Chapter Text
4 October 2084 CE
12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London
Harry Potter was lying in bed in the master bedroom of 12 Grimmauld Place, dying. His four children, Teddy, James, Albus, and Lily all sat around him. He still had enough strength to give parting hugs, handshakes, and kisses to all of those who were able to visit him in his final days. Grandchildren, great grandchildren, cousins, friends, and long time acquaintances had all come to pay their respects to the Potter patriarch. His affairs were put in order and had been updated every year since Andromeda and baby Teddy had come to live with him after Voldemort’s defeat. He could still recall the long renovations being done at the ancestral Black home after the war. Ginny had passed away in her sleep eight months prior. Now he would get to be with his love again in the afterlife.
“Remember to put both of my wands—”
“In your grave with you, Dad. We know.” Albus interrupted with a sad smile. “Right next to Mum, in the church graveyard at Godric’s Hollow.”
“And this ring—”
“Leave it on your hand and bury you with it. We know, Dad.” Albus interrupted again.
“You never did tell us why you kept two wands, Dad.” James murmured. “All those times we asked.”
“It’s not important, James!” Lily warned with reproachful eyes at her brother.
“Once… upon a time, it was important. Some would say it's still… important.” Harry rasped. “But that… is one story I… I never wanted to tell.”
In the evening, Harry Potter closed his eyes.
The fifth day of the 10th moon of 284 AC
Maegor’s Holdfast, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
A storm raged against the rocks of Aegon’s Hill. Winds forced open windows and rain splattered the stones of the Red Keep. The waters below in the Blackwater were errant and choppy.
Inside a room with a burning hearth, Harry woke to the muffled sounds of people moving around him and speaking. His head felt heavy and he couldn’t understand what was happening. A simultaneous push and a pull and he was free of the squeezing sensation around him. Was this the afterlife?
A tired woman’s voice asked, “Maester… why is my child not making any noise?”
Harry, who still couldn’t see clearly, suddenly realized that he couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth, and a small hiccupping sound was heard before an ear-splitting baby’s wail poured out. As soon as Harry could breathe again, he shut his mouth in fright.
Harry was jostled into slimmer arms before it finally dawned on him. The blurry eyesight cleared up to reveal a stunning golden-haired woman who looked down at Harry with love in her green eyes. A slender hand stroked his cheek before the woman said, “He’s… beautiful.”
Harry stared in shock at the woman. This was a new mother… Harry’s new mother.
“A healthy boy, Your Grace. The Mother has blessed us,” a woman whispered.
“Aye!” The old man in red robes and heavy metallic chains said. “Send for His Grace and the Lord Hand.”
But Harry’s new mother didn’t hear any of it. She didn’t hear the hustle and bustle around her. She held her newborn son close and looked him over. Her first born. “You have Jaime’s eyes. My eyes. Your hair is black. These thin, soft strands are black.”
A minute passed before her brother, Jaime joined her. “Cersei!”
“Look, Jaime! Robert’s and mine own son.” She didn’t need to see her brother’s face. She knew he was crushed. She was crushed as well. It was Robert's get, not her brother’s.
“Aye,” he swallowed. “The heir to the Iron Throne. You’ve done well. Father will be pleased.”
Outside they could hear the boisterous laugh of King Robert coming closer to her birthing bed and Jaime did not have time to hand her the corked bottle of poison.
The first day of the 1st moon of 285 AC
Great Hall, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
Harry drifted in and out of consciousness the first few weeks of his new life. He was tired and weak and hungry all of the time. Colors and voices seemed to flit around him as he was fed, changed, bathed, and lulled to sleep.
On the first day of the new year, Harrold Baratheon was deemed healthy enough to make his public appearance as the new crown prince and heir to the Iron Throne. Trumpets sounded, startling the infant awake. He was resting against his mother’s neck, her right hand covering the back of his little head.
