Chapter 10
Sirius Black sat stiffly in the dimly lit study of Arcturus Black, the formidable patriarch of their house. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink, the quiet crackling of the fireplace casting shifting shadows across the old man's lined face. The Daily Prophet lay discarded on the desk between them, its headline bemoaning Britain's loss of the Boy-Who-Lived and his wealth to India.
Arcturus, however, paid it no mind. His cold gray eyes were fixated on Sirius as he listened intently, absorbing every detail. The mangrove, Nagini’s guardianship, the ICW ruling, and most importantly—the peculiar gauntlets Harry wore.
When Sirius mentioned the odd cylinders concealed beneath the boy’s armored bracers, Arcturus's expression darkened. He rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps to an ancient bookshelf, fingers grazing over the cracked spines of books older than Britain itself. Finally, he pulled out a tome so worn with age that dust billowed as he laid it on the desk.
The cover bore no title, only a faintly glowing sigil that pulsed as Arcturus ran his fingers over it. The pages, made from parchment that was not entirely human in origin, whispered as they were turned.
Then, Sirius saw it.
A drawing—intricately detailed, painted in a style lost to time. A man in radiant, ornate armor stood at the center, eerily similar to what Sirius had glimpsed on Harry. His helm gleamed, gemstones inlaid into the structure, power thrumming from the very page.
Arcturus exhaled slowly. "Artanis," he murmured.
Sirius frowned. "Who?"
Arcturus leaned back, eyes lost in memories of whispered Black family lore.
"Our ancestors once served a king far greater than any British ruler—Nebuchadnezzar II of Babylon. A warlock-king who, in his arrogance, tore open the veil between worlds and unleashed a flood of demons upon our lands."
Sirius stiffened, his Auror instincts flaring. "Demonic summoning? That’s not just Dark Magic, that’s—"
"Forbidden," Arcturus finished. "Yet Nebuchadnezzar did it, and so the war began. Against a civilization far beyond our comprehension—the Protoss." His fingers tapped against the image of Artanis. "They called themselves the Enlightened People. Masters of magic and metal, warriors who wielded power like wands wield spells. And their last champion, Artanis, led the final battle."
Sirius felt an eerie chill crawl up his spine. "And?"
Arcturus turned the page, revealing another illustration—one of fire, ruin, and something that looked like a massive portal collapsing in on itself.
"Artanis sealed the demons away, but at the cost of everything. The magical civilization spanning India, Asia, and Russia fell with it. Their people scattered. Their knowledge lost. And yet…" He traced the armor's design on the page, before looking Sirius dead in the eye.
"It seems a fragment of their power lives on in Harry Potter."
The mangrove was alive with the sound of rustling leaves, the distant call of birds, and the gentle splash of water against tangled roots. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, painting patches of gold upon the mossy ground. Newt Scamander walked carefully, making notes in his well-worn journal, while his fellow magizoologists, Arvind Iyer and Rina Deshmukh, were equally engrossed in their observations.
Arvind, a stocky man with unruly brown hair and a penchant for muttering to himself, was busy sketching a flock of brilliantly colored birds that seemed to shimmer in and out of sight. "Illusionary plumage," he murmured. "Fascinating." Rina, on the other hand, was knee-deep in the marsh, carefully documenting the behavior of a cluster of tiny, luminescent frogs that pulsed with soft, bioluminescent light.
Above them, in the tangled branches of the canopy, a massive serpentine form moved with effortless grace. Nagini, her scales glinting faintly in the dappled sunlight, followed them at a leisurely pace, keeping a watchful eye on the boy nestled in the wings of a colony of enormous bats.
Newt glanced up and chuckled softly. "I must admit, Harry looks rather comfortable up there."
Nagini tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes filled with something akin to amusement. "To him, the bats are living teddy bears," she said. "They have watched over him since he was a child. He trusts them more than the ground beneath his feet."
Newt hummed in understanding, making a quick note in his journal. "Magical bats of this size are rare in the wild. Most colonies have either been driven into deeper, uncharted regions or simply perished due to habitat destruction. The fact that they're thriving here is extraordinary." He cast a glance at Nagini. "Though I suppose Harry’s presence has something to do with it."
Nagini gave a slow nod, her coils shifting slightly along the thick branches. "Magic lingers in the boy. The jungle recognizes him, as it recognizes me. This place is safe for him in ways no other land has ever been."
Arvind, still sketching, raised an eyebrow. "Do you think the jungle’s magic is older than recorded history? Older than the wizards who first set foot here?"
