Chapter 16
The compartment swayed gently as the Hogwarts Express raced along the tracks, carrying them back to school for their sixth year. The compartment they occupied was imbued with an almost surreal atmosphere—the tranquility of an ordinary moment that, only a year ago, would have seemed unthinkable.
Blaise, sitting next to Draco, was busy teasing Ron with an amused smile, taking every opportunity to get under his skin.
«Merlin, Weasley, your enthusiasm for coming back to school is touching. I can’t decide whether you’re about to burst with joy or if you want to jump off the train.»
The redhead shot him a glare, while Hermione, seated beside him with her nose buried in a book, sighed with resigned air.
But the blonde paid no attention to any of that. He was too busy watching Harry.
The boy was resting against his shoulder, completely relaxed, his head slightly tilted and his raven hair falling over his closed eyes. He breathed slowly and evenly—his usual tension entirely absent.
He was asleep. And he was sleeping against him. Draco forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, but the warmth spreading in his chest was impossible to ignore.
«It’s strange to see him asleep.» Weasley commented, breaking the silence.
He turned slightly toward him, raising an eyebrow. Zabini, sitting beside him, looked equally confused.
«What do you mean?» asked Blaise.
The brunette lowered her book. «He never really sleeps.» she explained.
«He seems to, but he never truly does.»
Draco stiffened for a moment. He’d noticed that Harry hardly ever slept—but that he never truly did? Now that he knew it, it seemed obvious.
He couldn’t even hide the smile that tugged at his lips as he looked at him, so incredibly serene, resting there against him.
It was a small triumph. He lowered his gaze to Harry’s rebellious locks and, with a barely perceptible movement, brushed his fingers through his hair.
The new year had begun with a bombshell—a piece of news that even seemed to eclipse the scandal over Dumbledore.
Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were together.
And judging by the way the Slytherin did nothing to hide it, it was clear that the whole situation amused him greatly.
On the very first morning after their arrival, Draco had simply sat at the Gryffindor table with an entirely natural air, serving himself tea as if he’d always belonged there. The shocked stares of the other students didn’t faze him in the slightest. Blaise, with a satisfied smile, had simply followed his example, seating himself next to Ron as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Harry, for his part, showed no reaction at all. He merely cast a glance at his boyfriend and then continued eating his pancakes as if nothing were amiss.
But that was just the beginning.
Within a few days, anyone passing by the lake could see the young Malfoy sitting on the grass—with the Gryffindor nestled in his arms, reading a book, his head resting in the crook of Draco’s neck. Someone had even snapped the scene with a Magical Camera, and the photo had circulated around the school in less than twenty-four hours.
That meant one thing only: the whole of Hogwarts was in chaos.
Everyone was talking about them. They wondered how it could be possible, whether it was true, or if it were merely a strategy, a publicity stunt, a spell, or even a multiverse glitch.
But the truth was simple: Draco Malfoy was just a clingy boy—and Harry Potter wouldn’t stop him. In fact, it wasn’t surprising that in the following days, when the Gryffindor wasn’t around, they had to put up with a sour blonde.
The place where Harry found himself did not exist in common space. It was neither sky nor earth, neither light nor shadow. It was the Intermezzo—the point at which everything converged and then dissolved.
The air was thick with fragments of unfinished reality: dying stars suspended in the void, shards of unspent galaxies, echoes of voices never uttered. The floor beneath his feet didn’t truly exist, yet every step he took created a ripple that spread into eternity.
And there, before him, stood the Primordial Gods.
There had been a time before time—a period when the cosmos was empty and motionless, devoid of direction and meaning. And from that nothingness were born the Primordial Gods, beings beyond human comprehension, creators and destroyers of reality itself.
In the very first instant of existence, two opposing forces awoke from nothingness.
Aetherion, the Primordial Flame—the one who ignites the spark of life, the creator of heat, light, and expansion.
Nyxalith, the Eternal Void—the darkness that returns everything to nothing, the mother of the abyss, the incarnation of cosmic hunger.
For eons, these two entities did not exist as adversaries, but as a single cycle. Aetherion created the stars, while Nyxalith extinguished them. He forged worlds; she dissolved them to make way for new ones.
But then Aetherion created the Primordial Dragon—a creature not destined to die. And in that very moment, Nyxalith responded: she generated the Spirit of the Abyss, an entity destined to devour everything until even Aetherion’s flame was extinguished.
And so war was born. With stars aflame and shadows devouring worlds, chaos spread everywhere. No one could win.
It was at that moment that a third entity was born—not from an act of creation or destruction, but from the very need of the universe to survive.
Vareth, the God of Balance.
He was never created. He was born because he had to be. He was the law that separated creation from destruction, the seal that prevented the collapse of existence itself.
The Primordial Dragon and the Spirit of the Abyss were divided. And with his judgment, the war ended. But the wound in the cosmos was now too deep.
