Volume I

Prologue

The burning cottage lit the night with a soft orange glow, the roaring and crackling of the flames piercing the peaceful calm of Godric's Hollow. Sirens could be heard in the distance - someone in the village had alerted the emergency services. The police, however, would arrive too late.

Had the night been quiet the whole village might have heard the wizards arrive. Two loud cracks, like the snap of a whip, would have echoed throughout the countryside as they materialised out of thin air, their closely-cut robes rustling with the swirl of magic. As it was, the noise of the fire covered their arrival on the front lawn.

Both men were youthful and handsome in an old-world kind of way, and there was a distinct familial resemblance between them. Black hair, strong jaws and high cheekbones were the order of the day.

"Good gods," muttered one as he took in the sight of the house, his face grim. "John, there's no way..."

They both knew what was left unsaid. Anyone left in the house was surely dead. But they had their orders. John took the lead, striding towards the front door of the house - or what was left of it.

"We must hurry!" he cried, drawing his wand as he broke into a run. He waved the wand in a lazy motion over himself, before pointing it at the door. A nimbus of red light shot forward at a startling speed and smashed into the door, knocking it down like it had been given a hard kick.

Fire exploded out of the doorway as it sought new oxygen to consume, but the wizard paid it no mind and ran right into it, apparently unharmed. He did not wait to see if his companion followed.

The interior of the house was as bad as the exterior suggested. What had once been a homely sitting room was now nothing but flames and smoke. John quickly tapped his mouth with his wand and a bubble appeared there, supplying him with clean air.

Between the fire and the smoke it was impossible to see. Getting desperate, John moved to go towards the kitchen, but was interrupted by a voice from behind him.

"Homenum Revelio!" shouted his companion, and then after a brief pause, "Upstairs! There's someone upstairs!"

Both ran to the stairs and climbed, hoping beyond hope for a miracle. Impossibly, the cry of a baby met them as they reached the landing.

"Harry!" cried John.

"In the bedroom!" replied his friend.

They burst into the bedroom, the door long since disintegrated, and barely took in the form of a burning body on the floor before spotting the baby Harry, innocent green eyes wide, sitting on the floor with a ring of fire around him, some magic protecting him. John picked him up without thinking.

A loud crash came from downstairs and the floor shook.

"That was the stairs!"

"Thomas, take Harry and apparate out!" shouted John, "I'm finding James!"

John thrust baby Harry into Thomas' hands without waiting for a reply and ran back out of the room. Thomas let him go, but knew there was no hope. If James had survived, he would have been able to rescue Harry himself.

Shaking his head, he clutched Harry to his chest and spun on the spot, disappearing as if he had imploded into nothing. He appeared once more back on the front lawn, none the worse for wear. Harry was still crying. Thomas tried to rock him, but it was no use - not a surprise, given what he had been through.

A minute later John crashed back out of the house, just as the roof collapsed. He was carrying a body. James Potter's body was unrecognisable, his skin charred black and waxy. Not even magic could save him now.

John started towards Thomas, tears running down his face, but after two steps he froze. A chill went down Thomas' spine. John was looking at something behind him.

He spun around, and his heart sunk.

There, standing in front of him, was a little girl. In one hand she was clutching a worn teddy bear, in the other she held a wand. Her hair was in pig tails and she had impossibly large eyes, staring at Thomas.

She was impossibly cute, and the worst possible thing that could have happened.

Thomas took a step back. This was not good.

"My Lady Lucena," he said with a slight bow of his head. Formality was good. It was safe. "What an unexpected pleasure."

The girl blinked, and a feral smile grew on her face. Such an expression looked simply wrong on the girl.

"Boo!"

The was a tearing sound, like a curtain ripping, and Thomas felt something warm splatter him from behind. Instinctively he turned around again, and immediately wished he hadn't.

John and James' body were gone, replaced by a blast radius of blood and gore. He had, quite literally, exploded.

Fear and despair ran through Thomas. His mind shut down, refusing to process the death of his son. He could only manage one thought:

Run!

He spun on the spot, trying to apparate away, but nothing happened. Lucena must have stopped him.

"The boy, Potter," she said, her voice both childish and regal.

Thomas took another step back.

The girl raised her wand.

And with the slightest whisper of wind, a man appeared between them. He was tall and thin, very old, wore brightly coloured robes, and had a long silvery beard.

This time it was Lucena that froze.

"Dumbledore," she said, her voice flat, her wand still half-raised. She paused for a moment, completely still, then lowered her arm.

