– Imperial House of Emrys (Evans)

Vaults:
– Trust Vault #687 — 12,500 Galleons
– House Potter Vault #147 — 987,365,000 Galleons; heirlooms, enchanted tomes, estates in England & Scotland
– House Emrys Imperial Vault #001 — 9,389,765,376,234 Galleons; priceless artifacts, enchanted weaponry, grimoires; properties worldwide

Bloodline Abilities: Parseltongue, Ancient Magic
Magical Alignment: Gray, Dark-leaning

I stared for a moment, then let a slow smile creep across my lips. I had expected wealth, yes—but not an empire. Enough to drown the Ministry in gold ten times over. Enough to turn every wizarding nation upside down.

I folded the parchment once, deliberately, and set it in Petunia's trembling hands. She scanned it, eyes widening as though the words might bite. By the time she reached the totals, her mouth was dry, her breathing sharp. Vernon leaned in, mustache twitching as his face blanched. Dudley leaned closer, only to have Petunia clutch the parchment to her chest as though afraid it might evaporate.

I turned back to the goblin.

He hadn't moved. His eyes were still locked on me, unblinking, slitted pupils dilated in something that looked disturbingly close to panic.

"Well?" I asked softly.

The goblin's throat bobbed. He wet his lips. "That name…" His voice was low, hoarse. "…Emrys."

The word hung in the air like a curse.

Around us, other goblins who had pretended disinterest were suddenly still. One dropped a stack of coins. Another's quill snapped. They knew.

The goblin—Gornak, his nameplate read—leaned forward, his sneer faltering into something more cautious. Almost reverent.

"That line is not meant to exist. The House of Emrys vanished before your Ministry was born. Their vaults have not been touched for nearly four centuries. They were…" He hesitated. "…the first among us. The crown of wizardkind. Not even the Potters or Blacks could rival them. And you…" His gaze flicked again to the parchment. "You should not be what this says you are."

I tilted my head. "And what is that?"

His claw tapped the parchment with trembling precision. "Five years in body. Sixty-three in truth. Fifty-eight in soul. That is an impossibility. And yet…" He looked at me again, searching, and his voice lowered to a rasp. "…and yet, you exist."

The silence stretched. Goblins in the room shifted uneasily, some bowing their heads slightly, others glaring at me with naked fear.

I leaned forward, my small hands folded neatly, eyes gleaming like knives. "So tell me, Gornak. What can Gringotts do for me today?"

The goblin swallowed once, twice. Then, bowing his head just enough to acknowledge what the parchment had revealed, he whispered:

"Anything you wish, Lord Emrys."

Lord. How quickly they changed their tone.

Moments ago, Gornak had been a creature of marble sneers and iron rules. Now, as the light of my bloodline still shimmered faintly on the parchment, his claws trembled over the ledger. He did not meet my eyes.

"I will not be Lord Potter," I said. My voice was calm, but every syllable landed like a weight. "I will be uniting the Houses of Emrys and Potter. Their vaults, their properties, their names. From this day forward, both shall be bound under a single banner: Evans. My name is to be officially changed to Hadrian Marvolo Evans."

The goblin's head jerked up. His quill scratched furiously over the page, almost frantic to keep up. "Of course," he murmured, bowing his head. "Of course. And you wish the vaults merged under the Imperial line?"

"Yes," I replied. "Consolidate them. Their histories will remain preserved, but their resources will be one. The banner of House Evans shall stand again at full strength."

Gornak hesitated, then gestured toward the others with a flick of his claw. Two lesser goblins froze mid-step, then bolted out of the office at his barked command in the guttural goblin tongue.

"And… the humans?" His eyes flicked toward Petunia and Vernon, wary, testing. "They cannot—"

"They will," I interrupted smoothly, letting my gaze sharpen. "You will draw up papers of blood adoption. Vernon will be bound as a branch of House Evans, though his status remains mundane. Petunia…" My eyes slid to her, and she swallowed hard under the weight of my stare. "Her magic lies dormant. Adoption will not only awaken it, but you will unbind it. Now."