Rina, wiping mud off her hands, shrugged. "Possibly. India has always been home to ancient magic, some of it predating known civilizations. The magical flora and fauna here seem attuned to something… primal. Something untouched by outside influence."
Before anyone could continue the discussion, a sharp whistle cut through the air. One of the younger magizoologists that Newt had sent a letter to that joined them, Rohan Das, was crouched near a dense thicket of vines, waving them over excitedly.
"Newt! You need to see this!"
Newt exchanged a look with his colleagues before striding over, careful not to disturb the delicate ecosystem beneath his feet. As he neared Rohan’s position, he noticed the younger man was brushing away layers of moss and dirt from what appeared to be—
"Metal?" Rina frowned, stepping closer.
Indeed, beneath the tangled undergrowth, a series of metal pipes gleamed faintly in the filtered sunlight. They were ancient, covered in a fine layer of oxidation, yet still remarkably intact. Newt knelt down, running a gloved hand along the smooth surface. The craftsmanship was exquisite, unlike anything he had seen before.
"This isn’t natural," Jonah murmured, his brow furrowing. "Who would build something like this out here?"
Arvind, his eyes filled with excitement, gestured further ahead. "It leads somewhere. Look."
Newt followed the line of pipes with his gaze, noting how they stretched out and disappeared into the foliage. With a silent motion, he led the group deeper into the jungle, their curiosity outweighing any hesitation.
As they walked, the pipes led them to something even more astonishing—an ornate aqueduct, partially hidden by the mangrove’s creeping growth. The structure was massive, built from dark stone interwoven with veins of metal that shimmered with traces of residual magic. Vines wrapped around its pillars, and the air thrummed with an almost imperceptible energy.
Newt took a step closer, placing a careful hand against the ancient stone. He could feel it—magic, old and undisturbed, humming beneath his fingertips.
"This isn’t just an aqueduct," Rina whispered, her voice hushed in reverence. "This is a remnant of something ancient. Something lost."
Arvind exhaled sharply. "This doesn’t make sense. There are no records of any civilization building something like this in this part of India."
Nagini, who had remained silent until now, slithered down from her perch, her form coiling around one of the larger stones. Her golden eyes glowed faintly as she took in the structure. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, almost solemn.
"Not all history is written in books," she murmured. "Some of it is buried in the roots of the world itself."
Newt turned toward her. "You recognize this, don’t you?"
Nagini hesitated for a moment before responding. "I do not know what it was… but I know it is powerful. And I know it is not meant to be disturbed." She gazed at Harry, still nestled in the wings of the bats above them. "Yet, it seems the jungle has chosen to reveal its secrets now. Perhaps, for him."
Newt, ever the researcher, could feel his pulse quicken with a mix of excitement and unease. What lay deeper within the mangrove? What civilization had once harnessed this magic? And more importantly—
Why was it revealing itself now?
Dhruv sighed as he poured himself a generous measure of brandy, the amber liquid swirling in his glass before he took a slow sip. The warmth did little to ease the growing tension behind his eyes. He had barely sat down after the ICW ruling when a small, unassuming wooden box clattered onto his desk, glowing faintly with the unmistakable shimmer of a portkey.
Aisha’s handwriting, neat and precise, was scrawled across the lid: "We need to talk. Now."
With a resigned groan, Dhruv reached out and let his fingers brush against the box. The familiar lurch of portkey travel yanked him forward, and in an instant, he was no longer in his office but standing in the middle of a dimly lit study, the scent of parchment and old wood filling the air.
Aisha was already there, pacing with an energy that made Dhruv’s nerves jangle. She wasn’t alone. A handful of senior magizoologists and field researchers were gathered, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright alarm.
"What now?" Dhruv muttered, taking another sip of his brandy as he settled into a chair.
Aisha didn’t waste time. "Newt and his team found something. Something big. We’re talking a lost civilization level of big."
Dhruv choked on his drink, coughing as the brandy burned down the wrong way. "Come again?"
"Metal pipes leading to an ornate aqueduct buried in the mangrove," Rina Deshmukh supplied, arms crossed as she leaned against a desk. "The structure is ancient, and the magic surrounding it—undisturbed for centuries, maybe longer."
Dhruv ran a hand down his face, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his bones. "Of course. Of course, this would happen. First, we have the ICW ruling, then we have every bloody magical government in the world breathing down our necks about Harry Potter, and now you’re telling me there’s an entire lost civilization under the mangrove?"
