December 21st, 1976, Malfoy Manor, Tollard Royal, Wiltshire

Narcissa Malfoy, formerly Black, was quietly rocking her young son to sleep when she heard the door drift open behind her. The party on the Winter Solstice should have still been well in swing, a major part of Lucius' campaign to rehabilitate the Malfoy name and the Malfoy vaults after his slithering out of jail time for his part in the Death Eaters.

"How is he?" Lucius' soft voice enquired.

"Quiet, as life should be now with the dark lord dead." Narcissa replied harshly.

"He's not dead." sighed Lucius, baring his arm and staring at the brand. "I don't know what the Potter boy did..."

"What!" hissed Narcissa; "Now we've got a chance to be a real family for once! And you can't let that maniac's cause go. All we wanted was to stop the muggleborn from forcing their views on us, and to preserve and propagate the Old Ways."

"He's not dead." Lucius insisted. "He'll find a way back, one way or another. And I can't openly act against him. All we can do is enjoy the years of peace we've got."

"What about the Potter boy?" asked Narcissa.

"What about him?" replied Lucius, raising one elegant eyebrow.

"Everything, anything. Gain custody of him. Kill him to clear the way for the dark lord. Train him to kill the dark lord, we all heard that gibbering madman going on about a prophecy, either the boy or him." Narcissa scowled.

"I've already applied for guardianship under your relationship to his grandmother Dorea. It's only a distraction and power-sink really, Dumbledore will block it come what may." Lucius sighed.

"What about illegal methods. Kidnap the boy and have him raised by Dominique de Malfoi in France." suggested Narcissa.

"Tried that, he's under heavy enchantments that are more prison than defence." Lucius shook his head. "We can but wait and see what becomes of the boy."

"There must be some way to exert some influence on Potter." Narcissa quietly laid down her sleeping son before beginning to pace.

Lucius internally frowned at his wife's obsessiveness, and grimaced slightly when a few bits of a puzzle started to fit together quiet nicely. Narcissa had locked herself in the library for a full day-and-a-half when the news of James and Lily Potter's deaths became public. She'd been no maiden when they married and there were rumours involving her, Potter and Evans circulating around Hogwarts.

However that gave him an idea.

"I know we discussed this and agreed to have just Draco, but there's one influence few males can resist. And that's the affections of a woman." Lucius mused.

"Draco raised to lean towards the pureblood-supremacist agenda." Narcissa commented; "A daughter groomed to become concubine, consort or even wife of Harry Potter... raised knowing the Old Ways."

"One problem, she'll be two years younger than young Mr. Potter." Lucius frowned; "If I recall, my French cousin Dominique has a natural-born niece he'd rather not have around the chateau... her blood is of good origin, and were we to adopt her, she's a few months older than Mr. Potter..."

"We should visit France and meet..." agreed Narcissa.

"Meet Isabella."

Within the ancient walls of a great fortress of a dynasty long forgotten.

DAY ONE:

A figure garbed in chainmail and boiled leathers walked slowly out of the great doors of the castle and walked around the keep, a wind whipping at dirty-blond hair, long and loose, and a fearsome braided beard. A grove of oaks grew, encircled by thirty great standing stones, one for each day of the lunar cycle. He bore before him a sword, keen of edge and sharp as any that came before it. Another five standing stones protected the inner sanctum, joined together with stones on top of them.

"You enter the henge bearing a blade. Name your purpose." demanded a voice, female, soft and musical, from a figure robed in close-fitting forest green robes stood before a low stone altar.

"I, Cedric the Saxon, son of Wulfe, borne out of Germania, offer my fealty to Hadrian, son of James, of the line to which I owe my life in servitude in weregild." the intruder replied formally; "I bring him the blade of his father, scarred in battle and yet to be cleaned of the blood drawn in defence of his family."

A third figure advanced, wearing a black cloak of mourning over the dull gleam of chainmail and a burnished cuirasse.

"The sword of my fallen father, borne from the depths of the earth and made deadly for his hand." the armoured figure accepted the blade; "Carved from mahogany and willow, grown from seed in the earth, lined with the cores of a dragon's heart, fire made flesh, the wands of my parents." he accepted the two carved lengths of wood.

"The warriors fell in battle, now lay their weapons to rest."

