Chapter 2
Lily stood in Hogwarts’s clocktower, gazing into the distance at her son and his friends play alongside Hogwarts’s slope. Normally, parents were not given as free reign to roam Hogwarts halls like she was granted, but nothing had been normal about her life since the birth of her first son.
“Lily,” Harry said, tearing her away from her thoughts. “I want you to have this.”
Lily looked down towards a smooth black bracelet. She took it into her hand and danced it through her fingers.
“What is it?”
“A Reverse-Portkey,” Harry said. “Dumbledore and I devised a way to flip the subject of the spell. Saying the trigger word allows me to portkey next to whoever activates it.”
“That’s sweet, Harry,” Lily said, handing it back to him. “But your father and I are rather capable, even though we may not be Lords or Ladies.”
“It’s not for you. It’s for him,” Harry said, nodding his head to where Sam and his friends were now sat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a separate, golden band. “This one is for you, to keep you in the loop. It changes colors when the Portkey activates.”
“Oh,” Lily said, glancing back at her son, Sam. “You’d do that for us?”
“It’s not just for the both of you.”
A tear dripped down Lily’s cheek. “I didn’t know if you liked him very much. He’s not like you. No one is like you, Harry.”
“And I wouldn’t want him to be. It’s only with you, James, Nicholas, Penerelle, and Dumbledore that I can truly be myself. But Sam? He is free.”
“You can call them your parents, Harry. I won’t be jealous.”
“It seems disrespectful,” Harry said. “They may have raised me, but it is you and James who brought me into this world, and your sacrifice that saved my life.”
“Yet they did what we couldn’t,” Lily said. “They kept my baby safe, and for that, I’m alright with you calling them your parents. As long as I have you in my life.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. He turned his attention back to Sam Potter. “How much does he know?”
“Not much. We’ve told him about his brother in bits and pieces. He knows I was pregnant during the Still, and we have told him that we were going to name his brother Harry. But he’d never piece the full story together.”
“He’ll hate us for this.”
“He will,” Lily said with a sad smile. “But its that innocence keeps him alive.”
Harry nodded.
“Thank you, Harry, for coming,” Lily said, after a moment of silence. “It warmed my heart to see my two boys getting along. For just a moment, I could think about how this could have gone.”
“You’re welcome, L—Mum. I’m glad you were able to put this together.”
Lily reached out and hugged Harry, tears dripping down Lily’s face. They sat there, together, enjoying the company they rarely kept.
“So back to France?” Lily finally broke the silence.
“Back to France,” Harry said. “To the toil and the trouble.”
“You really think he’s back.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Snape—”
“Don’t speak of that man to me.”
Harry sighed. “The snakes are far too jovial.”
“Promise me you won’t go after him. That you’ll only fight if you have to.”
“I can’t.”
Lily looked, her hand shaking. “He’s killed so many, Harry — Lord Galahad, Lord Rasputin, and Lady Isabella — you don’t need to do this.”
“I want to.”
“At least get help,” Lily said. “You can ask Merlin. He’s responsible for all of this.”
Harry shook his head. “No help will come from Camelot.”
“Dumbledore?”
“Has Grindelwald to worry about.”
“Your parents,” she offered.
“Are scholars,” Harry answered. “They don’t have the right… magical disposition for this.”
“And you do?” Lily said, her voice tight.
“Yes,” Harry said. “There’s some magic out there that changes a wizard. Magic that only a select few dare to explore.”
“What is it?”
“Dumbledore would call True Magic. Grindelwald calls it die Festung. My father calls it le domaine. In truth, it’s one’s soul given form.”
“And what does it do?”
“Makes gods of men.”
“And if you don’t know this magic?”
Harry paused. “You’re dead.”
“Look at these blokes all dressed up,” Ron said with a laugh. “Fancy themselves some sort of cult, do they?”
“Wicked,” Sam Potter said. He turned towards Ron, with a smile that both knew the meaning of.
“We should really stick with the group,” Hermione said. “We’re not even supposed to be here.”
“Exactly,” Ron said with a snort. “This isn’t a class trip. We just broke how many rules? Let’s get our money’s worth.”