Albus Dumbledore assesed the scene in an instant. His eyes grew sad as he saw the house, and a trace of anger appeared when he saw the bloodstain that had been John Potter.

"Persephone," he replied evenly, "your presence is, as always, most unwelcome."

Thomas prepared to run. If they were to fight, Thomas did not want to be near ground zero.

Lucena twitched her wand, and in an instant Dumbledore's own was pointing at her, quicker than the eye could follow.

She spat on the ground, and disappeared with a pop.

Dumbledore visibly relaxed, and his wand disappeared once more. The danger gone, everything hit Thomas at once - the death of both his son and grandson in one night. He fell to his knees. His hands were shaking. Harry was still crying.

Dumbledore put a hand on Thomas' shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"They will all be greatly missed," he said, "but we cannot mourn them now. We must think to the future."

Thomas nodded mutely, and passed Harry to Dumbledore. The baby stopped crying.

"Ah, he remembers me!" said Dumbledore, apparently pleased.

Thomas found his voice, and his legs.

"Is it true, Albus?"

Dumbledore clearly knew what he was talking about.

"It is."

"But... how?"

"I confess I do not know it all," Dumbledore replied as he let Harry grip his finger, "that is a secret that only Harry here knows. But if I am not mistaken..."

Dumbledore went to touch the lighting-bolt shaped cut on Harry's forehead, but withdrew his finger as if burnt.

"It is as I thought. The impossible has happened: somehow Harry reflected Lord Voldemort's killing curse."

Thomas was speechless, for a moment.

"All the more reason for him to be raised by his real family then! The Potters have supported you for four generations, Albus! Do you really trust us so little with our own?"

Dumbledore met Thomas' eyes until he looked down.

"I have made my decision, Thomas," he said, his voice stern, "and you of all people must see why it is necessary. Just this night Lucena tried to take him. And there will be more. There will always be more, for the rest of his life."

Thomas put his hand on Harry's forehead. He was saying goodbye.

"Very well, my Lord. We'll take him to Privet Drive, as you say."

"Don't worry, Thomas. All will turn to right in the end. And don't forget, you shall see him again. Ten years is for us like a blink of an eye."

"I suppose you're right," he said, and there was nothing more to say. They apparated away, leaving behind a scene that would mystify the police for years.

-- Post automerged at 04:56 PM -- Previous post was at 04:55 PM --

Chapter 1

It was the height of summer, and dark grey cloud obscured the sky in every direction. Harry Potter sighed as he looked towards the heavens. It was going to rain before he finished weeding the drive.

It seemed to Harry that the drive always needed weeding. He turned back to his work - a trail of uprooted plants messily discarded over the stone - and knelt down. His Aunt Petunia wouldn't let him work in the rain, but he needed his pocket money this week. He had to get Dudley his birthday present, after all, and that would put him back a few pounds.

Harry had long ago given up on trying to figure out why Dudley didn't have to do chores to get his pocket money. Aunt Petunia's rehearsed explanation never changed.

"Dudley is my son, Harry," she would say in her agitated, shrill voice. "You're a guest in our house, and you'll do your chores!"

It was always the same, Harry thought as he attacked a particularly tough weed. Dudley got everything. He got all the best toys, the best birthday parties, the best clothes, the best room. Harry had to sleep on a rickety old bed in the box room at the end of the hall.

Of course, Harry wasn't a Dursley - as he was so often reminded. But this did little to make him feel any better about the fact that Dudley got ten pounds a week for doing nothing when he only got five.

Had Harry been any other boy, he might have been jealous.

Harry, however, was not any other boy. Harry knew he was special, orphan though he was. He could do things - things other people couldn't.

The first light drop of rain landed on his glasses, causing him to frown. He needed to work faster.

He glanced up and down the street. No one was watching. He placed his hand on the cold stone of the drive and closed his eyes.

Harry didn't really know how he did the things he did. He just knew that if he concentrated really hard, and reached for that familiar feeling deep inside, like a word on the tip of your tongue, he could change the world around him.

He could do magic. That was something else he just knew. What he did was magic, and to him it seemed like an old friend, present his entire life, bubbling just beneath the surface. When Vernon shouted at him and sent him to his room without dinner, instead of crying Harry would reach out and be comforted by the steady warmth that only he could feel.

He opened his eyes and froze.

The driveway was overrun with weeds. Those he had been trying to dig out had grown all over the paving, breaking through the stone in several places. Even the plants he had already removed were somehow alive again.

Harry had a feeling he wouldn't be getting his pocket money that week.

Wondering what he could possibly say to Aunt Petunia, Harry brushed his ever-messy black hair out of his eyes and turned to go back inside.