"That about sums it up," Arvind said, though his eyes gleamed with barely restrained excitement.
Dhruv took another slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down with a decisive clink. "Alright, give me the details. What are we dealing with?"
Aisha pulled out a stack of hastily scribbled notes and laid them out across the table. "From what we can tell, the aqueduct is part of a larger structure buried beneath centuries of overgrowth. The pipes are metal but crafted with a technique none of our recorded magical civilizations have used. The residual magic isn’t just lingering—it’s active, though dormant. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t just a city or a temple. It was something powerful."
Dhruv rubbed his temples. "And let me guess—Harry is somehow tied to this?"
Nagini’s words echoed in Aisha’s mind as she nodded. "The jungle revealed it to him. To all of them. But Harry’s presence seems to be the key."
Dhruv exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the chair. "I need a stronger drink."
Aisha smirked. "We all do."
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the quiet rustling of parchment and the distant call of night creatures outside. Then, reluctantly, Dhruv straightened, all traces of exhaustion replaced by grim determination.
"Alright. We keep this under wraps. No one breathes a word about this to the British Ministry or anyone who might use it against us. If this is as significant as you’re saying, it changes everything. We need a full investigative team, discreetly. Work with Newt, get his expertise, and for Merlin’s sake, keep a close eye on Harry. The last thing we need is him stumbling into something we don’t understand."
Aisha and the others nodded, their expressions serious. They all understood what was at stake.
Dhruv leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "A lost civilization… Just another bloody day in my nightmare of a fantasy novel."
Aisha chuckled. "At least it’s never boring."
Dhruv groaned. "That’s what I’m afraid of."
Headmistress Vasuki of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya reclined upon the opulent throne-like chair in her vast office, her long serpentine tail curled beneath her. The ancient chamber, carved from a single monolithic stone, pulsed with latent magic, the intricate runes on the walls shifting in the dim glow of enchanted braziers. The air smelled of aged parchment, exotic spices, and the lingering incense of a recent ritual.
In her clawed hands, she held the letter from the Indian Parliament, a document that would set in motion events of unprecedented magnitude. Her golden eyes, slit-pupiled and filled with intelligence, scanned the words carefully. With each line, her lips curled slightly, revealing glistening fangs as she suppressed the urge to hiss in triumph.
The Boy-Who-Lived is ours.
Not in the sense of ownership, of course, but the fact remained: Harry James Potter, the most sought-after child in the magical world, would be educated here, in Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya. He was to be given full Indian magical citizenship, with all rights and privileges extended to him. His magical inheritance would be transferred from the clutches of Gringotts to Nāga-Ratna, the Naga-run magical banking system that predated the goblins' own by centuries. It was a victory over the British, a well-earned reminder that India was not a backwater colony but a civilization steeped in the oldest, most profound magic in existence.
Her tail flicked in pleasure. Let the fools in Britain wail.
A knock echoed through the chamber.
"Enter," she commanded, her voice a smooth, hypnotic melody.
A figure stepped through the towering gilded doors, bowing deeply before her. Professor Amarachandra, a senior instructor of Combat Magicks and Runic Warfare, met her gaze with quiet reverence. His dusky skin bore intricate tattoos of binding runes, and his robes were embroidered with golden serpents that seemed to shift as he moved.
"You summoned me, Headmistress?" Amarachandra inquired, his voice even and respectful.
Vasuki placed the parchment on her stone desk, her many cobra-like hair tendrils hissing softly as they adjusted themselves. "The Parliament has confirmed it. The boy will remain in India, and our school shall be his new home."
The professor exhaled, his expression unreadable. "It will change everything."
"Indeed," Vasuki agreed, her gaze drifting towards the enormous window behind her. Through it, the breathtaking vista of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya sprawled below—a labyrinthine city of ancient ziggurats, marble towers, and grand canals that shimmered under the golden glow of enchanted lanterns. Nestled within a hidden pocket dimension deep in the jungles of India, the school was more than an institution. It was a fortress, a living monument to the magical history that had withstood the rise and fall of empires.
"Have the instructors been informed?" she inquired.
"Not yet," Amarachandra admitted. "Many will rejoice. Others… may feel uneasy about what his presence will mean. The boy carries with him chaos, whether he intends to or not."
Vasuki let out a soft, hissing laugh. "Chaos? My dear Amarachandra, this is not Hogwarts. Here, chaos does not thrive unchecked—it is shaped, molded, and refined into power. Harry Potter will be no different. He may have been raised in the wilds, under the care of a serpent, but he will learn discipline here. He will learn what it truly means to wield magic."
