Bonds of Shadow and Blood
In the dimly lit expanse of Nott Manor's private study, Lord Alton Nott sat brooding over the contents of a letter, its seal marked with the emblem of the Chief Warlock. The revelation within—the declaration of Dumbledore's guardianship over Harry Potter—stirred a mix of frustration and disappointment in Alton's heart. Yet, beneath these vexing feelings, a flicker of opportunistic zeal sparked to life. If Dumbledore held sway over Potter, then surely, there must be a way to leverage this to their advantage.
As these machinations swirled in his mind, an otherworldly chill crept into the room, extinguishing the warmth from the hearth as if mocking the fire's attempt to dispel the darkness. Then, from the nothingness outside the window, a presence announced itself not with sound but with a suffocating absence of light. It was as if the night itself had grown tired of the boundaries set by nature and decided to step indoors.
Alton's disciplined heart faltered for a moment, despite his allegiance to the dark. Kneeling in a gesture of both fear and respect, he dared not lift his gaze as Lord Voldemort, reduced to a spectral wraith, made his entrance.
"Hephaestus," Voldemort's voice was the cold whisper of the grave, acknowledging Alton's dedication with a name that spoke of creation and destruction alike. It was a moment of pride, albeit shrouded in the terror of the Dark Lord's presence. “One of my most loyal subjects. Rise.”
"My Lord, your servant stands ready," Alton responded, his voice a testament to his unwavering loyalty, even as his heart pounded.
"You will create a device," Voldemort commanded, his voice an ethereal silk thread wrapping around Alton's will, "for Thanatos. One that will bring down the Shadowstone Pylon in France. It is... essential."
Lord Nott’s eyes widened at the command. “My lord, the creation of such a device lies within our realm of capability. Yet," he ventured cautiously, "the celestial forces did not look kindly upon our last endeavor. You yourself were—"
"Death holds no dominion over me now," Voldemort interjected, his dismissal underlined with a confidence that bordered on the divine. "The destruction of the pylons is but a step towards our ultimate victory. Do you doubt our ability to overcome any resistance they might offer?"
Lord Nott lowered his head. “No, my lord. You tasked me to create for you. I will craft you a most destructive runic array. Your commands have been followed as I have received them. But you have only just returned. Perhaps if I knew your intentions I could craft a device more… applicable to your needs.”
Pressure radiated from the darkness, the ghostly eyes piercing into Lord Nott’s skull.
“You are among the Knights of Walpurgis. You know more than most. But do not forget your duty to your lord. Follow my command.”
With that final reminder, the pressure and darkness left the room and Lord Nott was alone.
Standing, Alton felt a rush of ambition. The Dark Lord's command had bestowed upon him a task of paramount importance. As he commenced the drafting of the device, his expertise as a craftsman now took on a sinister purpose. The Shadowstone Pylons - ancient and powerful artifacts of the celestials - would fall to their machinations.
And yet, a sliver of apprehension remained. They were to challenge forces beyond their understanding, perhaps inviting a wrath far greater than any they had faced before. But the opportunity to be instrumental in his Lord’s return to power, to stand by Lord Voldemort's side at the zenith of his reign, dwarfed any trepidation.
Hephaestus would craft his Magnum Opus.
The bustle of the early morning greeted Harry Potter as he came down for breakfast. As he turned to the barkeep to request his usual, he met wizened pale blue eyes of Aberforth Dumbledore.
Back from some mysterious journey, it seems.
Harry felt Aberforth’s eyes on him as he ate but every time he turned to check, Aberforth was always doing something else.
Strange man.
As he finished he returned to his room and double checked his appearance before Apparating to the Leaky Cauldron. Madam Justine was waiting at a table in the back. She rose to greet him.
“Good morning, Heir Potter,” she said with a soft smile. “Are you ready to meet Lord Baron?”
"As I'll ever be," Harry replied, trying to muster a confidence he didn't feel. The prospect of discussing marriage alliances was daunting, to say the least. The idea that his personal life could be the linchpin in some grand strategy was a concept he was still grappling with.
Together, they stepped into the network of Floo Powder, Madam Justine calling out their destination with a clear, commanding tone. The world whirled in a blur of green flames before depositing them onto the plush carpet of Baron Manor's grand receiving room.