The room went still. Gornak's quill stopped scratching. Even the fire in the hearth hissed lower.

Unbinding magic was no small request. It was dangerous, ancient, and reserved for goblin-led rites.

For a heartbeat, his pride flickered. Then survival instinct won. He inclined his head slowly—no longer a sneer, but a bow. "As you command, Lord Evans."

He barked another order, sharper, and a group of three goblins entered, robes dark and heavy with sigils. One bore a silver basin etched with runes; another, a knife whose edge shimmered with green light. They bowed low before me and waited.

"Take the Lady," Gornak instructed them, voice low. "Lead her to the Unbinding Chamber. Prepare the rites. She is to be unbound under the seal of House Evans."

Petunia stiffened, eyes darting to me. I inclined my head once. "Go," I said softly. "You'll understand soon enough."

She hesitated only a moment, then followed the goblins out. The heavy door swung shut behind them, sealing with a muted click.

I turned back to Gornak. "While they perform the unbinding," I said, "we will finish the paperwork."

"Yes, my lord." His voice was tighter now, but respectful. Gone was the sly condescension; he spoke as one might to an old and dangerous thing.

Scrolls and quills appeared on the desk, carried by yet more clerks. Piles of parchment covered the surface like white waves.

I signed first, each stroke deliberate, the quill scratching my new name with a flourish: Hadrian Marvolo Evans. The ink shimmered gold, sinking into the document like molten metal.

The next parchment required blood. I drew the blade across my palm without flinching, letting the crimson drops fall. The page drank greedily, sigils flaring—Potter and Emrys weaving together in curling, interlocking symbols of black and gold.

When it was done, the light sank into the paper like a breath leaving a body.

Gornak slid the blood-adoption contracts across the desk. Vernon's signature was scrawled in a rough, uncertain hand, but he obeyed without question now. Three drops of his blood fell, dull red, and the parchment glowed faintly before sealing the cut shut.

I pressed my palm to the crest at the bottom. It flared, sealing him as a branch under House Evans.

"It is done," Gornak said, voice low, almost reverent. "House Evans is restored."

He risked a glance at me. "The Lady's unbinding will take some time. It is an ancient rite. Few living goblins have performed it."

I leaned back in my chair, eyes hooded. "Then you had best make sure it's done right."

Gornak bowed deeply this time—no half-measures, no pride. "As you will, Lord Evans."

He clapped his hands sharply. From a perch above, a great owl stirred — larger than any Muggle bird, its feathers silver-tipped, its eyes gold. It swooped down silently, landing on the desk with talons that clicked against marble.

"This will deliver the documents to the Ministry," Gornak explained. "They will be processed immediately."

The owl spread its wings, nearly the span of Vernon's armspan, and took off with a soundless rush of air. Through a high window it vanished into the London sky.

I leaned back in my chair, studying the goblin. He would not meet my eyes now. Professional, yes — but the pallor of his skin, the twitch of his fingers on the ledger, betrayed what he felt.

Fear.

Good.

I stood, smoothing my shirt. "That will be all. For now."

The Dursleys rose with me. Vernon looked faintly green. Petunia clutched her handbag like a lifeline. Dudley looked as though he wanted to tell every child in Smeltings about the giant owl.

As we stepped into the corridor, Vernon cleared his throat. "So… what now?"

I smiled. "Now? We prepare for the future. In a few months, you and Dudley will be entering first grade."

Vernon frowned. "At Smeltings?"

"No," I said smoothly. "At Thomas's Battersea Academy. A private school. Prestigious. Difficult to enter."

Petunia blinked, then laughed — high, sharp, nervous. "That school costs more than a small fortune! And you need connections just to apply!"

"Do not worry." My smile widened, cold and assured. "I have my own ways of doing things."