From that wound sprang the other Gods. From the war between Creation and Destruction arose further entities—fragments of that shattered balance.
Mirathis, the God of Deception, was born from the whispers between shadow and light, from the deceit that each God had tried to perpetrate against the other. He is the chaos within order—the truth that lies and the lie that reveals.
Elyndra, the Goddess of Memory, was created from fragments of stars and shattered shadows. She exists so that nothing is ever forgotten.
But the greatest problem was that the Primordial Dragon and the Spirit of the Abyss could never be completely separated. They were bound—destined to complete one another. They were in love, and from their union was born a being greater than the Primordial Dragon and more terrible than the Spirit of the Abyss—a being that embodied the union of Creation and Destruction.
The Drakhalion. Neither alive nor dead. Neither of light nor of shadow. An impossible being.
And for that reason the Gods had wished to banish him, but his parents sent him to Earth to keep him safe, entrusting him to Lily Evans.
Harry lifted his gaze to the throne of light and warmth where Aetherion, the God of Creation, sat. His figure was that of a young man—tall and slender yet sculpted to perfection—with pale skin and short blonde hair, whose tips seemed to flicker with a fire that did not burn. His eyes were entirely golden, pupil and iris merged into a single gleam that reflected the very first moment of creation. He wore a white robe adorned with golden embroidery, its seams shining like sunbeams. Even in stillness, he radiated the energy of birth and change, as if the entire universe breathed with him.
Beside him, shrouded in an impenetrable, dense shadow, sat Nyxalith, the Mouth of Infinity. The hood upon her head looked like a fragment of a starry universe—a window onto an endless void. Her skin was as black as the deepest darkness, an abyss without reflection, and from the edges of her robe flowed a substance both smoky and liquid. Her eyes, reduced to two thin slits of platinum white, betrayed no emotion: they were windows onto nothingness, onto the absence of everything. Her luminous white hair slipped from under her hood like the reflection of a dying galaxy. Her black robe, constantly in motion, seemed not even made of fabric but of pure entropy, dissolving at its edges in an endless cycle of destruction and renewal.
Below them, between creation and destruction, Vareth, the Judge of the Cosmos, observed motionlessly. His skin was a dark grey, rough like stone worn smooth by millennia. Yet deep golden fissures ran along that rigid surface, like wounds in time itself, pulsing with an energy belonging neither to life nor to death. His eyes were milky white—almost transparent and devoid of pupils—as if he did not need to see in the conventional way. His long, smooth hair cascaded over his shoulders: white at the roots, gradually darkening until it became black at the tips. He wore a simple tunic, unadorned, for he needed nothing to assert his authority. The fabric, the same deep grey as his skin, clung to him without weight or folds, as if it were part of him.
Further below, casually leaning against a floating pillar, was Mirathis, the Architect of Illusions. He was a boy with a disdainful air, a barely-there smile on lips that always seemed ready to speak a truth no one would want to hear. His short, tousled black hair framed eyes of gold that sparkled with a dangerous intelligence, their hue shifting continually as if reflecting every possibility. Dark shadows framed his eyes, making his gaze even more penetrating. His fangs were barely visible when he spoke, and his body was inscribed with shimmering runes that pulsed with power. Two symbols etched beneath his eyes seemed to brand him with a destiny known only to him. From his head sprouted two curved horns—not massive, but elegant—the very signature of his deceptive nature.
Next to him, almost a whisper between the real and the unreal, stood Elyndra, the Goddess of Memory. Her figure was ethereal, as if her very existence were an echo of the past. If she had a color, it would be grey—in every shade. Her long silver hair flowed in an invisible wind, fading into spectral transparencies. Her eyes were veiled by delicate bindings. Black tears trailed down her cheeks, leaving indelible marks on her skin. Her black dress faded to grey at the edges, dissolving into the air like the memory of something slowly lost in time.
Harry Potter stood at the center of the divine domain, surrounded by beings who had existed since before time itself. And yet, he did not bow.
His figure was enveloped in a silent, dangerous aura—as if his mere presence were an anomaly in that sacred place. His green eyes, incandescent like the flame of something that should never have existed, fixed on the deities without fear.
«Honestly, if I could avoid this encounter, I would…» he said in a flat tone, his voice resonating with an unnatural calm. «But I must ask you to free the Primordial Dragon—my father—from wherever your avatar, Vareth, has imprisoned him. I forgot to ask before I killed him.»
The Spirit of the Abyss, a few steps behind, folded his arms and watched the scene with an amused look. As a responsible parent he should have stopped him, should have taught him that challenging entities so ancient and omnipotent was never wise—that there were subtler ways to get what he wanted.
But he had only recently become a parent, and certainly not a responsible one.
He merely observed with a flash of smug satisfaction in his eyes, his lips curling into a thin smile.
The entire divine domain trembled.
Vareth—who until that moment had remained as immobile as a statue carved from reality itself—sprang to his feet in a furious jerk. The golden cracks on his skin blazed like chained flames, and his white eyes flashed with a blinding intensity.