King Robert Baratheon strode into the throne room, walking under raised swords. He reached the dais where the Iron Throne stood. The tall and handsome king kissed his wife on her cheek and took their child from her arms. The king took his son and marched up the steps before turning and sitting on the throne. Harry sat on his father’s thigh, a muscled left arm holding him securely against an armored abdomen. Harry wore half gold and half red with a crowned black stag and a golden lion facing one another. He wasn’t strong enough to hold his neck up for longer than a few seconds before resting it on his father’s belly, little hand curling into his mouth as he tried to see what was going on.
His new father was large and tall. With a clean shaven face, thick black hair, and blue eyes, Robert Baratheon looked the part of a strong king. He wore the Baratheon colours proudly and a golden antler crown on his head. His warhammer was nestled against his right thigh. Jon Arryn stood at the base of the Iron Throne to his right, in the finest Arryn pale blue and white embroidery over his functional armour. A chain of linked golden hands around his neck, the Hand of the King kept a hand on his sword pommel. On the other side of the Iron Throne’s base stood Cersei Baratheon, the Queen, in a Myrish silk gown of pink.
In front of them stood members of the Kingsguard. At every door and pillar, the throne room of the Red Keep were guards and knights armed to the teeth, ready to protect the new royal family. The hall was filled with noble lords and ladies from across the realm, having begun to make the journey to King’s Landing a few weeks after Cersei gave birth.
“Call to order!” shouted the herald. The hall quickly quietened. Many necks craned to get a better view of the little prince.
“In the sight of the old gods and new, Robert, of the House Baratheon, the first of his name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”
Jon and Cersei looked up at Robert. Robert picked up his son with one hand under his bottom and one to hold up his neck and stood up from the Iron Throne.
“My trueborn son, Harrold, of the House Baratheon! I declare my son, Harrold, to be the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms in sight of the old gods and the new! Long live Prince Harrold!”
“Long live the prince! Long live the prince!”
The crowd of lords and ladies of Westeros roared, a storm of raised swords in the air. Fist still in his mouth, drool dripping down his arm, Harry could only watch with wide eyes at the spectacle before him.
13th day of the 12th moon of 289 AC
Maegor’s Holdfast, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
“Prince Harrold!” A young serving maid called out as she entered a well-decorated room.
“It’s time for your bath! Would you like help, my prince?”
A boy with deep black hair and striking green eyes backed away slowly. He knew that his maid was only trying to do her job, but he was a big boy.
It had been five years since Harry had been reborn into this new world. He had grown to enjoy this life. He had things that the boy in his dreams wished he possessed. He was taller with a broad build instead of the scrawny little boy with knobbly knees. He was more confident and just as opposed to injustice as little Harry Potter had been. He had the same heart of gold.
Born as Harrold Baratheon, the heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, nothing would be denied to him… except love from his parents. His mother, Cersei looked at him with disgust every time he tried to run to her for comfort or speak to her. Her love was reserved for Joffrey, her second born. Joffrey was three and looked nothing like his father and took after his mother in looks and manners. King Robert was more affectionate, but never spent time with his sons outside of dinner.
“It’s alright, Melleah. I can do it myself.”
Harry felt a little sorry for the young girl that was one of his personal maids. His dreams of living as Harry Potter significantly impacted his way of thinking, and his parents and servants strongly reminded him of how the Dursleys treated him. However, from the little he had seen of it, this world was not kind to the regular people, or smallfolk, as they called them. Though he was treated with the highest amount of respect, he still had duties to attend to. He would soon begin his new duties as Jon Arryn’s page and cupbearer.
Before Balon Greyjoy had started his ill fated rebellion, the little prince had ventured out of the Red Keep to see King’s Landing properly with a retinue of gold cloaks and Ser Jaime Lannister, his maternal uncle. It was when he returned demanding an audience with his father and the Lord Hand to help feed the starving, build a public bathhouse and privy, educate the children, and a whole host of other complaints that he was banned from leaving the Red Keep without a chaperone to keep him from running away with the smallfolk children or ordering bakers and cobblers to feed and shoe them. Instead his mother and father had put aside their contempt for each other to keep him busy. Busy with lessons with the odious Grand Maester Pycelle, training in the yard with Ser Aron Santagar, and then to have him become a page for Jon Arryn.