A well dressed manservant greeted them before escorting them to a more private chamber, where Lord Ashton Baron awaited. The room was vast and opulently decorated, the heavy curtains drawn back to flood the space with natural light, highlighting its grandeur and the intimidating figure that dominated the room.
Lord Baron stood by a massive fireplace, his back to them as they entered. As he turned, Harry was struck by the man's presence. Lord Baron was a towering figure, his frame broad and imposing, exuding an aura of unquestionable authority. His deep-set eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that felt as if it could pierce through to his very soul.
"Heir Potter," his voice boomed, each word carrying the weight of command and expectation. "Welcome to my home."
"Thank you, Lord Baron," Harry managed, his voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in his stomach.
There was a moment of heavy silence before Lord Baron gestured to someone behind him. "I believe introductions are in order. This is my daughter, Miss Catelynn Baron."
Harry's gaze shifted, and he found himself looking at a young woman who had stepped forward from the shadow of her father's formidable figure. Miss Baron was the antithesis of her father in demeanor and appearance. Where Lord Baron was massive and menacing, she appeared delicate, almost ethereal. Yet, despite her terrified expression, there was a stoicism in her posture, a silent strength that spoke of her ability to endure whatever fears plagued her.
"Miss Baron," Harry said, taking her hand and trying to shake off the oddity of the situation. He was nearly forty years old, and here he was, meeting a young woman for the possibility of marriage. It was an aspect of wizarding tradition he hadn't expected to personally navigate, yet here they were, close in biological age due to the peculiarities of his life and magic, but worlds apart in every other aspect.
“This is my governess, Madam Justine.” Madam Justine curtsied and Lord Baron nodded in her direction.
Lord Baron gestured towards a set of luxurious chairs arranged around a low, ornate table. "Please, Heir Potter, take a seat. We have much to discuss."
As they settled, and drinks were offered, Lord Baron wasted no time delving into the matters at hand. "The state of the Wizengamot is, as you might expect, precarious. The ongoing war has thrown many things into disarray, not least our trade agreements."
Harry listened intently but found he had little to contribute to the conversation. Traditional politics had never been his strong suit, a fact that didn't go unnoticed.
"I must admit, I'm a bit out of my depth here," Harry said after a pause, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "I've never been much for politics."
Lord Baron's response was a hearty laugh, rich and warm, which eased the tension Harry felt. "There's no need for apologies, Heir Potter. Politics is a tedious game at the best of times. Let us then speak on matters more to your liking. What interests you, Heir Potter? What passions drive you?"
Harry thought for a moment. His love for flying had never abated, but he had little time to pursue it in the latter half of his life. Relaxation was replaced with a grim determination to hunt and destroy Dark Wizards.
“Heir Potter?” Lord Baron cocked his head.
Harry snapped out of his reflection. “Apologies, I don’t think I do much for fun. I spend most of my time practicing and reading.”
Lord Baron nodded knowingly. “Such is the life of a Lordless Heir. You have to strengthen your position to fight off rivals and protect your House.”
“Speaking of protecting my House, you know why I am here, Lord Baron.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Baron. “Uniting the Houses of Baron and Potter would be extraordinary. Before either of us commit, however, we should get to know one another. It wouldn’t do to have allies that vehemently disagree with your values.”
Harry gulped. Yet more tests. How much to reveal…
“There is much for me to learn, Lord Baron. I have many goals for the future of our Imperium.”
“Such as?”
Harry steeled his voice. “I wish for a more prosperous living situation for all. Too long have Half-bloods and Muggleborns suffered under the yoke of would be Blood Purists. Our society would benefit from empowering these witches and wizards to succeed by their own merit.”
Lord Baron responded evenly. “And this would improve our society? How so?”
“In the same way that we benefit our imperium by our success, they would contribute as well. The crushing weight of Pureblood expectations causes many to fail before they even begin.”
Lord Baron leaned back. “Have you considered that is the point, Heir Potter?”
Harry jerked as if he was slapped. “I’m sorry? Oppressing the non-Purebloods is the point?”
“Not quite. There are many expectations for us as Nobles. We carry the weight of our great imperium upon our shoulders. If we fail, darkness engulfs everything we hold dear. Do the other Purebloods bear such a weight? What about the Half-bloods? The Muggleborns?”