«How dare you.» his voice was not merely sound, but a verdict—a crushing weight that would bring any mortal to its knees.
The whole domain resounded with his anger, as if the very balance had been shattered. Yet the dark‑haired guy did not move.
In fact, the smile that slowly curved his lips was almost amused. His green eyes pierced Vareth with a silent challenge—a superiority barely masked by indifference.
«As embarrassing as it is to admit that a god has been betrayed by a human…»he said, his tone laced with venomous lightness «...you should do it. The eternal Law of Balance—we would all understand.»
He was clearly mocking him, and the way Vareth’s jaw tightened was the perfect confirmation. The God of Balance stepped forward, his tunic billowing with a weight not of this world. The air grew dense, as if the universe itself held its breath.
«You allow yourself too much—»
«I do what I must.» he interrupted with an almost blasphemous calm.
He stepped forward, and the entire domain seemed to waver beneath his presence. Power flowed in his voice, in his very being—and every single god in that hall was aware of it.
«If I wanted, I could wipe you away.»
Harry’s smile widened, almost smugly, as his voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
«Erase your fucking existence.»
Vareth clenched his fists, his power boiling, threatening to explode, yet he did not stop.
«And take your place.»
The echo of his words spread through the void of the divine domain, and in the silence that followed, Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes glowing with an ancient awareness.
«What use is there for a judge of the cosmos to maintain balance if I am here?»
One more step.
«The very balance between creation and destruction.»
Vareth stared at him, his face impassive yet the cracks on his body shone like stars on the brink of collapse. He could not deny it. He could not ignore it.
An absolute silence fell over the divine domain. The air was tense, and power pulsed invisibly and immensely among the figures seated in the shadows of eternity. Vareth said nothing—his fury gleamed in the golden fissures of his skin—but he knew he could not deny the obvious.
And then Aetherion moved.
With superhuman grace, the God of Creation rose from his throne of light. Every movement of his was like a barely contained blaze—the heat of his presence rippling the space around him. His blonde hair flickered at the tips like flames, and his golden eyes settled on Harry with absolute calm.
«You are right.»
His voice was warm and deep, carrying the echo of that very first spark which ignited the universe. It was the sound of fire being born, of energy shaping chaos into order.
Aetherion stepped down a stair, drawing nearer.
«My son should not be imprisoned.» he declared, his gaze shifting to Vareth, his tone free of hostility yet resolute.
«He was born to soar among the stars, not to be chained by a mortal avatar.»
The other’s face stiffened. He was not used to being contradicted—least of all by one of his equals. But he offered no reply.
Meanwhile, Harry was not deceived by the solemnity of the moment. His gaze remained impassive as he observed the God of Creation.
Aetherion smiled, almost amused. He raised a hand, and a fragment of light ignited on his palm, pulsing like a heart of fire.
With a simple gesture, he let the light fall. And the moment it touched the ground of the divine domain, a fissure opened in the air—a door of pure light radiating a primordial warmth. It was as if one were gazing into the very heart of creation—a place beyond the concept of time and matter.
Harry said nothing. He merely looked beyond that threshold, feeling the weight of the truth awaiting him on the other side. His father, meanwhile, placed a hand on his shoulder with a smile.
He snorted—knowing he was the first who couldn’t wait. With a confident step, he crossed the threshold, followed by the Spirit of the Abyss.
Inside the door, reality dissolved into a perfect harmony of white and gold. There were no shadows—only a soft glow that seemed to pulse with the very breath of the universe.
And at the center of that realm without darkness, there he was.
In the eyes of mortals, that being would have been James Potter. But he was the Primordial Dragon—the one who had defied the laws of creation and destruction.
He was taller than Harry, yet shorter than Tom. His pale skin almost seemed to reflect the light around him, while his unruly brown hair fell haphazardly across his forehead. His golden eyes—the very same hue as Aetherion’s—shone with an ancient sweetness.
He turned toward them. And Tom wasted no time. With a sure movement, Tom, the Incarnation of the Abyss, wrapped him in an embrace.
Silently, he watched the scene, seeing how their bodies fit together perfectly—light and shadow, two halves of a single existence. They were opposites, yet united in a way that transcended any balance.
There was no hatred, no hesitation. Only a reunion. When their embrace broke apart, those golden eyes fell upon him.
«My son.»
Harry stood frozen. He felt something twist within him. He didn’t know what to expect, but those two simple words had the power to shatter every defense.
Slowly, the Primordial Dragon drew near. His movements were cautious, as though he feared he might flee.
He did not. He allowed himself to be embraced.
And it was like being enveloped by a flame that did not burn. The warmth of his body was not oppressive but enveloping and profound. It was a security he had never known—a sense of belonging that struck him with unexpected force.
His father’s heartbeat was slow and steady—the very sound of creation itself.