Unveiled
Hogwarts
July 31st, 1980
Albus Dumbledore stood over his Pensieve, the swirling, silvery liquid within the basin calling him to enter the realm of dreams and memories. With the practiced ease of a man well-acquainted with the past, he leaned forward and submerged himself.
The world around him shifted into the scene of a stormy night in Hogsmeade Village. He followed his past self as he walked into the dimly lit interior of the Hog's Head Inn. He ascended the narrow staircase, his robes barely brushing the dust-laden floor. A private room awaited him, simple and unadorned, save for the nervous woman who perched at the table, fidgeting with her shawl.
Sybill Trelawney.
Her great-great-grandmother had been Cassandra Trelawney—one of the most gifted Seers in recorded history. And yet, as Dumbledore sat before Sybill, he found himself rapidly losing hope that such talent had been passed down through the generations.
Her voice trembled, her manner scattered, and she offered little but vague assurances of her abilities. Disappointment settled upon him like a weight—Hogwarts had long upheld the study of Divination, but he had hoped for something more than parlour tricks and empty proclamations.
He was preparing to take his leave when it happened.
The very air in the room changed.
A deep, humming pressure filled the space, pressing against his skin, thick as magic itself. The candle flames flickered wildly, then stilled, frozen in an eerie, unnatural stillness.
Sybill’s body went rigid.
Her breath hitched, her hands slackened at her sides, and her head tilted back as her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Dumbledore froze, every nerve alight with awareness. And then, she spoke. Not with one voice, but many. Layered and resonant, as if the very fabric of time itself were speaking through her.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches.
Born to those who defeated death,
Born as the seventh month dies.
Fire will guide him, blood will bind them.
And the Dragon's Prince will take his place in the skies.
By flame he will rise and by flame he shall fall.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, will be born as the seventh month dies.”
The last syllable left her lips like a dying breath, and the room seemed to exhale with her. The pressure lifted. The magic dissipated.
Sybill collapsed forward, gasping, her eyes fluttering open in confusion followed by a crash, billowing robes chased after their master who was fleeing down the stairway and into the dark of night. He watched himself rise with swiftness that betrayed his age and run after the eavesdropper he now knew to be Severus Snape.
He felt a feint tug as the memory dissipated, and he was pulled back to the land of the living.
Even in memory, he still felt the profound weight of that moment pressing upon him. The prophecy—the words he had only heard once before—rang anew in his mind, each phrase carrying a deeper significance than he had realized at the time. For months, he had pondered its meaning, attempting to untangle its cryptic web. The first lines had been clear enough.
Born to those who defeated death… Born as the seventh month dies.
He had turned his thoughts to the Potters, the Longbottoms—families who had defied Voldemort and just welcomed newborns here at the end of July.
But the latter verses… Fire will guide him. Blood will bind them.
And then, the most perplexing of all—
The Dragon’s Prince will take his place in the skies.
A title unfamiliar to even his vast knowledge of history and prophecy. A name unaccounted for. And yet…A memory from long ago that remained just out of reach, deep within the recess of his mind. It was incredibly frustrating.
With a sigh he sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk as he peered over the ancient tome sat upon his desk. Of all the many wonders the Founders had woven into this school, the Book of Admittance had always fascinated him the most. The moment a magical child was born, the quill beside it would stir, ink gliding seamlessly across the parchment, etching their name into history. An infallible record, immune to deception, error, or mortal intervention. Dumbledore leaned forward, adjusting his half-moon spectacles as he traced his fingers over the most recent entries.
Neville Longbottom.
Edmund Potter.
A small smile touched his lips. Two boys born in the same tumultuous summer, their names now bound to Hogwarts and, perhaps, to a greater destiny than either of them could yet comprehend. Before he could close the book, the quill trembled—hesitated, as if caught between moments—before descending once more. The ink, impossibly dark against the parchment, wrote with purpose.
Haerion Peverell.
Dumbledore stilled. For the first time in many years, his mind, so accustomed to untangling the most intricate webs of fate, felt utterly at a loss.
The Peverells. A name older than Hogwarts itself. A name steeped in legend, whispered in cautionary tales and half-forgotten histories. A name that should, by all accounts, exist only in books and bloodlines long since faded into obscurity.
And yet… the Book of Admittance did not lie. A Peverell child had been born.
Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. How? How had the survival of such an ancient line escaped his notice? How many of them remained? What had kept them hidden for so long? And, perhaps most pressingly—where did their loyalties lie?
If they stood with Voldemort, it would be a dire complication indeed. The Dark Lord had already gathered much strength—an alliance with the true heirs of The Hallows could tip the balance irreversibly in his favour.
But if they opposed him… If they had stayed hidden out of fear, or worse, out of disdain for the chaos unfolding in the wizarding world, they could become either a powerful ally or an unwitting target. Voldemort would not suffer the existence of another lineage as ancient—perhaps more ancient—than his own.
Dumbledore’s fingers tightened against one another. And the wand. Did they know? His gaze flickered to the polished elder wood resting upon his desk. Did they know that the fabled Deathstick lay in his hands? Did they covet it? Would they seek to reclaim what, by blood and legend, might be theirs to wield?
He exhaled slowly, his blue eyes shadowed with thought. One thing was certain. The Peverells had returned. And Albus Dumbledore needed to meet them—before it was too late.
Hallows Hill
October 4, 1980
“Most believe that the Peverell name died out long ago, its last heirs reduced to witches who married into the Potter and Gaunt families. However, evidence suggests that Ignotus Peverell may have had not one, but two sons. A Potter, wishing to remain anonymous, was oncerecorded reciting an excerpt from what was claimed to be Iolanthe Peverell’s diary. The passage detailed a disagreement between her father and his brother, resulting in the uncle’s permanent departure from the family home in Godric’s Hollow.