Harry frowned. “No, but we also don’t allow them the opportunity to accept such a responsibility. Not only do we bar them from such responsibility, we demand their subservience and murder them if they fail.”
Lord Baron stroked his beard before straightening in his seat. “Certainly some of our colleagues are more… detached with their servants, but few Nobles and fewer Purebloods treat their fellow magicals in such a way. Non-Purebloods don’t have the attachment we have to our imperium. We don’t trust them because their failure doesn’t impact them as much.”
“Is that what you truly believe, Lord Baron? We can justify the barbaric treatment of fellow magicals because they aren’t as invested? They aren’t invested because we treat them worse than beasts!”
Lord Baron stayed silent for a long moment, staring into the fiery eyes of his interlocutor. “So you lack passions for frivolous things, but have a deep desire to improve the world. I don’t think you dislike politics, you just have a particular focus. You are the most interesting 8 year old I have ever met, Heir Potter.”
Harry’s aura flared, but he reigned it in almost instantly. Madam Justine tensed up. Condescension.
“For what it is worth, I agree that we should make some changes to better the fate of non-Purebloods. It is unacceptable that magical blood is being spilt for superficial reasons.”
Harry relaxed slightly. Perhaps unintended condescension? “We align in purpose then.”
Lord Baron smiled. “Somewhat. Still, I believe we are more alike than different, but alliances live and die by the details. Darkness and doom awaits failure from men of our station. We have a responsibility to better the lives of those beneath us.”
Harry leaned back. We don’t agree on everything, but perhaps this is a good starting place.
“Alright father,” squeaked Miss Baron. “You’ve had your fun. Now it is my turn.”
Harry turned to face Catelynn, her expression hard as stone.
Catelynn fixed Harry with a look that held a weight of expectation, her question not just a query but a test. “Heir Potter, what do you believe the role of a woman is?”
There was something in the way she asked, a hint of a challenge, as if she was searching for something beyond the words themselves.
Harry blinked hard once. Twice. Three times.
“Uhhh… I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it…”
The tiniest sigh came from Madam Justine behind him. Lord Baron remained stoic.
Catelynn’s gaze lingered on Harry, a myriad of emotions flickering across her features so quickly it was hard to decipher them all. The slight furrow of her brow hinted at confusion, or perhaps concern, but it was the fleeting trace of sadness in her eyes that spoke volumes, quickly masked by a practiced stoicism.
“Have you considered the role of your wife?”
“Uhh…”
In the pause that followed, Catelynn’s expression shifted through a complex dance of disappointment, understanding, and a resilient spark that suggested she was not one to easily concede defeat. Her eyes, alight with a mix of defiance and hope, seemed to challenge Harry not just to answer but to truly consider the question’s depth.
“You are the heir of an Ancient and Noble House. Surely you expect more than a broodmare?”
Harry stared at her slack jawed, his thoughts racing a mile a minute.
A surge of emotion tightened Catelynn’s posture, her hands clenched into fists at her sides momentarily before she caught herself, and she schooled her features into a semblance of calm. Yet, when she spoke, her voice carried a sharp edge, betraying the storm beneath. “Father!”
Lord Baron chuckled. “I think Heir Potter has much to ponder from this meeting, yes? Perhaps we should schedule some time for you two to get to know each other.”
What- Who- Where-
“I think what Heir Potter means to say is that he would be delighted,” Madam Justine chimed in.
Catelynn seemed to withdraw, her arms crossing as a barrier between them.
“Allow me to see you out, Heir Potter.”
Harry stood dumbly before following Lord Baron to the receiving room. He said his goodbyes and stole one last glance at Miss Baron. Her steely expression etched a place in his mind. He vaguely recalled Lord Baron encouraging him to owl his daughter.
As they arrived back in the central chamber, Madam Justine sighed heavily.
“That was a productive meeting.”
Harry’s thoughts continued to swim. I don’t understand! How do they work! Why are they like this?
“Heir Potter?”
They expect me to know things! Why don’t they just tell me their thoughts? What did I do wrong?
“Heir Potter.”
Now I have more problems to fix. Why are women so strange?
“Heir Potter!”
The shrill voice of Madam Justine broke through his concentration. “Madam Justine. You are a woman.”