Melleah, who was already used to the prince’s independent streak, accepted Harry’s response while keeping a close eye on him. The prince himself might have been a kindhearted and slightly mischievous boy, but his mother was known to be vicious to the servants. She shuddered when thinking of the previous maid that was assigned to her prince. Melleah hadn’t been working in the Red Keep at that time, but she had heard stories of how the previous maid was punished after scratching the prince by accident. How her screams were heard from the dungeons before she was never seen again.
Melleah shuddered again, she didn’t know if it was true, but it might’ve been. She watched the prince finish his bath and start to get dressed. Melleah used the time to step out and order the water to be changed. Her charge was very insistent on everyone bathing and brushing their teeth daily, the strange boy.
After a short while, Harry was led to the main hall for breakfast with an ever-present Ser Preston following him. Watching people bow as he passed them was still odd for Harry. He still had to fight the urge to make them stop, but he had learned that they simply didn’t know another way of behaving. To them, the nobles were people to be feared and respected.
That wasn’t the only thing that Harry found to have no place in this world. He had learned of the previous dynasties' dragons a few years ago and was happy to know that magic existed in this world. However, when Harry tried to cast a spell, no matter how simple, it always failed. He knew that it wasn’t because of his own deficiency. Harry could feel something like a bubble inside him that most people around him didn’t have. He was quite sure that it was magic, but it was as if the world itself blocked him from accessing it. He hadn’t given up, of course, but it was frustrating when there was no progress whatsoever after all the effort he put into it.
Harry yelped when he was lifted off the ground and found himself staring into hard green eyes. His uncle, Ser Jaime, had picked him up and lifted him towards Queen Cersei. His pregnant mother looked at him cooly.
“What has your mind so worried, little black stag? You are far too young to have that look on your face.”
Mayhaps it was the lack of a living mother in his previous life, or it might be because Cersei’s eyes looked so similar to Lily Potter’s. Even with knowing her dislike of him, Harry couldn’t help but love his new mother.
“Lord Arryn says that every decision is important and must be weighed equally in the mind. So I’m thinking about what to eat, Mama.”
Cersei wrinkled her nose in slight disgust at the name and title of the Lord Hand while Ser Jaime chuckled. “Aye, but I do not think Jon Arryn meant for you to worry over food.”
The moment was broken by a bellow of rage at the other end of the table. They all looked to see Robert in the motion of punching Joffrey, who was stupidly standing there with a smile. A sharp crack was heard when Robert’s fist connected, and Joffrey went down like a sack of potatoes.
After a brief moment of disbelief from the watching eyes, Cersei screeched in shock before running towards the raging king.
“You killed him! You killed my son!” Cersei shrieked as she cradled an unresponsive Joffrey.
Robert, who was still fuming, roared in fury. “Good! I don’t want this boy to live! The little shithead cut open a pregnant cat!”
The red haze that covered Harry’s vision slowly receded from what his father shouted. Ser Jaime carried him to Joffrey. Harry’s uncle gently let him down before bending over to evaluate Joffrey. Harry looked down at his brother from where he stood next to Ser Jaime and noticed his brother’s blood-covered hands along with something small and deformed that had fallen to the floor next to him. Harry tasted bile when he realized that they were unborn kittens.
While his parents raged at each other, Harry looked at Joffrey in a different light. His little brother was always a little strange, but there had never been a sign of this kind of cruelty. Though, Harry wasn’t as close to Joffrey as he could’ve been.
25th day of the 3th moon of 291 AC
Maegor’s Holdfast, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
Harry gently held his little sister up with his arms wrapped around her and his chest keeping her little head upright. He had wanted to read to her after his day as Jon Arryn’s page was done. Ser Barristan had escorted the boy to Myrcella’s nursery where a nursemaid had been gently prodding the bassinet to rock. A small mobile hung above where small wooden toys were tied to strings.
Harry had pulled a book that Ser Barristan was not familiar with. The Tales of Beedle the Bard he read from over the boy’s shoulder. With a baby resting on his chest, the little boy narrated the stories for his sister, using the fingers on his left hand to point to each word as he said them and the right hand to hold open the book.