Thunder boomed and a steady pitter-patter of rain began to fall. It would turn into a downpour any moment.

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end.

"Good morning, Harry," said a voice. It was a posh voice, like the boys who went to the private school down the road.

Harry turned around, wondering who would talk to him.

Standing just beyond the flower bed was a man wearing the oddest clothes Harry had ever seen. He looked like he was wearing some kind of robe, but it wasn't anything like Aunt Petunia's bathrobe. For a start it looked much more expensive: several layers of heavy material cluttered with a complex series of buckles and buttons.

The man also had a striking resemblance to the pictures of Harry's dad. They shared the same strong jaw, the same sharp nose, the same high cheekbones.

Harry's heart began to beat faster. Sure, the man was weird looking, but Harry couldn't help but hope that this man had some connection to his parents. A connection that wasn't the Dursleys.

"Hi," said Harry, ignoring years of lessons about not talking to strangers, "who're you?"

The stranger chuckled. The rain was quite heavy now, and at the back of Harry's mind he could already imagine Aunt Petunia's shrieking voice, berating him for getting so wet.

"My name, Harry, is Thomas Potter, and I am your great grandfather."

And as quickly as it came, Harry's hope was crushed. It was some kind of joke. Or maybe the odd man wanted to kidnap him.

Suddenly Harry wanted to be far away from this man.

"STRANGER!" Harry shouted as loudly as he could. He ran back towards the house. "HELP, STRANGER!"

Aunt Petunia burst out of the house, clutching a ladle, her thin face pinched and annoyed. Harry hid behind her.

The man walked up to them. Petunia saw him and paled.

"Ah, Petunia," the man said, distaste evident in his voice, "You remember who I am?"

She nodded. Harry was confused. Did this mean the man wasn't going to kidnap him?

"Shall we go inside, then?" the man - Thomas - said.

Petunia allowed herself to be herded inside. The house was a typically middle-class and suburban. A modern house; Aunt Petunia kept it extremely clean and tidy - obsessively so. The hallway they walked into was bland. A few photographs and zero character.

Thomas looked around the house as if he might catch a disease from it. Harry grinned and shook his hair like a dog trying to get dry, causing Petunia to gasp.

"Harry! Upstairs, now! Just look at my carpet!"

Thomas interrupted before Harry could move.

"Allow me," he said. A polished wooden stick appeared in his hand - Harry had no idea where it came from - and he waved it.

Instantly, Harry was dry. Thomas seemed unconcerned by this miraculous act, but Harry's mind was going a hundred miles an hour.

This man - this man who said he was Harry's great grandfather - was like Harry. He was special.

"You can do it too!" Harry exclaimed. Petunia looked at Harry in shock.

"Of course," said Thomas, as if it were obvious. There was an awkward silence for a moment."Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?"

They moved into the living room and sat on the flowery and rather hard armchairs. The room, which Harry had always thought quite plush, suddenly looked rather drab compared to Thomas' evident class.

"Tea?" asked Thomas.

"I'll put the kettle-"

Thomas interrupted once again, flicking his wand - for a magic wand was what it surely was - once again. A tea set appeared on the coffee table, and the teapot began pouring itself.

Petunia looked like she was going to faint. Harry picked up his tea and took a tentative but stomach-warming sip. Unlike his Aunt, Harry was barely keeping himself in his seat. He had so many questions, questions he had wanted to ask for years. Now, maybe, this man could answer them.

"You're really my great grandfather? You don't look very old."

Thomas laughed openly, a laugh that reached his eyes, and Harry thought that he might be quite nice, beneath the formality.

"You'd be surprised, Harry. I'll be one hundred and seventy this October."

"That's impossible!" said Harry.

"You will find, Harry, that with magic all things become possible."

Magic. The moment Thomas said it, Harry knew that this mas was the real deal. Other people could do magic too! A hundred new questions burst into being in his mind. He didn't know which one to ask first.

Petunia found her voice before he could decide.

"Didn't help Lily, did it!" she spat, standing up. She hadn't touched her tea. "You people took her away and then she got blown up - there wasn't even a body to bury! I know why you're here and he's not going!"

"Wait," said Harry, disbelieving. This was news to him. He'd always been told his parents died in a car crash. "You knew? Mum was a...er..."

"Witch," supplied Thomas, "As your father was a wizard."

Thomas sighed.

"Your parents, Harry, were tragically murdered by a powerful wizard." He turned to Harry's Aunt. "And I'm afraid that you have little choice in the matter, Petunia. The Ministry of Magic has decreed that no mere Muggle shall keep a wizard from his birthright. If Harry wishes to go, then he shall."