“He’s got a point Hermione.”
“That’s not an argument; that’s just the sunk cost fallacy.” Hermione said. “But I guess someone needs to keep you two out of trouble.”
“So… after the people playing dress up?”
Hermione sighed. “Fine.”
Harry Flamel sank into his seat with a smile. As a kid, he used to hate dinners with his parents’ friends, sitting around a table and talk, talk, talking. He’d rather be out there – away from the confines of set tables, ornate cutlery, and fine china – exploring, casting, learning, uncovering the secrets of the world.
Now just entering his twenties, his perspective had flipped. Not fully, of course. Listening to someone regale an unsuspecting listener about their First Quidditch game from the start of the century was mind numbing whether told by a random schmoozer or Albus Dumbledore.
No, what Harry looked forwards to was the secret histories and scandals only spoken in hushed tones among friends – the stories and gossip where spoken word and text disagreed. That made conversation. Lucky for him, the crowd that dined at the Flamel estate had such oral histories in spades.
“Then there, over the hill, came the Golden Horde,” Gawain said. “You should have their faces. As white as a ghost!”
“As they should,” said the French Minister of Magic, Alain Delacour. “The Golden Horde ransacked Europe and ran through our greatest mages and armies like a knife. How many Lords did Khan himself put in the grave?”
The crowd at this particular dinner was eclectic yet tame by his parents’ standards.
First, of course, there were the hosts Nicholas and Penerelle Flamel. Nicholas, the Lord of Alchemy, a man whose magical contributions were only eclipsed by Merlin himself, as he brought immortality to the masses, not just the Divine. His wife, Penerelle Flamel, the Lady of Draughts, was famous nationally, and had advanced the art of potioneering for hundreds of years.
Next, of course, dined James and Lily Potter. For most, their inclusion and closeness with the Flamel family was a curiosity. They were consistent guests at the Flamel estate and able to raise the Potter family’s renown beyond the shores of Britain due to this affiliation.
The third group was the French Minister of Magic Alain Delacour and his family. At most occasions, the Minister and his family would be the most important attendees, not at this one though.
And, of course, the Guest of Honor – a man of myth and renown even greater than the Alchemist and the Draughtess – a Knight of the Round Table, Sir Gawain of Camelot. A testament of the Before – an enormous being who, with Merlin, tamed Magic and repelled the Fae. One of the few whose prowess eclipsed mortality and stretched into the Divine.
Gawain waved his hand. “It’s that line of thinking that got them six feet under. Khan had Europe’s greatest mages too fearful to even cast a curse at the man.”
“By all accounts, he’s one of the greatest mages in the history of the world,” James Potter said.
“Ha! Khan is nothing more than a duelist. If he tried his hand when Charlemagne or Merlin weren't occupied…”
Yes, Sir Gawain made Harry’s list. Not at the top – those three positions were taken – but Gawain was a monster, a man able to slay scores of wizards, to dance with the Divine; a worthy ally, a frightful foe.
“What do you think, Harry?” Sir Gawain asked. “I heard you were somewhat of a magical talent yourself.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. Harry could see the mischievousness dancing in the eyes of the Knight of Camelot.
“By all accounts, Khan is a rather skilled wizard,” he answered. “An innovator, but not a genius.”
He looked around the room. The Delacour’s – parents and children – were not impressed with that comment; and he fully understood where they were coming from. Who was this twenty-year old badmouthing Genghis Khan?
It also amused him at the discomfort Fleur clearly felt. Prim and proper, not speaking when not spoken to, perfect mannerisms and perfect posture. The perfect dinner guests but boring. So very boring.
“Gah, you’re no fun. And I had such high hopes.”
Harry glared at Sir Gawain. There he sat in Harry’s home taunting him. Harry hand slipped to where it cupped the patch over his left eye. His parents knew, the Potters knew, and Camelot knew. His magic wanted to sing wonder into the world; and the world wanted Harry to embrace it.
A response was at the tip of his tongue when he felt a lurch of vertigo overtake him for a second. In slow motion, he observed his consciousness remove itself from his body; in what could only be described in as “third-person,” he observed his body collapsed on the table.