Barristan had never heard of the tales written in the book. Babbity Rabbity? Three brothers? Warlock’s Hairy Heart? His charge was a bright boy, who loved to read and did little else when he wasn’t attending Lord Arryn. He was eerily reminded of Rhaegar, who mirrored this child closely. A bookish, but dutiful child.
Harrold’s voice was surprisingly steady for a boy of six. As were his hands. When Barristan leaned closer to read with the boy, he saw that the pages were fresh. This book had been newly compiled, he realized. The handwriting was the boy’s own. He had written this book and these stories and was reading them to his baby sister.
Harry paused to check on Myrcella when he finished the page he was on. The baby was asleep, her little chest rose and fell, little mouth slightly parted, drool dripping from the side. Harry leaned down to kiss her on her head, tufts of golden curls smoothing over. Harry pushed the book onto the table and stood up with Myrcella firmly in his arms. He kept one arm beneath her to support her bottom and one hand to stroke her back. The boy looked like a natural with babies, humming and gently carrying her around the room. The nursemaid, Lina, smiled at the sight.
Harry hummed a tune that was unfamiliar to Ser Barristan. Where had the prince gotten these stories from? Who was this child?
“You have a question for me, Ser Barristan?” The knight started. The prince had put his sister back in her bassinet. The boy wasn’t looking at him, but down at his sleeping sister. The prince leaned down to kiss her cheek before turning to leave. He bid Lina a good night and waited for Ser Barristan to follow.
“You have a question for me, Ser Barristan?” Harry asked again in the corridor.
“No, my prince. I just wondered…”
“Wondered what, Ser?”
“You remind me much of the last crown prince, is all.”
The Baratheon prince looked up at him with a frown. “Viserys Targaryen?”
“No, my prince. I mean Prince Rhaegar. He was much like you. He loved his books and solitude. Then one day he demanded to learn the sword from Ser Willem Darry.”
The boy was quiet for some time as they walked to his rooms. “What else was he like? Many boys love books. Some become measters. Even more people like solitude. I would like to know why you compare me to him."
“He was a fine man, in truth. Single mindedness was his strongest trait. Once he set his mind to something, he would master it. Not obsessive, per se. He was bookish to a fault. He made friends easily and was a noble warrior. His harp was his greatest joy. He was deeply affected by the fire at Summerhall. He was born amidst its ruin, you see. He would travel alone often. I think he was a very lonely man, in truth.”
“And you find me similar to him?”
“I do, my prince.”
“And how did he treat his wife and children? Was he good to them? Was he a good prince?”
“He was good to Princess Elia, who bore him two children. He—”
“He was so good to them that he kidnapped Lyanna Stark to fulfill his own desires, and plunged the Seven Kingdoms into a war that ended his dynasty.”
The boy was right, of course. “My prince, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I am only six, Ser Barristan,” the black haired boy interrupted. “You knew Rhaegar for over twenty years. How can you compare a boy to a man, Ser? It seems unfair.”
The boy didn’t look angry, but he certainly wasn’t happy. They had stopped in a corridor. Barristan felt very foolish all of a sudden for a man over fifty years of age.
“Forgive me, my prince. You are correct. I was wrong to assume—I only meant—I’m sorry, my prince.”
“What I have learned from my books, Ser Barristan, is that men can only really be judged after they are already gone. What a man leaves behind is his legacy. Everyone seems to love Rhaegar for who he seemed to be. When his true colors showed, the gods saw fit to strike him down. There wouldn’t have been a rebellion if he hadn’t taken Lyanna Stark.”
Barristan felt every year of his age at that moment. Children were blunt when they spoke. Even more so when they were little princes with all the power in the world at their little feet. Every word that the heir to the Iron Throne had said was true. It had all been for nought. Rhaegar died and the realm burned for his sins.
“My father pardoned you because he saw you for you. He says that you’re a good man, even if you fought for the Mad King. I’ll ask you to see me as Harry Baratheon, not Rhaegar Targaryen.”
“As you wish, my prince.” Prince Harrold looked up at him with a coolness that was startling. Prince Rhaegar had only ever been warm to him. Mayhaps the boy was right.