In 1637, during a vampire hunt in Romania, Florian Greengrass stumbled upon a grave marked with the names Cyprian and Daena Peverell. Though he could only decipher a death date of 1335, he was struck by the historical significance. Not wishing to disturb what he considered a sacred relic of wizarding nobility, he cast several concealing and preservation charms on the grave. His work, however, proved too effective, and no one—Florian included—could ever locate the grave again.
Many have since attempted to confirm the survival of the Peverells. Throughout history, there have been rumored encounters and fleeting sightings of a mysterious figure believed to be a surviving member of the family, only for them to vanish without a trace. Should the Peverell name indeed persist, it appears that the surviving heirs have chosen self-imposed isolation, with no intention of rejoining the wizarding world. The reasons for such seclusion remain speculative, perhaps tied to the violent and gruesome legacy of their fabled heirlooms.”
Daenerys closed the copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, her fingers lingering over the title as she let its final words settle in her mind. This was the story known to the world—a carefully woven tale of a family lost to time, their name reduced to whispers in the halls of history. But she knew better. The public record only scratched the surface of the truth.
The journals and personal recordings left behind by her ancestors painted a far richer, more intricate tapestry—one of defiance, secrecy, and survival. Cyprian Peverell, eldest son of Ignotus, had not merely faded into obscurity; he had chosen exile, rejecting his brother’s pursuit of the Hallows after witnessing the fate of their uncles. While others sought power, he sought sanctuary.
His journey had led him to the misty peaks of Romania, where magic ran deep and old bloodlines lingered in the shadows. There, he had met Daena, the last of the Targaryens in this world—a woman who, like him, carried the weight of a lost legacy. Together, they had forged a new beginning, but even across the mountains and forests, the past had found them. The power they carried, the name they bore, was not so easily abandoned.
Cyprian, wise to the dangers of being discovered, uprooted the family once more, fleeing to the quiet seclusion of Wales. Hallows Hill became their haven, a fortress of ancient magic, hidden from the prying eyes of the world. Generation after generation, the Peverells remained few in number, their existence a carefully guarded secret. They became nothing more than ghosts in history, their presence nothing more than fleeting myths. Now, only she and Haerion remained.
She turned her gaze toward the arched window, watching as the night surrendered to the first golden streaks of dawn. The distant forest at the manor’s rear, once cloaked in shadows, emerged in the soft light, its towering canopy outlined against the fading remnants of the dark. Beyond the ancient stone walls of Hallows Hill, the world stirred—but within, all was still.
Leaning back in her chair, Daenerys sipped her tea, its warmth grounding her even as her thoughts drifted to Grimm’s warning. A heavy burden awaited her son—one she had yet to understand. That uncertainty gnawed at her, a silent specter lurking in the recesses of her mind. She was no closer to uncovering the truth, and the unknown frightened her more than any enemy she had ever faced.
But fear was a luxury she could not afford.
For now, all she could do was prepare—fortify their defenses, gather knowledge, and carve out a position of strength. She had sharpened her skills with a wand to an acceptable degree, but acceptable was not enough. Not when the world teetered on the edge of war. Not when her son’s future depended on it.
Hatching the dragons remained her primary focus, though the long hours spent in the library with Missy had yielded little progress. They had discovered a copy of From Egg to Inferno , which claimed that simply placing the eggs in a fireplace—mimicking the mother dragon’s fiery breath—would trigger their hatching. The initial hope that it would be so easy had long since been dashed by weeks of fruitless trials. Deep down, Daenerys had always suspected that her eggs, not of this world, would require a different approach. She still believed the key to their awakening lay in her own blood.
When she had first hatched them, it had come at the steep cost of Mirri Maz Durr’s life—a grim reminder that in her old world only death could pay for life. She had no intention of treading that dark path again. Countless sacrifices, both willing and forced, had stained her hands with blood too deep to be forgotten. This time, though, there was a spark of optimism: her eggs were alive from the start, and she would not have to wrench them from stone.
Alongside finding a way to hatch her dragons, Daenerys knew she needed to rebuild a network of steadfast allies. The ancient ties of the Peverell family still connected them to a few key houses—Bones, Greengrass, and Potter, among others. The connection with the Bones family dated back centuries, when Helena Bones had married into the Peverells. The Greengrasses had reached out following Florian’s fabled discovery, and a discreet arrangement had been forged: the Peverells would support their arcane ventures and share insights on lost magics and relics, while in return, the Greengrasses would split any profit or discovery and help keep the family’s existence veiled. The Potters, bound by blood as the Peverells’ closest living relatives, potentially formed another essential pillar of that network.
Her first step would be to reestablish contact with these families, but before she could do so, she needed updated information on their current members. Only then could she chart a course to rekindle those relationships and secure the allies she so desperately needed.
The objective for today however, was clear—she needed the Peverell family ring.
The war waged by this so-called Lord Voldemort and his followers troubled her more than she cared to admit. She had read the reports in the Daily Prophet , and though much of it was shrouded in political maneuvering and Ministry half-truths, the pattern was unmistakable. The attacks were increasing—more frequent, more brutal. The wizarding world was on the precipice of chaos.
Here, within the walls of Hallows Hill, she and Haerion were safe—for now. But safety built on fragile, half-powered wards was no safety at all.
Pippin had informed her that the estate's protections were not functioning at their full potential. The ancient magic of the Peverells needed a rightful heir to wield it, and for that, she required the ring—the key to commanding the full strength of her family’s legacy. According to the texts left behind by her ancestors, if the ring was not passed down to a successor, it was automatically deposited into the Peverell vault at Gringotts upon the passing of the family head.
Now that her pregnancy was behind her, she could finally retrieve it. The only concern was how to do so without drawing unwanted attention. Apparition was out of the question—she had yet to practice it since her arrival in this world, and it was not something she could have safely attempted while heavy with child.
But she had another tool at her disposal.