“Harry!” A voice sounded, but his consciousness was ripped far away from France. He now took in a gray landscape he’d never seen before. He was incorporeal, and as he looked at his surroundings, he knew immediately what had happened.
He could see his brother, Sam Potter, on the ground surrounded by his friends. They were as white as a ghost, terror shining in their eyes.
With them, in the center of an amphitheater, stood a cloaked figure monologuing to a crowd of a few thousand. He didn’t need to listen to know the wizard’s identity. The magic coming off the man spoke to the man’s identity.
Harry immediately knew that he had learned everything he needed. He waved his incorporeal wand, carving a blood rune into the ground, and swiftly transferred his consciousness back to his body.
When he came to, he could already see that his mother was at his side wand waving.
“Harry are you okay?” Penerelle asked.
Harry nodded. The Potters looked at him with worry as did his parents. He met Fleur’s wide eyes and wondered what she would think about what he was about to do. Her whole family too.
There was one person at the table, though, who did not stare with shock or concern. Sir Gawain looked at him with a smirk.
Harry shook his head immediately. He was wasting precious time.
The first thing he did was reach his hand out and pinch the air in front of him, as if he was grabbing a snitch hovering an arm’s length away. The world screeched and magical sparks burst out of nothingness as he yanked a red stone from the Beyond and into the Here.
The jewel’s magic hit the room like a tsunami, and he heard gasps from the crowd at the table. What else could be expected? A Philosopher’s Stone was such magic that made even the most complex spells appear muggle.
Legends said there were three in the world. The first – his father’s – the original and hidden at the end of the world by the Alchemist. The second – Merlin’s – the copy and source for the world’s eternal youth and protected by Sir Bedivere. And the third – Voldemort’s – gifted to and prized by the Japanese Shogun and stolen during height of the Stilling.
But, of course, there was a fourth — his — a project devised and enchanted in the secret of night.
“Harry!” his father said. “What are you doing?”
He had no time to answer. And he had no answer – not one that he could say.
With a wave of his hand, a necklace attached itself around the philosopher's stone, and the newly crafted jewelry floated and situated itself upon his neck. He’d need its power to supplement his alchemy. Unlike his father, he was not the Lord of Alchemy.
Harry’s attention turned to his formal attire. They would not do. He waived his wand and was instantly adorned with his dueling gear and a black coat.
“Harry,” his mother repeated. He could feel her hand and nails press against his right arm.
No time. Harry stepped away from her and grabbed a knife of the table in his right hand. He raised his left hand and slashed across his palm. Another round of gasps.
Harry glanced up one more, and his eyes landed on the Alaine Delacour Minister of Magic of France.
He placed his hand flat against the table and a blood runes instants materialized on the white cloth. He then raised his hand and a magical blade pulled itself out of the bloody mark.
Two seconds left.
Harry looked around. The Potters were shocked — James looking repulsed at Harry’s casual display of Blood Magic and Lily held her hands over her mouth. The Delacours, too.
Even his parents looked scandalized. It made sense. Despite being members of the Divine, his parents were not like him. They had the sensibility of the masses. There was only one person at this party like him.
Sir Gawain looked at him with a smile and a drink in hand. He was leaned back in his chair and looked like a king. He raised his glass in a toast and said four words: “You’re a liar, Harry.”
And then Harry Flame was gone.
Fleur watched as the room fell into stillness and silence. What was there to say? They had all watched Harry Potter break numerous laws involving enchanted weapons and blood magic. She was certain that blade of his was Fae in nature. And then, of course, the Philosopher’s Stone. Had he stolen his fathers?
“So cool!” her sister said with a squeal, breaking the truce of silence. Fleur withheld a groan at her sister’s inability to read the room.
Fleur surveyed the reaction of the room. Gawain looked curious. The Flamels, pissed. Her parents, scandalized. And the Potters, a mix of anger and concern.
Fleur had not been looking forwards to coming to the Flamel’s estate, originally. She’d known Harry in passing from their time in school together, but he had been three years above her, despite his baby face. The only thing interesting about the boy was the eyepatch he wore over one of his eyes.