17th day of the 7th moon of 293 AC
Solar of the Hand, Tower of the Hand, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
“I don’t understand, Lord Jon,” the eight year old complained from the table where he was reading a history book from Lord Arryn’s collection.
“What do you not understand, my prince?” The old man asked with the practiced answer of a man who had learned how to deal with children and their questions many years earlier. Lord Jon Arryn didn’t look up from the missive on Northern granaries.
“If House Arryn is an Andal house and Artys Arryn was an Andal conqueror, why is he mentioned as being alive during the Age of Heroes? Wouldn’t that make him a First Man and not an Andal?”
“Because you are conflating him with the Winged Knight. The Winged Knight was said to be a First Man who rode on the back of a giant falcon and slew the Griffin King where the Eyrie now stands.”
“Oh, so Artys Arryn—”
“King Artys Arryn, Harrold.”
“King Artys Arryn was definitely an Andal?”
“Aye, he was.”
“Then how could he have gotten that far into the Vale if he was the first Andal to defeat the First Men? It says here that he grew on the Giant’s Lance. He can’t have been an Andal.”
“No, he was an Andal, however he wasn’t the first Andal to defeat the First Men. He was the first Andal to unite all the Andals and defeat the First Men. The Andals were petty lords and kings too. Blood thirsty and as savage as the First Men for centuries. House Shell was one of the first First Men houses to be defeated by Andal invaders. That was long before King Artys’ time.”
“Oh.”
“Any other questions, my prince?”
“The Eyrie was definitely not built before House Arryn?”
“Correct. The Eyrie was built long after King Artys’ death.”
“But an aerie is a bird’s nest. Like for an eagle or a falcon or a griffin or hawk or a vulture. So we are certain that the Winged Knight wasn’t King Artys? That he didn’t take the Eyrie from the Griffin King? That the Arryns didn’t get their name from the Eyrie like a Northman is a Northerner. Maybe Arryns are actually Eyrians as they lived on the Giant’s Lance. Mayhaps their home was where the Eyrie is now and the words just changed over time. Mayhaps that is where you get your house name.”
Lord Jon paused his writing and turned to look at the boy. “You are too smart for your own good. That is truly a very clever thought, my boy. Though, have you considered that the Arryns took their sigil from the stories they heard of the Winged Knight? That they were inspired by him and took his sigil and lands for their own? Remember that you are a Baratheon. Orys Baratheon took Storm’s End and the stag sigil and words from House Durrandon, a First Men house. The same with Lann the Clever, swindling Casterly Rock from House Casterly.”
Jon stood up and walked over to the seated boy, and ruffled his hair affectionately.
“Mayhaps the Arryns were Andal stewards or petty lords and lived far up the Giant’s Lance for generations like the Winged Knight once did. Mayhaps people called that part of the mountain The Eyrie before the palace that King Rolland Arryn built. That may be why Artys was able to know about that goat path at the Battle of the Seven Stars. Very good, my boy, very good. However, we do know that Artys Arryn was a pure Andal. Though, it doesn’t really matter now. We all have mixed blood between Andals, the First Men, Rhoynish, and the Valyrians. Mayhaps even Ghiscari or Ibbenese blood, if we go back far enough.”
3rd day of the 5th moon of 297 AC
Maegor’s Holdfast, The Red Keep, King’s Landing
“I want no disturbances, Melleah,” Harry ordered while sitting at his desk. The special privilege of being the crown prince afforded him early dismissal from squiring for Jon Arryn. In some ways, he enjoyed shouldering some burdens so that the old man could run the Seven Kingdoms. The years of being a page and cupbearer, and now, squire had given Harry a strong sense of appreciation towards Lord Arryn.
He was kind, just, and honest. He was more of a father to Harry than his own father was. Though it seemed that that was what King Robert had in mind when he desired his heir to continue being in Jon’s service, against the strong objections of his lady wife. Queen Cersei had wanted her oldest son to squire for her father, Lord Tywin Lannister.
His long-time maid replied sweetly, “Of course, my prince. Is there anything else you need from me?”