Rising from her desk, she crossed the room with quiet purpose and approached the portrait of Ignotus Peverell. His dark eyes held the weight of centuries, his expression solemn, but not unkind. Lifting her wand, she tapped the gilded frame and whispered the words etched into the very foundation of their family’s history.
“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.”
A slow, knowing smile ghosted across Ignotus’s lips, and with a soft click , the painting swung open, revealing a concealed alcove beyond.
Inside lay the true treasures of the Peverells—aged journals, fragile scrolls inked with forgotten wisdom, and the family's Grimoire, a tome of magic so ancient and potent that even touching it filled the air with power.
But her focus was on something else. A shimmering, weightless fabric lay neatly folded within. With the reverence due to something truly sacred, Daenerys reached in and pulled out the Cloak of Invisibility. The fabric slipped through her fingers like water, impossibly soft and cool to the touch. She let it unfurl before her, watching as light glimmered and warped through its enchanted threads. It was one of the most fabled artifacts in magical history—and now, it was hers.
Before she could fully admire it, a sudden pop echoed through the quiet chamber.
“Mistress! The young master beez awake!” Pippin’s high-pitched voice chirped with excitement. His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “Would youz like me to bring him to you?”
Daenerys smiled, folding the cloak with practiced ease and placing it inside a charmed handbag that sat atop her desk.
“No need, Pippin,” she said smoothly, closing the portrait once more. “I’ll go to him. Why don’t you start on breakfast? We’ll be down shortly.”
Pippin’s ears perked up at the request, and with an eager nod, he popped away, no doubt already fussing over which dishes to prepare.
Shaking her head fondly, Daenerys secured her handbag and exited the study, making her way toward her son’s nursery. The manor’s halls were quiet at this hour, bathed in the gentle glow of morning light filtering through the high windows. When she arrived, Missy was already inside, cradling Haerion in her arms.
“Morning,” Missy greeted, her voice warm. “I just got him out of the crib. He seems a bit grumpy today.”
Daenerys let out a quiet laugh as she reached for her son. The moment he was in her arms, his little face scrunched up before slowly relaxing against her warmth.
“Good morning, my love,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
Missy smiled at the affectionate display.
“Care to join us for a stroll before breakfast?” Daenerys asked, adjusting Haerion against her chest.
“Of course,” Missy said easily, brushing a stray curl from her face. “You know I wouldn’t miss a chance to spend time with the Little Prince .”
Daenerys’s lips quirked upward at the name she so often called him. ‘Another time, another place, it’s what you would have been’ she thought to herself.
Life Is Strange
Being a baby was, without question, one of the strangest experiences Harry had ever endured. And given his history—that was saying something.
Stripped of speech, stripped of magic, and prone to exhaustion at the most inconvenient moments, it was like living in a body that refused to cooperate with him. Even as he lay awake, his mind sharp as ever, he would find himself succumbing to unconsciousness without warning. It was infuriating.
Yet, moments like these made it all worth it. His mother’s warmth, the soft cadence of her voice as she spoke, the unshakable certainty that he was loved—he wouldn’t trade this for anything. He had spent his past life never knowing the comfort of a mother’s arms, never hearing words of devotion meant solely for him. That alone was enough to make this new existence bearable.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, he tuned in to the conversation between his mother and Missy as they walked the halls.
“Do you still plan on going to Diagon Alley today?” Missy asked, her voice tinged with concern.
“Yes,” his mother answered without hesitation, a resolute nod accompanying her words. “I don’t have a choice. I need the family head’s ring to access the full power of the wards. And perhaps the vault might contain tomes or scrolls that could guide us in hatching the eggs—or at least offer a spark of inspiration.” Her optimism was measured, cautious—but there.
Ah, the dragon eggs. When he first heard about the mission to hatch them, he had worried—briefly—that his mother might have Hagrid-like tendencies when it came to magical beasts. He had soon discovered it was something else entirely. Something deeper. She didn’t just want to hatch the dragons. She spoke to them—whispered in a strange, lyrical language that he couldn’t understand. And most notably, she called them her children.
And then there was the fire. He had nearly had a heart attack the first time he saw her reach into the flames, stroking the eggs as though they were slumbering infants rather than unhatched beasts. Yet, when she withdrew her hands, her skin remained unburned, untouched, as if the fire itself knew it could not harm her.
Some might be concerned by such a thing. But to Harry—no, to Haerion—she was perfect. Every strange, impossible part of her. And if these eggs were important to her, then they were important to him.
The ring, however, was a new development. His mother rarely left Hallows Hill, which meant she believed this errand to be truly necessary. And though he would never be comfortable with her putting herself in danger, the logical part of him acknowledged that reinforcing their home’s defenses was the only way to guarantee their safety.
Especially with Death Eater attacks increasing.
“Perhaps,” Missy conceded, though her nod was hesitant. “Has your magic given you any more trouble since the pregnancy ended? Your spellwork seemed sharper last time I watched you practice.”
“There are still a few minor hiccups,” Daenerys admitted, “but it’s barely noticeable now. I haven’t had a spell go awry in weeks. Oh! Do you remember the fire spell I was working on? I managed it yesterday and can cast it consistently now.”
Missy’s brows lifted in genuine surprise. “That’s impressive. I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked, though. I’ve noticed you have a natural affinity for fire magic.”
His mother’s smile was triumphant. She was proud of herself—a rare and beautiful thing to see.
They continued their conversation as they made their way to the kitchen, where the scent of Pippin’s cooking filled the air. Haerion was only mildly disappointed that his diet still consisted solely of milk, but one day, he promised himself, he would try whatever smelled that good.
Just as they sat down to eat, a sharp tapping echoed through the kitchen. All eyes turned toward the window, where a barn owl sat perched outside, staring at them expectantly. Pippin shuffled uneasily, shooting Daenerys an uncertain look. It was clear the little elf didn’t know whether to let the bird in—and frankly, Haerion wasn’t so sure either.