Her expression hardened. “Don’t be droll, Heir Potter. While the meeting started off well, you have much to improve upon.”
Harry tried his best to keep her gaze, but flashes of Catelynn’s face forced his eyes down. “I have never done well with women…”
Madam Justine giggled. “Of course not. You are eight.”
Harry internally winced. Don’t make that mistake again.
He finally found the strength to lift his eyes. “What I mean is, I don’t know much about how to talk to girls. Romantically.”
“Well,” Madam Justine said with a smile, “that just means we need to incorporate more etiquette into our lessons. You should be a charming young man, especially for any prospective wives. We should also incorporate more history and politics into our lessons. You should form a more complete opinion on our imperium.”
Harry sighed. Yet more work. It never ends.
“Girls will be the death of me.”
As Harry wandered through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, the words of Erinvele echoed hauntingly in his mind. "Not enough," she had said, casting a shadow of doubt over every step he took. "Failure," as if his very existence was a question mark hanging over an unfinished sentence. He paused, taking a deep breath of the crisp winter air, trying to shake off the uncertainty that clung to him like a second skin.
Suddenly, the air beside him shimmered, and with a soft pop, Dumbledore appeared, as if conjured by Harry's turmoil. Before Harry could react, Dumbledore's arms were around him, pulling him into an embrace so full of warmth and fear.
"I was terrified we had lost you," Dumbledore whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and something else—something deeper, more vulnerable.
Harry, taken aback by the unexpected display of emotion, allowed himself a moment to simply be held. In the arms of his mentor, the storm inside him quieted, if only for a heartbeat. But as Dumbledore's words sank in, Ripguff's warnings surfaced, stirring a whirlwind of confusion and mistrust. With a jolt, Harry stepped back, breaking the hug.
Dumbledore studied him with those piercing blue eyes, a well of wisdom and sorrow. "I apologize, Harry. I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. I am in charge of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was also a close friend of your parents,” he said. “I am afraid I must speak with you privately about rather urgent matters.”
Harry nodded, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Without another word, Dumbledore reached out, and with a touch and a twist, they were gone from Hogsmeade, reappearing in the familiar surroundings of Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts.
The office was just as Harry remembered it—the whirring of ingenious devices, the faint smell of lemon drops, and the comforting presence of Fawkes, perched silently. A wave of nostalgia hit him so powerfully it was almost physical, threatening to bring him to his knees. Memories of simpler times, of seeking guidance in this very room, welled up inside him, and for a fleeting moment, he was on the verge of tears.
Dumbledore gestured towards the chairs in front of his desk, an unspoken invitation to sit and share the burden that so clearly weighed on Harry's heart. As Harry took his seat, the reality of their situation settled over him like a cloak. He was alone with perhaps the only wizard he ever met that was more powerful than he was. If anything unfortunate slipped out here, he might not be able to escape.
"Harry, my boy, I must ask," Dumbledore began, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, "why did you leave the Dursleys' care, and how did you find your way to Hogsmeade?"
Harry felt a knot form in his stomach. This was the moment to tread carefully, balancing between truth and necessity. He drew a deep breath, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "The Dursleys... they never wanted me," he started, the memories pressing in, dark and suffocating. Those memories were old and scarred, but he could always draw on the rage of their treatment in a pinch.
"Their treatment was... harsh. One day, it all became too much." His voice faltered, the pain and rage of those days a shadow that danced at the edge of his consciousness.
As he spoke, Harry felt the gentle, probing touch of Dumbledore's mind against his own. It was Legilimency, he realized, a delicate invasion wrapped in concern. His first instinct was to recoil, to protect his thoughts with the Heir Ring's power. But caution stayed his hand; revealing the ring's capabilities could raise questions he wasn't ready to answer. Instead, Harry allowed the ring's protection to fade, opening the gates to his mind with a subtler defense—Occlumency.
With meticulous care, Harry guided Dumbledore's gaze through his memories. He showed him the truth of the Dursleys' cruelty, the neglect and abuse that had been his lot, sparing no detail of their disdain. But when it came to his escape, Harry wove a careful tapestry of falsehood. He planted the seed of a memory, one where, in a moment of desperation and pain, he had somehow, accidentally, Apparated to Hogsmeade. The memory was vivid, laced with fear and pain, a plausible tale of a young wizard's instinct and magic responding in a moment of dire need.