The sword gleamed coldly once more as it was swept back, as if to come down and cleave flesh and bone, to turn aside men once more. Then it came down over the wielder's head and crashed against the stone, amazingly remaining whole, if scarred. The stone itself was scarred, chips flying off and a wedge carved into it. A final time the sword was swung again, muscles straining beneath chainmail, and then it shattered.

"Magnus, it is done. Lay the blade to rest. It is time to forge anew."

A smoking bowl of charcoal and incense was brought forward and laid on the altar, into which he placed the wands. They slowly began to glow and flames crackled along the length of of the polished wood. The Saxon retreated from the stone circle as the other two, one male and one female, stripped down to trousers and shirts, taking the magic-infused flames in the bowl from the circle to an area of the inner ward of the castle where they prepared to forge anew.

Bricks stacked and sealed clay formed a great kiln. Charcoal was shovelled in through the open top and then the bowl, alight with magical flames was emptied on top, preparing the kiln. The man took wet clay to a potter's wheel, moulding it over a wooden former, using a piece of slate to scrape the clay into the shape of a pair of pots and lids. With four hours of work gone, they were ready for firing and the kiln burned ever hotter, flames rising out of it as the Saxon manned a set of powerful bellows at the bottom of the kiln.

As both clay pots were ready, they were taken, gripped with iron tongs, and lowered into the harsh heat. The kiln was left to burn for the night.

When sundown came, the shattered shards of the broken sword were laid to rest atop the tomb, in the catacombs of the castle, in which James Potter lay, and carved in the runes of the old tongue was an inscription.

This sword is unmade until the end of days.

It will be made whole when James, son of Charlus descend from the halls of the valorous slain.

To stand beside his father, his mother, his wife, and his son.

Taking his place, fighting alongside the line of his people, back to the beginning.

To stand as the sky descends, heralding the end of all.

And the darkness shall not reign supreme.

That night, the first crescent of a new moon lit the sky.

DAY TWO:

For an hour they waited until the clay pots and their lids were ready. Each piece was lifted out and placed aside to cool. Hours passed and they finally were sheathed in another layer of wet clay. One pot was half-filled with iron ore, one half-filled with iron sand. Broken glass bottle shards and bones were added to each, along with sand to the iron ore pot. Tree barks, leaves, small amounts of rare elements were added. Then, charcoal filled the rest, before the lids were added and clay sealed the pots, now crucibles sealed shut. The charcoal would burn out any oxygen sealed in the crucible in the smelting, while the sand, burnt bone and glass would collect the slag, purifying the iron into steel.

More bricks were added to the kiln, building it up. One of the two crucibles, the one containing iron ore was lowered in. More charcoal was shovelled in, completely covering the pot. The three, working in unison kept the bellows going and sealed the entire kiln, now a furnace, with clay to prevent leakage, and contain the heat. It only vented near the bottom, allowing the heat rising to be contained.

The blacksmiths retired to their beds and the elvish servants took over manning the bellows overnight.

DAY THREE:

Come dawn the next day, they carefully disassembled the top layers of the furnace and lifted out the iron ore crucibles, glowing orange-white. It was taken, to a nearby anvil and then struck again and again until the crucibles broke off and fell apart, leaving the ingot of steel devoid of impurities which formed slag and broke off with the crucible.

The second crucible, left to sit overnight with the iron sand in it, was lowered into the furnace and the bricks and clay once again used to seal the top. Turning back to the first ingot, it was laid on the anvil with tongs by one person, and struck over and over again to flatten it out, making sure not the break it. It was placed in a second charcoal forge to keep the heat in it before being brought back onto the anvil for further drawing out. The sun was high in the sky, past noontide, when the billet was finally finished being drawn out. It was left in the second charcoal forge, simply keeping it hot as the second crucible was broken open and the process began again, only finishing as the sun went down.

DAY FOUR:

Two ingots of slightly different crucible steels had been left, stacked on top of one-another in the forge. They were carefully removed and forge-welded together. Heated up, they were forged together and drawn out longer and thinner over an hour of arduous work, forming two layers.

Then a wedge of metal was placed on the hot metal and hammered down until it cut them in half. Once against, the two blocks of metal were placed in the forge, one on top of another before being brought out and forge-welded together for an hour, forming four layers. Flux and ground charcoal were occasionally added as the work continued.