Who would be writing to them?
Daenerys and Missy exchanged a wary glance before his mother gave a small nod of approval. Pippin cautiously unlatched the window, and the owl swooped inside, dropping a single letter onto the table before taking off as swiftly as it arrived.
Upon seeing the seal, Haerion knew instantly who it was from. His mother, however, hesitated before reaching for the parchment. Her fingers traced over the familiar crest stamped into the wax. Hogwarts.
Unfolding the letter, she began to read.
Dear Peverell Family,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It is with great delight that I extend my warmest regards to you and yours. As Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it falls upon me to ensure that all young witches and wizards of Britain receive the finest magical education available.
It is with no small measure of enthusiasm that I write to inform you that the newest member of your esteemed family, young Haerion Peverell, has already been recorded in the Hogwarts Ledger. When the time comes, I have no doubt he shall receive his official invitation to join our halls as a student upon his eleventh birthday—a day I suspect will be of great significance to both yourself and the wider wizarding world.
It is always a moment of quiet wonder when the ancient quill inscribes a new name, a gentle reminder that magic is ever-growing, ever-renewing, and ever-continuing in its great cycle. The Peverell name is one steeped in history and legend, and it is with great curiosity and interest that I extend this correspondence. There is much we could discuss, should you be inclined.
Furthermore, I write to you not only as Headmaster but in my capacity as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. As you may know, the Peverell family once held a seat upon this most venerable body. Though long considered vacant, I believe the rightful heir retains the ability to reclaim it. With my authority, I would be honored to assist in restoring your house to its proper standing within the governing body of wizarding Britain, should you so wish.
For now, I shall not impose upon your time any longer, but should you wish to speak further—whether regarding Hogwarts, matters of lineage, or the opportunities that may yet lie ahead—you need only send word.
With kindest regards and warmest wishes,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot
Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards
Daenerys bolted to her feet, the letter fluttering to the table and her meal entirely forgotten as she began pacing, gripping Haerion tightly.
“How do they know?!” Her voice was sharp, tinged with something close to panic. “How could they possibly know about the birth of my son?! Missy—have you told anyone?”
Missy blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the accusation.
“Of course not, Daenerys,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I know how important your privacy is. I agreed to secrecy when I accepted this position, and I have not betrayed your trust.”
His mother stopped pacing, looking at Missy with a flash of guilt before exhaling heavily. “I’m sorry, my friend. That was unfair of me.”
“It’s alright,” Missy assured her. “But this letter… If he learned of Haerion through the Hogwarts ledger, then it stands to reason that only the headmaster is aware of his existence.”
“Do you think he’s told others?”
“Unlikely. If word had spread, you would have been bombarded with letters from politicians, reporters, and those eager to make connections. Instead, we receive only this—addressed not to a specific person, but to ‘the Peverell family.’ That means he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, or how many of you there are.”
Daenerys frowned. “That makes sense.”
She sat and picked the letter up again, her expression darkening. “He’s requesting a meeting. Something about the Peverell seat on the Wizengamot.”
Missy looked thoughtful. “The Wizengamot is Britain’s governing body. It oversees trials, creates legislature—you could think of it as a council.”
Daenerys’s fingers drummed against the table. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to meet with Albus Dumbledore… if only to assess his motives. And I need to make sure he hasn’t told anyone else about Haerion.”
Haerion bit back his first instinct to trust Dumbledore. While he had always viewed the headmaster as a guiding light, he also knew the man had made questionable decisions. Had kept secrets. Had manipulated. And if there was one thing, he would not tolerate this time around, it was being controlled.
With breakfast effectively ruined, they rose and approached the reception room, where the floo was located, causing Haerion’s stomach to twist with unease. His mother pressed a final kiss to his forehead, then gently passed him to Missy. He hated watching her go.
She tossed a handful of floo powder into the flames, speaking clearly, “The Leaky Cauldron,” and the flames flared green, swallowing her whole.
Missy held him close, offering reassurance. “Don’t worry, little one. Your mother is strong. She’ll be back before you know it.”
Haerion only hoped she was right.
Diagon Alley
London stirred beneath the pale blush of dawn, the final tendrils of twilight retreating as the sun scaled the city’s skyline. The streets swelled with life, a growing tide of hurried footsteps, revving engines, and the chime of shop bells as Muggles wove through Charing Cross Road in search of their weekend indulgences. Bookshops welcomed early customers—lovers of fiction, collectors of history, children clutching stories of fantasy and adventure.
And nestled between those very shops, unnoticed and unremarkable to the untrained eye, sat a battered, timeworn building.
Its sign—a rusting depiction of a witch stirring a cauldron—creaked with every faint gust of wind, swaying precariously from a single corroded chain. The front door, dark with age and thick with dust, gave no indication of the world concealed behind it. Muggles passed it by without so much as a second glance, their minds quietly nudged elsewhere by long-set enchantments. Yet within those weathered walls, magic pulsed, warm and brimming, unburdened by the grime that cloaked the exterior.
Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was alive.
The scent of buttered toast and charred wood lingered in the air, mingling with the tang of strong coffee. Behind the polished bar, old mugs hung from wooden beams, clinking softly with every shift in the room’s energy. A few early risers nursed their drinks, muttering in hushed tones, while a small family huddled in a corner booth, their young daughter babbling excitedly—until a sharp glance from her parents quieted her.
At the bar, Tom, the inn’s proprietor, ran a weary hand over his balding head before adjusting his suspenders. His gaze lingered on the family, watching the silent worry in their expressions. A sigh left his lips.
“Shame that,” he murmured, nodding toward them. “The world’s in a right state when a young witch can’t even enjoy shopping in Diagon Alley without fear.”
“Aye,” his companion—Whent, an older wizard draped in burgundy robes—took a slow sip of ale before setting his tankard down with a dull thunk. “A damn shame indeed. Minchum’s not got a grip on things, no matter what he says. Ten years, Tom. Ten years of bleeding witches and wizards. If this keeps up, there won’t be much left of us.”