Dumbledore withdrew from the connection, his expression thoughtful, eyes clouded with a mixture of sorrow and understanding. "I see," he said quietly, the weight of his words heavy with unspoken emotion. "You've endured much more than any young man should. Your strength, Harry, is remarkable."
Harry had always wished for Dumbledore to save him from the monsters that were his relatives. They had reconciled in the afterlife of King’s Cross, but the discovery that Harry had essentially been left as a sacrifice had always tainted his perspective on his old mentor. Dumbledore had never been deliberately cruel, but his arrogance had cost Harry his childhood, and was partially responsible for his current predicament. Harry had long ago forgiven Dumbledore for his failings, but being face to face with the man… it opened old, well healed wounds.
“Why did you send me to the Dursley’s, sir?” Harry’s tone bit with an unintended edge.
Dumbledore’s brow raised ever so slightly. “And how do you know it was I who sent you there?” he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.
Harry hesitated, realizing the precariousness of his position. His discovery of Dumbledore's role as his magical guardian was knowledge not easily explained without revealing more than he dared. Yet, in that moment, his desire for answers overpowered his caution. "I... found out," Harry began, stumbling over his words, "that you were named my magical guardian, sir. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together after that."
Dumbledore's expression grew more troubled, the warmth in his eyes giving way to a sharpened scrutiny. It was clear that Harry's admission had sparked a concern, a puzzle that Dumbledore felt compelled to solve. Without warning, Harry felt once again the intrusion of Dumbledore's mind against his own, this time with a force that brooked no denial. If Harry was untrained in Occlumency, it is unlikely he would even feel this intrusion. It was a deeper, more relentless probe, driven by suspicion and the need for truth.
The pain of this intrusion was far more intense than before, a searing lance that pierced the veils Harry had carefully erected around his most guarded secrets. Dumbledore was digging in Harry’s deepest memories. The memories Dumbledore sought were not merely hidden; they were barricaded behind walls built of trauma and fear, walls that Harry had never intended to lower.
In a desperate bid for relief, for the preservation of his own mind and secrets, Harry reacted, his Occlumency barriers clamping down with a ferocity he had not manifested in many years. It was a violent, instinctive rejection, a surge of mental energy that thrust Dumbledore's presence out with a force that left both of them reeling. Harry, gasping for breath, felt a rush of rage and fear at his own actions, while Dumbledore, taken aback, recovered with a grace that belied the shock of the encounter.
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, a tangible presence that spoke volumes of the chasm that had opened between them. Dumbledore, his eyes now mirroring a depth of sorrow, regarded Harry with a newfound wariness. "Harry," he began, his voice a blend of regret and concern, "I assure you, my decisions regarding your upbringing were never made lightly. But I see now that there are depths to your experience and your abilities that I have underestimated."
His aura crackled, a burst of blue light flaring from his form. “That’s twice now you’ve tried to use Legilimency on me,” he said through grit teeth. “You will not try again. Sir.”
This time, Dumbledore did not try and hide his surprise. “You are truly remarkable, my boy. There are many impossible things about you, Harry. I did not wish to pry unnecessarily but it is clear you are hiding the truth.”
There was a time when Harry hung on every word Dumbledore said, seeing them as gospel. Now, those same words felt like chains, a reminder of how much he had to guard his thoughts, his very essence. The contrast was a bitter pill, sweet memories now tainted with the sting of disillusionment.
Harry scoffed and reigned in his aura.
"Sir," Harry began, his voice laced with a hesitance that betrayed his inner turmoil. He paused, searching for the courage to voice his doubts, his fists clenching at his sides as if to anchor him to the spot. "I want to trust... But how can I, when every truth comes wrapped in layers of concealment?"
Dumbledore broke eye contact and looked out the window for some time.
“I have made many mistakes, Harry,” Dumbledore said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I have so many regrets for my failures. People have lost their lives because of my choices. It is… a heavy burden.”
Dumbledore turned back to face Harry wearing a grim expression.
“But what I did I did for the betterment of all wizardkind. I never meant to cause you any pain, and for that, I am deeply sorry. I give you my word I will try to mitigate it going forward.”
“Sir, you have brought about a lifetime of pain. You think a simple promise can undo that damage?”