Lost in thought, her gaze slowly found their way to Lily Potter’s snow-white bracelet. Odd. Fleur had complimented the bracelet earlier in the evening when they’d, and the jewelry had been golden then. Fleur knew she should be quiet. It was a stupid question with all that had just happened.
“Wasn’t your bracelet gold?”
Lily looked down. “No,” she said, voice strained. “My baby.”
“And now, my friends, the first blood in our new war.”
With a flick – no words nor complicated wand motions – just a flick, a wall of fire as tall and wide as the greatest cathedrals of Europe barreled towards them.
“Galahad, Galahad, Galahad,” Sam Potter yelled, tears streaming down his face. “Its not working. GALAHAD!”
Hermione felt tears tripping down her cheek as she watched death approach.
Was it truly over? She had not sacrificed so much of her life studying to not see the fruits of her labor. She’d never been on a date, had a boyfriend, graduated school, or had a sip of alcohol. It wasn’t right!
Hermione clenched her eyes shut, expecting pain.
None came. Hermione carefully opened a single eye to see a figure holding back a wall of flames with a single hand.
Sensing magic was not a skill Hermione had been blessed with. This man, however, radiated magic. The air around him was hazy like the air above the street on a hot day.
“Hello, Tom,” he said. Then the man flicked his wand, the wall of fire condensed into a ball of supercharged heat and shot at the dark wizard. Yet as quickly as the flames closed the distance, they disappeared, leaving the smiling countenance of their almost-murderer.
The dark wizard stared at the newcomer for a second and then turned back to his disciples.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, a challenger.”
“Get up,” the man said, looking at Hermione and her friend. He waved his hand and the bindings that shackled them fell listlessly to the ground. Sam rose first and pulled out his wand, and Hermione felt herself also move to stand and hold her want out. So too followed Ron. They arranged themselves behind the man, ready to throw their support in.
The dark wizard had turned his attention back to the group of four.
“Put those silly twigs of yours away now children.”
Many responses danced in her mind, but Hermione couldn’t speak.
“As if we’d listen to you,” Sam Potter yelled.
Hermione showed her support by nodding and raising her wand arm higher.
“Do as he says,” their savior said. “Now.”
“What?” Sam said. “He tried to kill us.”
“I said down.”
The man’s voice carried power beyond anything Hermione had felt before. Her wand hand immediately fell to their side, as if her wand weighed a ton. Hermione made to speak but her lips too felt as if they were made of stone.
“Children,” the dark wizard said with a shake of his head. “So eager, yet so ignorant.”
“Yes,” the man agreed. “That’s what they are—children. Leave out of this, Tom.”
“I could,” the Dark Lord said. “But then I would never uncover of this mystery here.”
“And what mystery is that?”
“Your existence, Stranger. We are in the deepest caverns of the Undercroft. A land beyond apparition. Unchartable, Unplottable. Unless… ah, I see.”
The wizard waved his wand and Sam Potter’s bracelt flew snapped off his write and flew towards the wizard. Hermione watched with wide eyes, but before it reached him, it shot to their savior in and instant.
The Dark Lord smile did not show if his inability to commandeer the magical cube annoyed him.
“As I suspected,” he said. “That enchanted item is yours, I presume? Galahad, Galahad – you do know what happened to Galahad, my strange friend.”
“Yes,” the man answered.
“How ironic. And yet, what an incredible bit of enchanting it is — a reverse-portkey! Truly marvelous. It’s almost as if the person who enchanted this was expecting to have to rescue that child over there.” The wizard looked directly at Sam. “What is your name boy?”
Hermione wanted to speak, to tell the dark wizard that they would not tell him, but the need to shrink and hide quelled those thoughts.
“We’ll never tell you,” Ron said.
“Sam Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, then” he said. “Do try to have some manners, it is polite to introduce oneself to theirs betters.”
The wizard paused “Yet you are as dumbfounded as to who our little friend here is, as I am. What do you say, Stranger?”