His hand drifted unconsciously to his silver mustache, twisting the ends before smoothing out an invisible crease in his robes. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in.
“You hear about the latest?”
Tom’s grip on his rag stilled. His face darkened.
“Who?”
Whent exhaled heavily, as if the words pained him. “Robert McGonagall Jr. Found dead in his home two nights ago.” His voice dropped further. “His wife and child weren’t there, thank Merlin. But still... Minerva...”
Tom flinched, genuine horror flickering in his eyes. “Gods above, not her brother.”
Whent nodded grimly. “And that’s not all. Eli Thomas. You remember the lad? Ran off with a Muggle girl, they said. Came back alone earlier this year.”
Tom’s stomach twisted. “Oh, no.”
“They found him yesterday.” Whent’s voice was bleak. “Death Eaters tried recruiting him. He refused. Next morning, they found him hanging from a snake monument—right in the middle of the Muggle village he was hiding in. Took the Aurors half a day to Obliviate the lot.”
Tom’s breath left him in a slow, unsteady exhale. His fingers tightened around the edge of the bar.
“Merlin save us,” he whispered.
For a moment, the two men sat in silence. The fire crackled, the low murmur of conversation buzzed around them, but their thoughts were far away.
“It’s going to fall on Dumbledore again,” Tom muttered eventually. “He’s the only one who can stop this.”
“If he gets the chance,” Whent countered. “He can’t abandon Hogwarts, and the Ministry—” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They’re too tangled in their own robes to do a damn thing.”
Tom ran a hand over his face. “Then we've already lost.”
Whent didn’t reply. He simply drained the last of his ale and rose to his feet.
“I best be off before the missus floo-calls the Aurors. I swear, she’ll be the death of me before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gets the chance.”
Tom chuckled, but the sound was hollow. As Whent tugged on his cloak, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.
“Be seeing you, Tom.”
Tom watched the door swing shut behind him and couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be the last time he saw his friend.
Without warning, the fireplace erupted in green flames.
Tom whirled around, fingers tightening around his wand. He tensed, waiting—was it a friend or foe?
A young woman stepped out of the emerald fire, brushing ash from the fine black fabric of her dress. Silver hair was woven into an elegant braid, coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, with a few loose strands framing a striking face.
Then her eyes lifted, and Tom froze. Purple. The color was unnatural, unmistakable. Her gaze swept over the room, sharp and calculating, until it found his. For a fleeting second, he thought her a Malfoy, but no—there was something warmer in her features, something ancient, something royal.
She approached, steps measured and graceful.
“Hello,” she greeted, her voice smooth yet cautious. “I was hoping you could help me find the entrance to Diagon Alley. I was told it’s located here, but I’ve never been so...if you could be so kind?”
Tom blinked, hesitating for a fraction too long before nodding. “Of course, miss. It’s just this way.”
As he led her down a short hallway toward the rear courtyard, he fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. Something about her felt... important. The weight of history clung to her like a second skin.
Stopping before the brick wall, he turned to face her. “Just tap this brick with your wand, and the entrance will reveal itself.”
She raised a delicate brow, but before she could lift her wand, Tom hesitated.
“Forgive me for asking, but...” He lowered his voice. “Is your business urgent? Things are getting bad out there.”
She studied him. “I’ve read the reports in The Prophet,” she admitted. “They seem... concerning.”
“Concerning?” Tom let out a humorless chuckle. “They don’t report the half of it.”
A shadow crossed her features, but she only nodded. “Then I’ll be quick.”
Tom gave her a long look before nodding. “Be careful, Miss...”
She smiled. “Daenerys.”
The name settled over him like a whisper of something ancient. He didn’t press.
“Safe travels, Miss Daenerys.”
With a final nod, he turned and strode swiftly back inside, casting one last glance before sealing the door behind him.
Once the door to The Leaky Cauldron clicked shut behind her, Daenerys wasted no time. She slipped the shimmering fabric of the cloak over her shoulders, exhaling softly as the familiar magic enveloped her like a second skin. A perfect concealment.
She turned to the brick wall, raising her wand. A light tap, and the centuries-old enchantment responded. The bricks twisted and folded in on themselves, shifting and rearranging until a grand archway materialized, revealing the famed alley beyond.
Daenerys had read of Diagon Alley—the beating heart of Wizarding Britain—but she had envisioned something livelier, grander. Instead, she found a place wounded by war.
Shops that should have been teeming with customers bore Closed Indefinitely signs on their doors. The ones still open had wary patrons hurrying in and out, casting furtive glances over their shoulders. Vendors at outdoor stalls hawked their wares in subdued tones, and the occasional figure in dark robes loomed in alleyway shadows, reminding all who passed that safety was an illusion.
Even so, she had no time to linger. Her goal stood at the far end of the street—the towering marble structure of Gringotts Bank.
She moved swiftly, weaving through the thinning crowd, unseen beneath the cloak.
The goblin guards flanking the steps were armed with cruel-looking weapons, their beady eyes scanning the street with suspicion. Despite their small stature, their presence was undeniably commanding. These were not creatures to be trifled with. Taking a quiet breath, Daenerys ascended the steps, pushed open the grand doors, and stepped into the world of goblins.
The lobby of Gringotts was as breathtaking as it was intimidating. Gleaming chandeliers cast golden light across polished marble floors, and rows of high desks stretched down either side of the vast hall, each occupied by goblins dressed in impeccable suits.
Ducking into an unsuspecting alcove, she quietly removed the cloak and returned it to her hand bag. She peeked back at the lobby; once she was satisfied she hadn’t been seen, she approached an open station, clearing her throat.
“Pardon me, I am here to access my vault and was hoping for assistance.”
The goblin behind the desk barely glanced up from the ledger he was scrutinizing. “Key?” he rasped.