Harry didn’t bother looking up as he said, “That’s all, Melleah.”
After she left the room, Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. It had been a problem for over a year now, ever since he prevented his father from pulling Melleah into his chambers. His long-time maid had somehow taken this as Harry saying that he wanted her to himself. Harry knew it couldn't happen. He was the crown prince and he would marry a high born girl.
It wasn’t hard to see why she felt that way. He was growing into his looks. He was tall and broad for his age. He looked much like his father. Thick black hair and a strong jawline. He also had his mother’s beautiful green eyes and lips. Just as much as he inherited his parent’s genes, he also inherited their temperaments. He was brash, quick to anger, and stubborn beyond belief. Harry was certain he contributed more to Jon Arryn’s wrinkles and lack of teeth than his cold, young wife did.
Harry wasn’t particularly fond of Lysa Arryn. The woman was a cold shrew and possibly mad. She had been angered when Harry had offered to help her son, Robert, in learning his letters. Harry tried to avoid her at all costs, though he didn’t understand why Jon Arryn let her get away with keeping Robert to herself and continued breastfeeding him beyond his infancy. ‘Sweetrobin’, as Lysa called her son, was a sickly boy, prone to seizures. Harry worried about the strength of the Arryn line. The Arryns had dealt with many miscarriages.
When he wasn’t attending to Jon Arryn, Harry had his lessons with Grand Maester Pycelle, a man Harry despised for his insincerity and self importance. Harry sat in quite often at the small council, and until recently, was forbidden to give his own opinions until he was back in the solar of the Lord Hand’s tower. Harry practiced combat under the tutelage of Ser Aron Santagar, the master at arms of the Red Keep with the other squires and pages. The rest of the time Harry possessed was spent deep in his books or experimenting on how to get his magic to work.
In the two and ten years he had been in this world, Harry hadn’t been able to make a feather move. Not even a slight twitch to let him know that he was on the right track. The oddest part was that Harry could feel magic more clearly than ever. Harry felt the strange bubble of magic even more clearly now, and he discovered that other people had something similar inside them. Harry was initially happy to find more magic users that existed around him, but when he studied their ‘bubble’ more closely, Harry found it to be far different than his.
His was growing larger every year while the others were shriveling into nonexistence. Harry grew curious and noted down the relative age of all the people he noticed with magic, and he found them to be all on the younger side. There was almost nobody that had a hint of magic in adulthood. It had frightened Harry to the point that he religiously kept trying to connect to the bubble inside him. Even though Harry had no success with casting a spell, his magic stayed healthy and growing. He considered that a victory.
Harry decided to settle down and do his nightly ritual of trying to move the feather. Not even five minutes in, a knock on the door interrupted him. Harry sighed and said, “Come in.”
The door opened a crack, and a golden-haired girl popped her head in. Harry smiled, seeing the nervousness on his little sister’s face, and beckoned her in.
With a small voice, she asked, “Could you help me find a kitty? I asked Joff, but he just said mean things to me.”
Harry’s expression darkened as he remembered the time Joffrey had tried to hit Tommen at supper when the little boy had whined about beets being on his plate. Harry had snatched his arm and twisted it until their mother screamed at him. It was for the best that he didn’t help Myrcella. Harry was certain that his younger brother would have scared or hurt the girl. Mayhaps even just to get a rise out of him. They had always played this game of one upmanship.
He got up from his desk and said, “Of course, darling. Where did you last see the cat?”
Myrcella’s face lit up with a smile as she babbled about the old cat that hissed at her and lived in the cellars below. Harry chuckled and ruffled the golden tresses of his little sister. She grabbed Harry’s hand to lead him to the last spot she saw the animal.
Out of his youngest two siblings, Tommen was the one that loved to play with animals, but Joffrey constantly made fun of that fact. It made his youngest brother feel like he had to hide the fact that he liked what he liked. Harry always felt guilty that he didn’t do more to shield his younger siblings from Joffrey’s cruelty, but he had a limited amount of time to spare while serving Lord Arryn. Harry had been too late to save a fawn that Tommen adopted. Joffrey had skinned the poor creature in front of Tommen and a few servants. Poor Tommen had slept in Harry’s bed with him for a fortnight out of fear of Joffrey.