“They didn’t believe me,” the man said. “They said you were gone, dead, dust. But they know nothing of you.”
“And you do?” The dark wizard smiled widened.
“Personally, we’ve never met. Professionally, however, we share a certain pedigree.”
Hermione felt the air drop in temperature.
“A practitioner of the Divine,” the Dark Lord said.
“As if you ever doubted that.”
“I did not believe a Lordling would be stupid enough to challenge me,” the dark wizard said. “But I am truly fate’s blessed for I shall gain another title today.”
“I heard you were arrogant.”
“Arrogant? Arrogance is standing before me without bowing your head. I am magic incarnate, practitioner of the old ways. My birth was heralded by the sirens, and my magic alone reigns supreme. Merlin himself flees my wand.”
“Cute,” their savior said.
“I do wonder though. How did you know of my revival?”
"It was obvious, if you looked. The world repulses you, the birds weep, and the stars cry. But it was the snakes that betrayed your return."
"I'm sure they did," dark wizard said with a laugh. "But you were the only one listening. Merlin erased much from the tapestry of magic. Such knowledge rests in too few of us now. You’re a fool. You’ve come to your death.”
“No, I’ve come for your head."
"Many have," dark wizard with a laugh. He swirled his wand and the stands full of his supporters shifted back miles into the distance.
"Let me tell you who I am. Before your parents were thoughts in their parents’ mind, I trained under the Morgan Le Fay. When your parents were your age, I drove back the Volsungs. When you were a babe suckling on your mother’s tit, I staked Galahad's head on a pike. You may be a Lord, but I am the Lord of Curses and I have bloodied scores older and more talented than you."
Hermione watched as the man cracked his neck.
“I guess I have my hands full,” the stranger said. “Last chance to surrender.”
“No.”
“Good,” the stranger said. “I’d hate you if you did.”
The dark wizard shrieked, and a sickly green curse shot towards the man.
Their savior raised and swung his sword, slicing the spell in two. He waved his wand and hundreds of black portals opened beside him.
Hermione watched as golden bodies showered down from the heavens like angels. Golems, she realized. Not just that, Golden Golems – alchemy. And they were dropping in the hundreds and thousands before she could even blink.
“Alchemy!” the evil wizard said. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
The ground before the dark wizard opened up, and like demons rising form hell, out crawled out an army of inferni.
The two armies crashed in a cacophony of sound. But that was not all. The Dark Lord had taken to the skies and flying straight at the man. Curses rained down in a barrage, spells cast faster than her eyes could perceive.
Then there was a bang, as a red curse struck their saviors shield, sending him flying back as a fast as lightning.
The dark wizard settled on the ground in front of them. “And now to end this,” he said. “Domain Expansion: Malevolent Shrine.”
“No!” A shout from the strange. “Galaha—"
Hermione watched as the man shot in front of them as a black curtain fell over his body.
Then there was silence. Hermione felt a tug and she looked down to see a rope tying her to her friends. A second later, she heard a click, and her and her friends went tumbling through space.
It was the worst feeling in the world. After nearly a minute, the pain stopped and Hermione could feel them at the door of an ancient villa.
“Ron? Sam?” she said.
“I’m here,” Sam said. “Ron?”
“I’m alive,” Ron said. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Should we contact the Aurors?”
“And get expelled?” Hermoine said.
“You saw that wizard,” Ron said. “He was bad news, Hermione. Feel like someone should know.”
Hermione had a retort on her lips, when they heard a knock.
“Waiting around doesn’t help us,” Sam said. “If we don’t get back fast, Aurors or not, someone’s going to notice us missing from our classes.”
“We don’t know whose house this is,” Ron said. “For all we know they could be worse than where we just were.”
“He’s got a point,” Sam said. “I bet these people are going to be so excited to help a couple of lost schoolchildren.”
Hermione nodded.
“Samuel Igneous Potter!” a shriek came from the house.
Hermione watched as both Sam and Ron’s eyes blew wide.
“Dude was that your—”
The door flung open and the red hair of Lily Potter greeted the three wayward Hogwarts students. A fate worse than death – a pissed mother.