Daenerys reached into her bag, fingers brushing against the cool, ancient metal before she retrieved the heavy key and placed it on the desk.
Finally, the goblin looked up. His sharp, intelligent eyes flicked between the key and her face.
“Hrrr... name?”
“Daenerys.” A careful pause. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Peverell.”
The reaction was immediate.
The goblin’s eyes widened just a fraction before narrowing in deep scrutiny. He removed his spectacles and leaned forward, studying her as if she were a relic unearthed from myth.
“Peverell,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. His long fingers tapped against the desk. “No one has claimed that vault in seventy years.” His tone was somewhere between incredulous and predatory. “For your sake, I hope you are who you claim to be. If not—” A sharp-toothed grin curled across his lips, “—well, we do so enjoy dealing with imposters.”
The way he said dealing sent a chill down her spine.
He snapped his fingers. “Snaggletooth!”
A smaller goblin hurried over. “Yes, Master Sharpe Fang?”
“The Lady Peverell requests entry to her vault. Escort her to the depths.”
The younger goblin eyed Daenerys with open curiosity but merely nodded. “Right this way.”
The descent into the underbelly of Gringotts was exhilarating. The cart shot forward along winding rails, plummeting into the cavernous abyss. The force of the wind sent Daenerys’s braid whipping behind her, and she clenched the edge of the cart, equal parts thrilled and wary. It was the closest thing she had experienced to flight since her past life. After a series of sharp turns and steep drops, the cart ground to a halt before a towering set of ornate iron doors embedded in the stone. The heavy locks were layered with intricate goblin mechanisms.
Snaggletooth extended a clawed hand. “Key.”
Daenerys handed it over. He fitted it into the lock, turning it with a decisive click. A small flap opened, revealing a shallow basin and a gleaming silver knife.
The goblin said nothing—merely gestured expectantly.
Daenerys understood. Blood magic. She took the blade without hesitation, drawing it swiftly across her palm. The sting was brief, barely felt before three drops of her blood dripped into the basin. Instantly, the wound sealed shut.
A heartbeat later, the vault responded. A symphony of ancient locks clicking into place echoed through the chamber. The metal workings of the door began shifting, chains uncoiling like great serpents before withdrawing into the walls. Then, with a deep groan, the doors swung open.
She stepped forward and stared. Mountains of gold glittered in the dim light. Chests of untold treasures, ancient weapons, and racks of enchanted armor lined the space, artifacts untouched for generations. She spotted a few swords that, while not Valyrian steel, bore craftsmanship so exquisite that she resolved to inspect them more closely later.
Snaggletooth watched her with impatient curiosity. “I advise you to complete your business swiftly.”
Daenerys nodded, moving further inside. She sifted through relics of her forebears until her eyes landed on a small box resting atop a velvet pedestal. Her fingers traced the intricate carvings before she flipped it open. Inside lay several rings. She selected two immediately: one was an amethyst-studded silver band that caught her eye; the other, a gold ring set with amber, a gift she knew would suit Missandei perfectly.
Then, she found what she had come for. Set apart from the rest was a platinum ring inlaid with an emerald—the unmistakable sigil of the Deathly Hallows carved into its center. With steady hands, Daenerys slid the Peverell family ring onto her right pointer finger. A warm pulse of magic surged through her. Ancient, powerful, familiar. The vault recognized her. The Peverell legacy recognized her. A shiver ran down her spine.
And yet, just as she turned to leave, another ring caught her eye. It was unlike the others—crafted from an obsidian-like crystal, shaped into the form of a black dragon. Two small rubies glowed where the eyes should be. The moment she touched it, she knew she couldn’t leave it behind. She slipped it onto her middle finger. This time, there was no warmth—only an unsettling stillness. A mystery for another day. With her prizes secured, she collected several handfuls of Galleons before stepping back into the cart.
As she emerged back into the Gringotts lobby, Daenerys immediately sensed a shift. Eyes followed her—subtle but present. She had been noticed. The goblins, the wizards lingering in the queue, even the guards stationed at the doors—many had overheard her dealings, seen her return alive from a vault long thought dormant. They now knew. The Peverell family lived.
Her fingers twitched toward the cloak. She longed to vanish, to disappear before more eyes latched onto her. But that would only feed the rumors. Instead, she squared her shoulders and walked calmly out of the bank, forcing herself to appear unaffected.
Only when she reached the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley did she allow herself a slow breath. She had achieved her goal, but at the expense of her anonymity.
Daenerys moved swiftly through Diagon Alley, her cloak tucked safely away, her senses on high alert. Though she forced herself to appear composed, the weight of many eyes lingered on her—watchful, wary, curious. No doubt rumors that a Peverell lived were spreading faster than fiendfyre, but she could not allow herself to dwell on it at the moment.
Keeping her strides purposeful, she scanned the storefronts, searching for anything of practical use—something that could aid in securing alliances, fortifying her position, or, at the very least, expanding her knowledge of this world.
A flurry of movement beyond a dusty window caught her attention. Eeylops Owl Emporium.
She paused. An owl. A necessity. If she was to reach out to the Greengrasses or any of the other old families, she would need a reliable means of correspondence.
Stepping inside, the scent of straw, parchment, and something distinctly avian filled the air. The shop was dimly lit, save for the golden glint of watchful eyes peering down from perches and cages. Owls of all kinds—barn, tawny, screech—fluttered about, rustling feathers as they observed her warily. But none of them called to her. She moved further in, eyes drifting over the selection, waiting for something. A pull, an instinct—a connection.
Then, in the farthest corner, high above the others, she saw him. A magnificent eagle owl, perched upon a shadowed beam. His spotted brown plumage bore an almost gilded sheen, and his piercing orange eyes burned with intelligence—sharp, calculating. But what struck her most was his bearing. Regal. Unyielding. He stared down at the other owls as though they were beneath him.