Dumbledore wiped the moisture from his eyes and sighed. “No, I don’t suppose it can. But can it earn me another chance? A chance to do better and earn your trust?”
Harry studied his face for a long moment. Dumbledore had lied to him before. Dumbledore had allowed him to face Voldemort, and had planned for Harry to die. Could he be trusted again? Could this version of Dumbledore be trusted? Every ounce of Harry’s desire said yes. He wanted nothing more than to trust his old mentor and to take on the darkness together.
But no. Dumbledore had failed to fix this society for over a hundred years. For all of Harry’s faults, he knew that he was at least willing to change and do better. Dumbledore believed his crusade righteous and would justify even sacrificing children to succeed. No, Dumbledore couldn’t be trusted to change. His vision for the Wizarding World would blind them all.
“I am… unsure. I need time to think about it, sir.”
Dumbledore lifted his head. “I understand. For what it’s worth, my boy, I do regret leaving you at the Dursley’s. There are some… unexpected inaccuracies as a result of their treatment that I will be correcting very soon. But I am your guardian and so there are some things we need to discuss, even if you are upset with me.”
“I agree, sir. Can we schedule some time to speak this weekend?”
Dumbledore nodded. “I will send an owl to formally arrange a time. Where are you staying in Hogsmeade?”
Harry thought for a moment before deciding that he could tell Dumbledore at least that. It was likely he could find him in the small town anyways.
“At the Hog’s Head Inn. Room B17.”
Another nod from Dumbledore. “I’ll let you get back to town then, my boy.”
Dumbledore rose from his seat before placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder and Apparating him back to the Hog’s Head Inn.
After a moment, they said a terse farewell and Dumbledore returned to his office in Hogwarts.
Tears streamed down his face and pooled in his beard. Fawkes sang his calming tune, but even that did not shatter the sadness that enveloped Dumbledore.
“He is falling down that path, Fawkes. I don’t have the strength in me to battle another Dark Lord. But this time… it will be my fault. Harry’s family is dead because of me. Can I do what needs to be done? Is that Blackest Night truly necessary for one needed for the prophecy?”
Fawkes did not respond and Dumbledore was left with his thoughts in silence.
As the quiet of the evening settled over Malfoy Manor, a sudden, piercing intrusion shattered the silence within Lord Malfoy's mind. The mental call was unmistakable, the signature of Thanatos weaving through his thoughts like a serpent seeking warmth.
"Poseidon. We require additional resources to fortify our position in France," came the telepathic declaration, its intent clear and demanding.
Malfoy's lips curled into a sneer, his voice echoing in the grandeur of his private study. "And what sum do we speak of this time?" he inquired.
"Ten thousand galleons," Thanatos's request reverberated through Malfoy's consciousness, a figure so substantial that it drew a scoff from the depths of Malfoy's throat.
"Ten thousand?" Malfoy's disdain was palpable, a rich timbre of skepticism and mockery. "For what purpose? To buy your way into French nobility?"
Thanatos's reply held a weight that demanded attention, a seriousness that brooked no jest. "The pact forged with the French is a formidable barrier. Centaurs, elves, veela, and magicals all require tools. The sum is necessary to dismantle it, to secure a passage for destroying the pylon, as our master wills."
The gravity of Thanatos's explanation hung between them, a reminder of the stakes at play. After a moment's consideration, wherein the shadows of the room seemed to lean in, listening, Malfoy's resolve hardened.
"Very well," he conceded, the words tinged with reluctance yet underlined with unwavering resolve. "The gold will be yours."
But as the connection began to wane, Malfoy's voice carried a final thought, a barbed reminder of the precarious nature of their alliance. "But heed this, Thanatos. You are but a rabid dog on a leash. Do not forget who holds it."
"Rapid dogs," Thanatos snarled, "are prone to ripping out the throats of those foolish enough to think they can be tamed. Let that thought linger, Poseidon."
With that, the mental link snapped shut, leaving a silence that was somehow more profound than before. Lord Malfoy's gaze drifted to the darkened windows, his thoughts as shadowed as the night outside.