Over ten hours, the metal was taken from the heat of the flames forge-welded, drawn out, hot-cut and placed back in the forge nine times. From two bars of one layer of metal, it ended up as one vaguely blade-like length of metal containing five-hundred and twelve layers of metal. Once again, the blade was left in the forge to stay hot as the sun set.

DAY FIVE:

A few hours were spent carefully forging, from spare metal, two blocks of steel with two lines of metal sticking out the full length of the inch-by-inch piece of steel. They were then connected by a springy piece of metal to form a clamp, which was then placed on the hot blade.

Hammering used the metal mould to imprint a double fuller on the blade, and then the three worked on the edges, bevelling the blade out and refining the shape and working the tang. When the tang was completed to the smiths satisfaction, holes were punched through it in five places, two next to each-other to hold the crossguard on, two for the handle and one to attach the pommel. Then it was left, for them to concentrate on the blade.

Finally, the blade was effectively completed, to be left as the sun went down in the forge.

DAY SIX:

The blade was heated and cooled again and again, tempering it slowly over the day, until as night fell, it was heated until it glowed red-orange, then carefully taken to the stone circle, where a channel cut it the stone altar was laid with wood.

"Magnus, you wish to bear that sword?" the woman asked, once again clothed in the ritual robe of green.

"Aye, for better or worse, to defend me, to protect the right, I wish to wield it." was the answer.

"You are recognised as a man by laws of gods and men. Born, in the seventh moon of the year, I offer Holly for the moon, under which you were born, for eternal life and death, the circle of rebirth. It will give you protection from the storm and from evil. Alder to protect from water, and to bear the wind as a shield and a weapon. Apple for wisdom, youth and longevity, apple to bless you... us... with love and beauty. Control and focus your magic and mind with Ash for it will gift you the sea, and wield your blade as a tool in the circle of life and death, infused with Elder. Elm will make you unyielding in the face of magic in battle. Hazel will bring you water as shield and spear in battle, and peace and fertility in love."

The smith laid the glowing blade on the bed of wood as the woman continued to lay wood atop it.

"Elm's earthen strength within you and Oak's strength and courage without you, call upon the lightning in the storm to wield. Rowan defends from enchantment and guides the lost. When you are fallen, ask Mother Willow's healing spirit and she will raise you up, and take you to peace, happiness and love."

She then stepped back before saying the final words of the second ritual.

"I burn the wood, the bark, the leaves and the berries of Yew to strengthen your spells and to give you the gift of transformation."

Flames rose high around the altar, spreading out to encase the smith, burning higher and higher. The pyre lit up the dark sky above and the onlooking Saxon retreated, knowing this part of the ritual was not for him to witness. The druidess remained, pouring on switches of birch and willow, bowls of small blood-red cherries and apples of red and green. The magic in the air thickened and with a wave of her hand, the woman's robe turned from green velvet to tumbling purple showers of wisteria flowers.

For a few minutes, even those without magic could exert some influence on it, so much of it had been summoned up from the depths of earth and rock, brought down from the sky, released in fire from metal and wood. Suddenly the pyre died down and the smith's human form had given way to that of a massive wolf, shaggy furred and stood no less than four feet at the shoulder, about fifty-percent larger than an average wolf, and seven and a quarter feet from tip of his nose to his tail-bone.

An invocation was called out by the woman, and a pillar of magic in many colours began to twist, forming a cage, then creating a form within before slowly fading, revealing a second wolf. The summoned familiar was then cast to sleep as the smith returned to human form, a slightly animalistic look about his face and eyes.

The druidess turned away from him, a sway about her hips as she walked, revealing herself as the flowers forming her robe slipped off her form. In seconds the smith, disrobed to reveal a lithe, muscular form, hardened by hours at the forge, was behind her, catching her shoulder and spinning her around to face him. Face full of laughter, the druidess let him bring them both to the soft, mossy ground where they took one another again and again.

DAY SEVEN:

Reinvigorated after an evening and night spent at leisure followed by a sleep-in, the smiths set about finishing their work. The ritual-treated blade was etched with the runes to seal the blessed magic into the steel, before being heated up to temperature once more and taken back to the stone circle, glowing orange.

The channel that had been used for the blessed burning had been cleared of ashes and filled with oil. The druidess watched as the smith lowered the sword into the oil, allowing it to boil for a few seconds before drawing it back out. At that moment, the entire sword burst into flames.