The corners of her lips curled ever so slightly. ‘ Prideful, are you?’
She took a step forward.
"Wouldn't waste your time with that one, miss."
A gruff voice pulled her from her thoughts. Turning, she met the gaze of an older, haggard-looking wizard who had emerged from behind the counter. The shopkeeper. He regarded her with mild exasperation before nodding toward the owl.
"He's been here over a year. Won't let anyone take him. Bloody menace, that one. Nearly took off a bloke’s hand last spring—had to get two fingers magically reattached at St. Mungo’s." The old man shook his head. "Meanest bird I've ever had the displeasure of selling."
Daenerys tilted her head, gaze flickering back to the owl. Unwanted. Unclaimed. Proud. She knew what it was to be underestimated. To be cast aside, seen as difficult.
Her decision was made.
"Maybe," she murmured, stepping forward, "he’s just been waiting for someone worthy of him."
The shopkeeper let out a dry chuckle. "That so?"
Daenerys ignored him. She lifted her chin slightly and called out—not in English, but in High Valyrian.
"Māzīs."
A single, commanding word. Come. A beat of silence. Then the eagle owl moved. With a powerful sweep of his wings, he soared from his perch, cutting through the air like a blade. The other owls flinched, rustling their feathers as he descended in a controlled dive—straight toward her. She did not flinch. The bird landed smoothly upon her left shoulder, his talons gripping her sleeve with surprising care. He let out a low, approving hoot before gently nipping at her ear in what she recognized as affection.
The shopkeeper gawked.
"You were saying?" Daenerys asked, lips twitching into a knowing smirk.
The old man muttered something under his breath before straightening. "Right... right. Uhm, well, you'll be needing owl treats and a cage. That’ll total up to twenty galleons."
"No need for the cage," she said, already reaching for her coin pouch. She wouldn’t confine this creature. He would fly free.
She paid and turned toward the door, absently stroking the owl’s soft feathers as she walked. He preened beneath her touch, settling against her like a king returning to his throne.
"Hmm," she mused, glancing at him. "Now, what to name you? You deserve something fitting."
The owl puffed his chest out and extended his massive wingspan, stretching to his full, impressive glory.
A chuckle escaped her. "Oh, you’re definitely no meek little hatchling."
She thought back to a dragon of legend. Fierce, battle-worn, loyal only to a rider deemed worthy.
"Caraxes," she decided, testing the name on her tongue. "A proud name, for a proud creature."
The eagle owl let out a triumphant screech, causing a nearby wizard to yelp and stumble backward.
Daenerys laughed softly.
"Caraxes it is, then."
She reached up, brushing the back of her fingers across his chest. "Can you find your way home?"
He gave sharp hoot. A glint of certainty in his ember-like eyes. And, Caraxes took flight—his great wings carrying him swiftly into the sky, disappearing beyond the rooftops.
Daenerys watched him go, a strange sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. She had found an ally today. And he had chosen her.
Daenerys was nearly back at The Leaky Cauldron when another storefront caught her eye—a name etched in gold across a weathered wooden sign: Flourish and Blotts. The shop’s overflowing shelves were visible even through the glass panes, towering stacks of books precariously teetering in every direction. With a decisive step, she entered.
Inside, the scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air. She weaved through the shelves, fingertips brushing against the spines of books she had no time to explore. This visit had a purpose. She needed guidance. Blood magic would be key to awakening her dragons, but the how still eluded her.
Her gaze landed on a particular title, adorned in deep silver against black leather—The Ritual Process: Creating Circles & Ceremonies. Hope stirred within her.
Rising onto her toes, she stretched for the book, only for a silver serpent to lash out with a loud clack, its fanged mouth snapping shut over the binding. Startled, she retracted her hand, following the length of the ornate cane that had so rudely intercepted her. Her eyes traveled upward, locking onto a pair of sharp grey ones that gleamed with veiled curiosity.
She recognized him immediately as one of the wizards who had watched her in Gringotts.
Now that she stood face-to-face with him, the resemblance was uncanny. His regal bearing, his pale, aristocratic features—had she not known better, she might have suspected him a distant relative. His hair, a pristine platinum, was neatly tied back, and his tailored robes spoke of both wealth and precision.
The man leisurely plucked the book from the shelf and examined it with an air of detached amusement.
"Hmm. Quite a peculiar subject—one requiring a rather… refined palate." His voice slithered from his lips like silk, calculated and dangerously smooth.
Every instinct screamed at her to be on guard. She inhaled evenly, tempering the flare of magic within her. Not here. Not yet.
With measured grace, he extended the book to her, offering it like a gift. She hesitated, then reached out, ensuring her left arm bore the weight while her right hand remained free—within easy reach of her wand.
His smirk deepened, as if he had noted the small act of caution.
"Lord Lucius Malfoy," he introduced, tilting his head ever so slightly as he extended his palm, face up.
A test.
She understood the unspoken challenge. This was not simply a greeting—it was a subtle assertion of power, a declaration of standing. To refuse would be an insult; to comply without awareness would be submission.
Daenerys allowed a measured pause before placing her hand into his gloved one.
"Daenerys Peverell. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
His fingers curled around hers, guiding her hand upward in a courtly gesture just below his lips, though he did not press a kiss to her skin—an imitation of old-world manners with just enough restraint to keep it civil.
"Ah. So, I did hear you correctly at the bank," he mused. On the verge of releasing her hand his gaze drifted downward, and she followed it—straight to where her dragon ring gleamed in the dim shop lighting. "An interesting choice of jewelry. A family heirloom, I presume? Or does it hold… other significance?"
His grip had been light, but the lingering weight of it still prickled at her skin.
"Mostly sentimental," she replied smoothly.
A loud boom echoed through the alley, shaking the shop walls. She used the moment to draw back her hand from his tentative grasp. Her attention flickered to the window where movement stirred outside. Several witches and wizards had stopped in their tracks, eyes turning toward the source of the sound—toward Gringotts.