"And if he refuses?" Amarachandra asked, not unkindly.
Her golden eyes glowed with an eerie light. "Then he will break. And we shall remake him."
The room fell into silence.
After a moment, Vasuki leaned forward, her fingers tracing the edges of the parchment. "Summon the council. We will need to prepare the rites for his formal induction. The boy must be bound to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, just as all our students are. The bond will recognize him as one of our own."
"It shall be done," Amarachandra bowed again before swiftly departing.
Vasuki sat back, exhaling in satisfaction. Her cobra hair twisted and swayed, mirroring her delight. The tides of power were shifting. The British had underestimated them for far too long. This was more than just a political win—this was destiny.
She allowed herself a rare moment of indulgence, pouring a goblet of aged Nāga-wine, a deep crimson liquid that shimmered like molten rubies. Raising it in a silent toast, she whispered to herself,
"Welcome home, Harry Potter. Let us see what fate has in store for you."
And with that, she took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the taste of victory.
Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, his hands steepled before him as he stared at the numerous documents spread across his desk. The gentle hum of Hogwarts' protective wards barely registered in his ears, his mind consumed by the sheer weight of the disaster unfolding before him. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the ancient stone walls, reflecting the deep lines of frustration carved into his face.
Everything had gone wrong.
Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, the key to his plans, the linchpin in the final confrontation against Voldemort—was gone. Not merely out of his control, but out of Britain's reach entirely. The Indian magical authorities had moved swiftly, declaring him one of their own, granting him full citizenship and the protection that came with it. Even the goblins of Gringotts had washed their hands of the matter, transferring every last Knut of the Potter fortune to their Indian counterparts. By all accounts, Harry Potter no longer existed within the British magical world.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he fought the surge of irritation bubbling within him. He had underestimated the Indian magical community. A grave mistake.
He had assumed—hoped—that there would be a way to negotiate, to maneuver Harry back under his watchful eye. But the Indian magical world was far older, far larger, and far more unified than he had given them credit for. The numbers alone were staggering; for every single British witch or wizard, there were five hundred native Indian practitioners. Even if he were foolish enough to attempt some kind of international incident, Britain could not hope to stand against such an overwhelming force.
And they knew it.
That was the worst part. They had made it abundantly clear that any attempt to interfere with Harry would not be tolerated. Dumbledore had spent decades cultivating influence, manipulating the political landscape to serve the greater good—but now, none of it mattered. For the first time in his life, he found himself powerless.
A lesser man might have raged, might have thrown aside his documents in a fit of frustration, but Albus Dumbledore was no lesser man. He had lived too long, played this game for too many years to succumb to despair. No, if his plans had collapsed, then he would simply find a way to rebuild them.
His piercing blue eyes drifted over the documents before him. Most were useless—official notices, formal letters from the Indian Ministry, refusals wrapped in polite diplomacy. But then his gaze landed upon a single parchment near the bottom of the stack.
The Triwizard Tournament.
His fingers ghosted over the document, the words leaping out at him. A competition between the three greatest magical schools of Europe, a tradition long steeped in both prestige and danger. It had not been held in over a century due to the high mortality rate of its champions, but now, for the first time in generations, it was to be revived.
A slow, calculating smile formed on Dumbledore’s lips.
Yes. This could work.
The Triwizard Tournament was bound by ancient magic, overseen by unbreakable contracts. If Harry’s name were to be entered… if he were to be selected as a champion… he would be compelled to return. The magic of the Goblet would ensure it. Not even the Indian magical authorities could dispute the legitimacy of an event recognized by the entire European magical world.
More importantly, it would force Harry back into the public eye. It would place him exactly where he needed to be—under scrutiny, under pressure, and most crucially, under Dumbledore’s guidance once more.
And Voldemort…
Dumbledore’s smile did not falter. He had long suspected that Voldemort’s return was inevitable. The Dark Lord had not truly perished that night in Godric’s Hollow, and sooner or later, he would attempt to regain his full strength. The Triwizard Tournament could serve as the perfect battlefield—a carefully arranged confrontation, one that would ensure Harry’s survival while dealing a final, decisive blow to Tom Riddle’s ambitions.
It was risky, of course. There were too many unpredictable elements. The Indian magical authorities might still attempt to intervene. Harry himself might refuse to play along. But Dumbledore had guided destinies before. He had shaped lives, molded the course of history to ensure that the greater good always prevailed.
He could do so again.