“Here! I saw it down there, but it’s really dark, so I got scared.”
Harry looked down into the cellar that Myrcella pointed into. From what he could remember, Harry didn’t think that he had ever visited this place before. That wasn’t too much of a surprise, though. Harry never had the time to just explore the castle.
“Well, I’m here now,” Harry said while pulling his little sister closer, “A dark room won’t stop me from helping my precious sister.”
Harry grabbed the torch that was lighting the hall and walked down the steps with a giggling Myrcella. They gingerly walked down the cracked steps and found themselves in a cavernous room. Harry could barely see a few feet in front of him from the weak light, so it wouldn’t be easy to find the cat.
Myrcella’s giggles had stopped halfway down the steps, and she was now clinging to him in fear. After a minute of fruitless searching, she stammered, “H-Harry? I-It’s okay not to find it. Let’s go back.”
Harry had been lost in the feeling of having an adventure again. It had been years and years of tedious tasks and thankless efforts of trying to use magic, but it felt like he was back at Hogwarts getting into trouble.
He looked down at his scared six-year-old sister and sighed in disappointment. It wouldn’t be right to traumatize her just to have a feeling of nostalgia.
Before Harry could say that they would leave, Myrcella let out a shrill scream full of terror. Harry’s muscles tensed into fight mode as he pulled his sister behind him and turned to where she was looking, and froze in shock.
In front of him was a skull. Not just any skull, but one of a dragon. A dragon that must have been bigger than the Hungarian Horntail he remembered facing in the Tri-Wizard tournament. Was it Meraxes? Silverwing? Balerion? Vermithor? Cannibal?
He absentmindedly reassured Myrcella that it was nothing that could hurt her and walked up to it. He wondered what the skeleton of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets would look like now. How similar it might’ve been to Targaryen dragons. He had read plenty of stories of the Targaryen dragons, but he didn’t realize that there were bones of those very same dragons beneath the castle. Harry looked at the massive skull and sighed in disappointment. It was foolish to wish that the dragons were still alive, but that was exactly what Harry thought. After all, no normal animal could possibly breathe fire. The dragons had to have been magic.
He brought up a hand to touch the skull of the long-dead dragon and flinched when he felt the sheer unadulterated hatred that struck at his very soul. Harry gasped in fear when he felt the dead dragon somehow pull at the ‘bubble’ inside him. It was trying to burst it open and destroy the little hope Harry had to regain his magic. He grunted and strained to get away, but unfortunately, the dead dragon succeeded in its goal.
Harry fell to the ground in soul-wrenching pain as he opened his mouth to scream silently. He distantly felt his sister hugging his fallen body and crying for help as he took some time to finally come to terms with his new reality.
In his mind, he saw the birth of the dragon. It’s magic feasting on the magic and the bodies of the slaves sacrificed for its birth. Newborns thrown on the fire with the scaled dragon egg. Women and children screaming with their wrists and throats slit before also being thrown into flames. Silvery golden haired people chanting around the pyre. Magic swirling all around filling the dragon that hatched from the egg with the hatred and despair of dozens of lives. The dragon’s magic pulled and pulled at his own.
Harry could no longer feel any bubble inside him. His magic had been taken away. Harry gritted his teeth and glared at the skull in anger, wishing for it to be destroyed. To both Harry’s and Myrcella’s shock, the skull in front of them suddenly started crumbling and cracking until all that was left was bone dust.
Myrcella threw herself onto Harry’s chest and trembled in fear, but Harry was barely aware of her actions. He looked down at his hand and held it out to cast a banishing charm. To Harry’s amazement, wisps of bone and dust were pushed away from the pile. It was barely anything, but it was something.
Myrcella was startled by the loud cackling laughter that Harry let out. A burst of uncontrollable laughter full of relief and gratitude at having his magic back. With a timid voice, she asked, “Harry? Are you alright?”
Harry looked down at Myrcella with his green eyes almost glowing, “Never better, little sister. Never better.”