Lucius, too, turned his head slightly, his expression contemplative, yet entirely unaffected. With a casual air, he adjusted the pristine knot of his tie before speaking.
"The moment I heard your name, I simply had to extend a proper greeting," Lucius Malfoy drawled, his voice carrying the faintest edge of condescension. "I was recently appointed to the Hogwarts Board of Governors, you see. Ever since the birth of mine heir, Draco, I have taken a keen interest in the institution—ensuring it remains a bastion of tradition and excellence, untouched by the... regrettable influences that have crept into its halls of late."
He spoke with the deliberate precision of a man who expected every word to be weighed, his sharp grey eyes flickering with something unreadable as he studied her. "And I must say, Miss Peverell, it is always intriguing when old names resurface… particularly those thought long gone."
His lips quirked in what could almost be called a smirk.
"You can imagine my great delight upon learning that a Peverell would be gracing our halls once more."
Another boom—closer this time. The tremor rattled the bookcases, and outside, robed figures darted through the alley, casting flashes of sickly green and blazing red. The scent of burning wood and scorched stone slithered into the shop like a creeping specter.
Lucius stilled. A single bead of sweat trailed down his temple.
When he turned back to Daenerys, his expression was schooled into cool indifference, but there was something else—something primal flickering in his eyes. Heat. Not from the attack. Not from fear. From her.
His breath hitched, and he instinctively stepped back, recoiling as though he had drawn too close to an open flame. ‘How interesting.’ His gaze locked onto hers, now gleaming with an intensity that made the air around them feel like it had been set ablaze.
Daenerys tilted her head ever so slightly, observing him the way a dragon might a foolish lord who had entered its domain.
Another explosion rocked the alley. Lucius looked away, ever the tactician, calculating his next move. When he turned back, ready to make a parting remark—for a Malfoy always had the final word—Daenerys was gone.
Racing down the cobblestone walkway, leaving her unpleasant meeting with Lucius Malfoy behind, she tore through the stampeding crowd, heading for the Leaky Cauldron. The moment she stepped through the door, she ripped off the cloak, her pulse steady despite the fire raging behind her eyes. She barely paused before striding toward the fireplace.
"Tom, they’re attacking the alley!"
The barkeep, already alert, gave a firm nod before springing into action. With a flick of his wand, the doors slammed shut, and he began ushering patrons toward the rear exit, urging them into the safety of Muggle London.
Daenerys seized a handful of Floo powder, stepping into the grate.
"Hallows Hill!"
The moment she stumbled into her home, she whirled around.
"Pippin!"
The elf appeared instantly; eyes wide with concern.
"Seal the floo. Now!"
Snap!
"Done."
She exhaled sharply, pressing her palm over the Peverell ring and closing her eyes. Magic hummed beneath her touch, pulsing like a heartbeat, waiting—listening.
She willed her power into the wards.
A deep, resonating gong rang through the manor, vibrating through the stone as the ancient protections awakened, rising to full strength. The enchantments thickened, curling around the property like a protective shroud.
A moment later, Missy burst into the room, Haerion cradled in her arms.
"Daenerys, what was that? What’s happening?"
"The wards." Her voice was unwavering, firm. "I raised them to full capacity. There was a Death Eater attack as I was leaving."
Missy gasped, but Daenerys reached for her son, pressing him close, anchoring herself in the warmth of his tiny body. For a brief moment, the fire in her veins dimmed.
"What do we do?" Missy asked, her voice tight with worry.
Daenerys lifted her gaze, a furnace burning within.
"We hatch the dragons."
Malfoy Manor
Lucius apparated onto the pristine brick walkway leading to the grand entrance of his home, the stately silhouette of Malfoy Manor standing stark against the darkened sky. With a practiced ease, he shrugged off his coat and shoved it into the hands of a waiting house elf before entering the sitting room.
Narcissa sat poised as ever, a vision of aristocratic grace, sipping delicately from a fine porcelain teacup. Beside her, their infant son lay nestled in his enchanted cradle, the gentle swaying lulling him into peaceful slumber. At the sight of her husband, her sharp blue eyes flickered with relief, though her expression remained composed.
“I heard there was an attack on Diagon Alley,” she said, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “When you didn’t return immediately, I feared you might have been caught in the chaos.”
Lucius exhaled slowly, loosening the tension that had coiled within him since his encounter in Flourish and Blotts. “No, my dear. I was merely delayed—speaking with Nott, attempting to discern what prompted such an overt strike.” He poured himself a measure of Ogden’s from the crystal decanter and swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully before taking a sip. “I did not think the Dark Lord was prepared to make such a bold declaration…not yet.”
Narcissa’s gaze flickered toward the fireplace, watching the flames dance against the polished marble. “Nor did I,” she murmured. “Severus floo’d earlier. He wished for me to pass along that the Dark Lord has assigned you a task—something concerning The Dragon’s Prince.” She tilted her head, a subtle line forming between her brows. “Severus would not divulge the specifics, only that it is of great importance. And you know better than to question the Dark Lord’s will.”
Lucius stilled. The name reverberated through his mind, sending an unsettling ripple through his thoughts. The Dragon’s Prince…
Something stirred, just out of reach—until an image flashed before him. A ring. A dragon.
The young Peverell’s hand, adorned with that peculiar onyx band—the black dragon etched into its surface, twin ruby eyes gleaming like embers.
His breath caught, and without warning, he surged to his feet. The abrupt movement sent Narcissa flinching back, her wide eyes betraying alarm. A sharp wail pierced the air as Draco was startled awake, his tiny fists clenching as he voiced his displeasure.
Lucius paid neither of them any mind. His steps were brisk as he crossed the room, snatching up a pinch of floo powder.
He tossed it into the roaring fire, his voice crisp with urgency.
“Severus Snape!”