Within the cozy, somewhat cluttered room of the Hog's Head Inn, a safe haven amidst the whirlwind of their lives, Harry, Justine, and Hermione found themselves engrossed in a conversation that felt both inevitable and revolutionary. The room, with its peculiar blend of oddities and comfort, reflected the unconventional nature of their gathering. Aberforth's occasional gruffness from downstairs only added to the evening's clandestine feel.
The candle flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the worn table, mirroring the uncertainty that flickered in Harry's eyes. The inn's peculiar blend of aromas—aged wood, spiced ale, and the faint, ever-present musk of magic—wrapped around them like a cloak, a reminder of the world outside this sanctuary of shadow and light.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he began, his voice carrying a weight that belied his years. "About Dumbledore, and everything that's happened. It's like the more I learn, the less I feel I can trust him... the one who was supposed to be my protector."
Madam Justine, leaning forward, her expression a mix of concern and indignation, responded, "I can't make sense of it either, Heir Potter. To think he might have overlooked your wellbeing—it's not just baffling, it's deeply troubling, to say nothing of his flagrant disregard for his many responsibilities."
Hermione, ever one to trust authority, interjected gently, "It seems odd to me that he would be so willing to dismiss you. There must be a good reason. An adult, a teacher wouldn’t, couldn’t do that, right?"
The room seemed to hold its breath as Harry paused, gathering his thoughts. "That's just it," he continued, "I feel like... like the only adult I can really trust anymore is you, Madam Justine." He turned to her, his green eyes earnest and searching. "And there's something important I need to ask you. It needs to be in private though.” He looked at Hermione.
She groaned and pouted. “Don’t trust me?”
Harry chuckled. “It’s not a matter of trust. The things I need to talk with Madam Justine about require secrecy, and there are people who can rip memories from your mind. If you learn Occlumency, I can share these secrets with you.”
Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “I will learn it! Can you teach me?”
Harry nodded. “I’m sure we can add it in our lessons between learning about the myriad houses and alliances…”
Hermione nodded. “I’ll grab lunch. Let me know when you’re done!”
Hermione stepped out and Harry took a deep breath.
“Would you consider being my magical guardian for the Peverell house?"
Harry's heart hammered against his chest, a silent echo of the courage he mustered. As he spoke, his voice was more than a sound—it was the embodiment of his resolve, carrying the weight of unspoken fears and the fragile hope of finding trust in a world that had offered him little.
The weight of Harry's request settled over the room like a dense fog, thick with implications and uncharted territory. Madam Justine's eyes widened, a mix of honor and apprehension flickering across her features. "Heir Potter, you know I want to help you, help better the plight of all non-Purebloods, but..." She hesitated, her mind racing through the complexities of wizarding law and tradition. "A Half-blood has never been named a guardian for the heir of an Ancient and Noble House. The repercussions, the backlash we could face..."
Harry met her gaze steadily, his resolve unwavering. "I don't care about the backlash. You're more reliable, more trustworthy than any other adult I’ve met. Your blood status doesn't matter to me. What matters is trust and loyalty. In the short time we have known each other, you have helped me far more than even those supposedly loyal to me and my family. I need someone I can trust to take up the proxy of the Peverell House so I may keep my identity hidden."
Madam Justine nodded. “I understand. When the Peverell throne ignites in the next full moon, they will be able to demand the presence of the Peverell representative. It is bold to send a proxy in lieu of a traditional introduction, but not unheard of.”
“I need to get ahead of the unique circumstances I find myself in. I have some ideas of how to go on the offensive, but I need your support. I ask again: will you be the proxy of the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell?”
Madam Justine took a deep breath, the magnitude of Harry's request sinking in. "Heir Potter, accepting this role... it's not something I take lightly. But if you believe in me, then I'm willing to face whatever comes our way."
Harry stood and walked to the center of the room. “Then I ask that you kneel before me to accept the Oath of Service.”
Madam Justine smiled before approaching and kneeling before Harry.
“Do you know the Oath of Service?” he asked.
She nodded. “Is there anything you would like for me to add?”
Harry smiled and shook his head. “I trust you.”
Madam Justine returned the smile and took a deep breath.
“I, Francesca Justine, with Mother Magic as my witness, do hereby pledge my unwavering service to the venerable Ancient and Noble House of Peverell. With the stars as my canopy and the earth as my stead, I vow to uphold the sacred traditions that have been entrusted to the lineage of this Noble House since the Age of Myth.