"Magnus, your sword burns. Will its wielder use it in anger only when righteous fire grips him, to do away with evil?" the druidess asked.

"Aye."

"So you say, so may it be." she responded, raising both hands, one clutching a wand, weaving a spell about the sword.

The smith watched as the flames grew fiercer around the sword, yet ceased sending flecks of burning oil in every direction. He reached out with a second sense he did not realise he had, and quenched the fire. Then he reached out again and lit it once more.

Before the day was ended, the sword had been heated once more, straightened, for it had flexed being quenched, before being let to cool to a quarter of the temperature of the first quench, and then quenched again. At sundown, the blade was placed in a metal tube of oil, which was placed on top of the forge as it cooled.

That night, the half-moon shone in the sky.

DAY EIGHT:

The heat-treated blade was drawn from the hot oil and the long and arduous task of polishing and sharpening began. First, files were used to clear the muck of forging from the blade, then ever-finer grain stones, followed by sand paper and then glass paper to get to the gleaming metal underneath. Left in a cylinder of fairly low pH acid for an hour revealed the strange wavy patterns given by the layers formed in the forge-welding.

Last piece of work completed that day was sharpening an edge on the sword.

DAY NINE:

The Saxon walked into the stone circle, leading a bull by a rope halter. The animal's eyes were dull, and it had obviously been drugged with a potion to feel neither fear, nor pain. The Saxon led it to the altar where the smith stood, with the blade of his sword gripped by the tang in his gloves.

With one smooth move, he lifted the blade, half-swording it before plunging it into the base of the animal's skull, between the skull and spine, instantly killing the cow. The carcass was lifted to hang from the standing stones. Taking a keen knife, the smith removed the bull's sex organs, carefully restraining a wince, but taking care not to damage what was regarded as a delicacy, and worth a lot in any Chinatown butchers in London.

Opening the animal, chin to tail, he pulled it open, at which point the Saxon opened the ribcage, removing the organs. Those that weren't edible were offered as a burnt sacrifice on the altar. The rest was butchered until the skin had been separated from the meat, before it was laid out on the altar and all the remaining flesh scraped off and added to the sacrifice.

Finally, the skin was placed in a saltwater bath.

DAY 10:

The cowhide was taken from the saltwater, the bath drained, cleaned and replaced with freshwater, before the cowhide was replaced. A length of seasoned oak wood was carved down to form a handle for the sword, and two holes drilled through it and a slot running its length to fit onto the tang.

The simple, unadorned crossguard, had been made ready, as was the wolf's head pommel, formed in the shape of a wolf's head, modelled on that of the summoned familiar.

Iron nails were placed in the forge and heated until they were orange-red with heat. First, the guard was afixed, and two glowing hot nails were pushed through the holes in the centre of the guard when they aligned with the holes in the shoulders of the blade, and then the nails were hammered down to hot-rivet the guard on. Then the excess material was hot-cut off before they moved to the grip. The oak smoked and burned for a moment as the nails were hammered down and excess material removed, leaving the hot-riveted handle firmly attached. Finally, the pommel was attached in the same manner.

DAY 11:

Scraping the cow skin clean of any hair was another arduous task, but eventually it was completed and the hide was left for a few hours in a bath of calcium hydroxide and water. By noon, it was removed and rinsed, clean of any hairs. The bath was then emptied, cleaned and filled with a chemical which mixed the elements of chromium and sulphur, in which the hide was placed, where it would stay for the next twenty-four hours.

In the meantime, unused metal from the forging, which had been cut off after the forge-welding, was put to heat and then hammered out into a dagger. It would continue to be worked on in free time when the sword was not being worked on.

DAY 12:

The hide was once again rinsed in fresh water, then two small sections were cut off it, coated in a black tanning chemical, and left to soak for several hours, while the rest was removed for later use. Rinsed again after tanning, the two pieces were stretched out on a frame over a low, smouldering charcoal fire.

Once again, the dagger was worked on, creating a sister weapon to the hand-and-a-half sword.

DAY 13:

The leather was taken from the frame, cut to size and then the process of glueing and wrapping it commenced. The grip on both sword and dagger were completed with the leather. Final polishing and sharpening was completed on the last day of the forging.

Wielding both sword and dagger against an invisible opponent, the balanced weight of the bastard sword and the lethal counter-stabs offered by the dagger allowed him to feel a sense of pride in his craftsmanship.