With a flick of his wand, he summoned a fresh piece of parchment and began drafting a letter to the organizers of the tournament. He would need to ensure Hogwarts' participation, lay the groundwork for Harry’s selection, and maneuver events just so.
Dumbledore dipped his quill in ink, his expression one of serene confidence as he wrote the opening line:
“To the esteemed organizers of the Triwizard Tournament…”
Yes. The game was not over yet.
Not by a long shot.
The Patil household was filled with the rich aroma of spiced curries, fragrant rice, and freshly baked naan. The evening meal was a sacred time for the family, where discussions of the day’s events intertwined with laughter and the occasional exasperated sigh from Meera Patil, who often had to curb the boundless energy of her twin daughters. Tonight, however, the excitement in the air was palpable, and it centered around one particular boy: Harry Potter.
Padma and Parvati, only seven years old, sat across from their parents, their eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity. Ever since word had reached them that The Boy Who Lived was now residing in India under the guardianship of Nagini, their young minds had been buzzing with questions. The twins were too young to fully grasp the political weight of this revelation, but they understood one thing clearly—Harry Potter was famous, and they wanted to meet him.
“Papa,” Padma began sweetly, pushing her plate forward slightly, a tactic she often used when she wanted something. “Can we go see Harry Potter?”
Arvind Patil, ever the composed and shrewd politician, smirked slightly as he dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. He had anticipated this request the moment news of Harry Potter’s residence in India had broken. He set the napkin down and glanced across the table at his wife, Meera, who was already rolling her eyes at her daughters’ antics.
Parvati chimed in before he could answer. “Please, Papa? We just want to see if he’s really as wild as they say! The newspapers say he was raised by a snake! That’s so cool!”
Meera scoffed, stirring her dal with a careful hand. “You two should not believe everything the newspapers say. Sensationalism is their bread and butter.”
“But, Mama,” Padma whined, “if he’s really living in India now, we should welcome him! It would be rude not to.”
Arvind let out a hearty chuckle, shaking his head. “Ah, so now you wish to play the part of gracious hostesses?”
Parvati nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Besides, how many kids can say they got to meet the most famous wizard in the world?”
Meera finally set her spoon down and fixed her daughters with an appraising stare. Though strict, she was a mother who recognized the value of curiosity, and this particular curiosity aligned well with her own interests. As a professor at Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, she had been considering making a visit to Harry herself—purely for academic reasons, of course. The boy was bound to be a topic of great interest to the school’s Headmistress, and as a potions and healing expert, she had more than one reason to be involved in understanding his development.
“You do realize that he is not some spectacle for you to gawk at,” Meera said, her voice even. “He is a boy, not a zoo exhibit.”
Padma and Parvati exchanged glances before nodding solemnly, though their excitement remained. “Of course, Mama.”
Arvind leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the polished wooden table as he considered the request. Finally, he turned to Meera. “What do you think, my dear? A visit would provide insight for your Headmistress, no?”
Meera pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That is true. If we are to prepare for his potential education at Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, understanding his magical abilities and temperament would be prudent.”
The twins perked up at that. “So we can go?” Parvati asked eagerly.
Arvind held up a hand to slow their excitement. “That depends.”
The twins groaned in unison. There was always a catch when their father used that phrase.
“You must behave with the utmost respect,” he continued, his gaze serious. “Harry Potter is not just a boy—he is a child who has been through much hardship. Whatever his upbringing, whatever his circumstances, he is now under the protection of India. We do not wish to overwhelm him.”
Padma and Parvati nodded quickly. “Of course, Papa! We’ll be on our best behavior,” Padma promised.
Parvati, ever the more mischievous of the two, added, “And we won’t even ask about the snake stuff!”
Meera sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You just did.”
Arvind chuckled again, shaking his head. “Very well. I will see if arrangements can be made. But if at any point I believe you are misbehaving, there will be no visit. Understood?”
“Yes, Papa!” both girls chirped in unison.
Satisfied, Arvind turned his attention back to his meal, but not before exchanging an amused glance with Meera. Their daughters were inquisitive, bright, and utterly relentless when it came to matters that intrigued them. It was a trait that would serve them well in the future—so long as they did not get themselves into too much trouble along the way.
As the meal continued, the conversation shifted to lighter topics, but beneath it all, Arvind and Meera both knew that this was only the beginning. The presence of Harry Potter in India was already shifting the tides of the magical world, and their family was now at the heart of it.
For better or for worse, change was coming. And it was arriving on the wings of a boy raised by a snake.