I hereby commit myself to a path of honor, ensuring that my deeds shall ever reflect the valor and dignity befitting the Ancient and Noble name of Peverell.
With a heart steadfast and resolute, I solemnly swear to remain loyal to the heirs and guardians of this House, to defend its legacy against all perils, seen and unseen, and to bear its crest with pride and reverence.
May my service be true, my purpose noble, and my loyalty unwavering. This oath I bind upon my soul, until the end of my days, under the watchful eyes of the founders of this House and of Mother Magic herself.
So mote it be.”
Magical pressure built up throughout her oath, culminating in a torrent of light erupting from the space between them as magic itself bound her oath.
“Rise Francesca Justine. Rise in the glory of your new home as a member of the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell.”
As she rose, tears welled up in her eyes. Her chest stuck out in pride and her lips trembled.
“I never would have thought that a chance encounter just two months ago would have led to this. I won’t let you down, Heir Potter.”
Harry beamed at her. “When we are alone, please call me Harry. Just Harry. And as I told you before, I trust you. You have earned this.”
She giggled. Justine's laughter, light and tinged with tears, was a beacon in the dim room, a reminder of the resilience of human connection amidst the trials of their world. “And in public I should continue to refer to you as Heir Potter?”
“Indeed. It will likely be many years before I can truly reveal myself as Lord Peverell. While you are legally a member of the Peverell House and my legal proxy, I intent for you to function as my magical guardian. That being said, our primary goal will be integrating you within the the Wizengamot to acquire information.”
“I have some ideas on how we can do that…”
Luna Lovegood found herself trapped in the turbulent sea of her dreams, where the waves crashed with relentless force, each one a different vision of Harry Potter—her friend, the enigma, the hero in a world teetering on the edge of light and shadow. These dreams cascaded from one to another, each scene more harrowing than the last. In the soft embrace of slumber, she witnessed Harry stand valiantly in the face of Lord Nott, only to be struck down mercilessly. Another vision soon took its place, where Harry emerged victorious, his wand casting the fatal spell that ended Nott's tyranny. Yet, the relief Luna felt was ephemeral, as a new nightmare unfolded, showing Harry facing the ultimate evil, Voldemort, who laughed coldly as he extinguished the last hope of the wizarding world. The final vision was perhaps the most chilling, with Harry battling a creature so dark and formidable that its very presence seemed to drain the light from the world around them. In every vision, Harry stood between her and certain doom slinging arcs of bright blue lightning, a steadfast guardian whose sacrifice was his silent vow of protection.
Awakening with a start, Luna found herself in the familiar, comforting surroundings of her bedroom, the remnants of her dreams lingering like a fog. Her mother, Pandora Lovegood, sat beside her, a gentle hand soothing Luna's fevered brow. "Nightmares again, my darling?" she inquired, her voice a balm to Luna's frayed nerves.
Luna nodded, the images of her dreams still vivid in her mind. "All about Harry Potter," she whispered, the weight of her concern for him heavy in her heart.
Pandora chuckled softly, a sound that carried both warmth and wisdom. "Yet more dreams of the boy. Do your dreams explain why Harry Potter felt the need to cloak himself in mystery around us?" Her eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
"No. It's odd," Luna mused, her gaze distant as she pondered the question. "He knew who I was, yet he chose not to reveal himself or how he knew me. Cormac McLaggen is such a boorish name."
"There's more to that boy than meets the eye, Luna," Pandora replied, her expression thoughtful. "I sense that our paths with him are far from concluded. We will see him again, I believe, and perhaps then, we'll uncover the truth of his heart and his purpose."
Luna's lips curved into a small smile, comforted by her mother's words. "I hope so," she said softly, the turmoil within her quieting at the thought of reuniting with Harry. With her mother's presence a soothing anchor, Luna allowed herself to drift back into sleep, her dreams now a blank canvas awaiting the dawn's light.
As Luna ventured once more into the realm of dreams, the fears that had plagued her seemed to dissipate, leaving behind a sense of anticipation and a belief in the power of unseen connections that bound them all. Harry Potter, a name that carried with it tales of bravery, sacrifice, and mystery, was etched in her heart, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there were those who would stand as beacons of hope, fighting against the shadows with every fiber of their being.