DAY 14:

Under a full moon, fourteen days since the first crescent of a new moon had shone over the forging of a new sword, Cedric the Saxon stood before the druidess, holding the bastard sword as the smith knelt to one side.

"Is this a worthy blade of Magnus Rex, the Lord of the House of Potter, born of the line of kings and queens, chieftains and war mages?" Cedric asked.

"Aye, forged from the gift of the earth, in fire and water it has taken form." the druidess replied.

"Will this blade turn aside any who seeks to harm the Potter?" he asked again.

"Nay, it will rend flesh from bone and life from their body." once again the druidess replied.

"I see no warrior tall and powerful, clever and wise, fierce and honourable sat in the throne of his ancestors." Cedric announced.

"Hadrian, son of James, rise and take the throne of your ancestors. No crown is left for you nor any reward shall this give you, only the weight of your task. Preserve your family, protect your people." the druidess commanded.

Rising from his position, Harry met the gaze of the druidess, his mail clinking lightly and black cloak swirling about him as he settled into the ancient, weathered stone seat, the massive wolf, whose name he had yet to decide padded alongside him and sat upright and alert next to the throne.

"I, Cedric, son of Wulfe, acknowledge Hadrian, son of James as my lord and the master of this castle of Caereryr, to hold until he goes to his rest." Cedric knelt before him, driving the sword tip-first into the ground before the lord of the castle.

"Rise, for there is much to do, and little time in which to do it." Harry grinned, dismissing Cedric who promptly left.

"Well, never thought I'd be the one to name you to your position." the druidess smirked as she shifted to sit at his feet, leaning her head back against his thigh.

"Nor did I ever think I'd be quite so close to a member of the Malfoy family." Harry laughed, bending down and picking her up and pulling her into his lap.

"I've already offered to arrange for a couple of accidents to cleanse me of the taint of Lucius and Draco." Isabella Malfoi replied with a hint of a scowl.

"Problem is, Draco is too amusing with his particular brand of minor incompetent evil, and Lucius dying would create a massive power vacuum, besides I know where I stand with him. He's out for himself." Harry replied.

"Mhmm." she buried her head in his shoulder for a few moments.

"You know we're going to have to move eventually. I have to get back to Hogwarts and you need to return to Malfoy Manor and stay a couple of days before you and Draco return." Harry sighed. Their relationship was a closely guarded secret, and Draco had been withdrawn briefly from Hogwarts alongside his cousin for 'family matters' around the same time Harry had to depart to take up his family headship.

"You're lucky the arrangements for the first task were delayed so you would have the moon cycle to forge the sword." Isabella replied.

"It wasn't luck." Harry smirked before using one of her favourite words to explain what had happened; "It was arranged."

December 1990, Hogwarts Castle Entrance Hall

Harry pretended not to see Dumbledore emerge from a door from the dungeons as he returned to the castle, heading towards the grand staircase and hoping that the old wizard didn't attempt to accost him.

"Ah, Harry, all is well I hope?"

No, that hope went down the drain.

"Very much so Professor Dumbledore." Harry replied with a respectful incline of his head. "I hope my absence hasn't dulled the festivities?"

"You weren't around when I heard this superb jape involving a dwarf walking into a brothel with a jackass and a honeycomb-"

"And the rest is entirely too explicit for my young, and more importantly, innocent ears." Harry smirked. Sometimes exchanging banter with the headmaster could be amusing.

"Ah yes, how silly of me." Dumbledore shook his head; "How went your business out of the castle?"

"Fairly boring. Family estates thing, some idiot wanted me to take up headship, something about being declared an adult." Harry exaggeratedly rolled his eyes; "Imagine managing all the paperwork and the homework I have to do, at the same time! Maybe when I'm eighty, too old to stand and enjoy a good fight, I'll take over."

Dumbledore looked vaguely approving. Apparently his pet saviour wasn't supposed to be bothered with material wealth.

"Too much effort. Anyway, I'm heading up to Gryffindor Tower, need to get some sleep and talk to my friends... friend." a sour look came across his face. Harry had a few plans he'd been building around Ron Weasley which he'd had to scrap as the boy was too fickle.

"Of course my boy, and if you ever want to hear the punchline of the dwarf joke, do tell me."