The news that Harry's parents were murdered did little to damp his enthusiasm. Murder or car crash, they were still dead, and Harry had got used to that a long time ago.

"There's a Ministry of Magic? How many of us are there? And what's a Muggle? And where am I going? And-"

Thomas held up a hand and Harry stopped.

"In the order you asked: The Ministry is our government, there are around two million witches and wizards in Britain alone, a Muggle is a non-magical person, and you will be going - if you desire it - to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry - the finest school in the land."

Harry snorted, taking the world-changing information in his stride.

"Hogwarts?" he said incredulously, "Who came up with that?"

"A question asked by many, Harry, but I'm afraid the Lady Ravenclaw refuses to answer."

"Who's Lady Ravenclaw?"

"This is a matter for another time, I think. For now, Harry, I need your answer," Thomas looked Harry in the eyes, suddenly serious, "do you wish to embrace your birthright and join the wizarding world?"

There could only be one answer to that.

"Yes!" Harry said.

"No!" shouted Petunia, standing up again.

Both Harry and Thomas ignored her.

"Then, Harry, there is little time to waste!" He stood up quite suddenly. "Petunia, I shall be in contact. Harry, take my hand."

Harry did as he was told.

As soon as his hand gripped onto Thomas', the world twisted. Everything seemed to merge together, like a smudged painting, and a wave of dizziness took Harry. He thought he would surely throw up, but before Harry could cry out the world had already righted itself, springing back into place with a loud crack.

Only now it was different.

Harry looked around in wonder, still holding Thomas' hand. They were standing in the concourse of a large train station, a cavernous atrium with large stone pillars holding up the ceiling. A noisy crowd was bustling around them, a voice was echoing on a PA system, and every so often a shrill whistle could be heard.

"This way, Harry," said Thomas, leading him into the crowd.

And that was when Harry realised it. The crowd. They were all wearing strange clothes. They were all witches and wizards.

"Daily Prophet!" shouted a man ahead, standing at a stall and waving a newspaper. It seemed Thomas was heading towards him. "Minister Crouch declares a fourth legion! Read about it only in the Daily Prophet!"

Thomas snatched the paper out of the man's hand.

"Oi, that's a Dupondius!"

Thomas fliped a bronze coin at the man in one fluid motion, never breaking his stride.

"What's a legion?" asked Harry, trying to keep up.

"The army," Thomas responded distractedly, somehow managing to both read the paper and navigate around the crowd, "we are currently engaged in a campaign against the Saharan warlords. And Ireland, of course."

Even Harry had heard of the Troubles, but it was a surprise to hear that wizards were involved.

"Are we winning?" asked Harry, jumping out the way of what looked like a Goblin.

"It's complicated," replied Thomas, still reading. "But you need not worry. Here in Britain you are perfectly safe: our borders are protected day and night by the Home Legion. The Irish wouldn't dare to attack directly. Not while Merlin's citadel still stands."

"What's Merlin's citadel?"

"Not now, Harry," Thomas chided, tucking the paper under an arm. "We must purchase our tickets. Save your questions for a moment."

They walked up to a booth and promptly skipped the entire queue. Several people shouted but Thomas paid them no heed, striding up to the counter. Someone grabbed Thomas' shoulder and spun him around. He was big, bald and burly, and looked rather angry.

"Oi! I've been waitin' half an hour! Back o' the queue, mate."

The man tried to push Thomas backwards. Thomas didn't budge an inch.

"And your name is?" he asked, rather imperiously. Harry wondered if they shouldn't just join the queue.

"Don't matter, does it? You gotta queue just like everyone else, Mr High an' Mighty."

Thomas smilied a tight smile, looking into the man's eyes.

"I think you'll find that it does matter, Mr. Bryce."

Quicker than Harry could follow, Thomas had pulled out his wand and flicked it. A bang echoed throughout the station, and the man was blasted off his feet back into the crowd. Everyone was staring at the spectacle, but no one moved to interfere.

"Let this be a lesson in respect, Mr. Bryce," said Thomas, his voice steely. "It does not do for people to forget their position. Now, my charge and I are late. Good day."

Thomas took Harry's hand again and turned back to the counter. The spotty attendant on the other side of the glass was gaping like a fish.

"An adult and a child to Sanctum, if you will. First class."

"Yes, sir, certainly sir," the boy replied, pulling several levers. Two tickets printed out of a machine in the desk. Thomas took them.

"That's five Denarii, please."

Thomas slapped 5 silver coins down on the desk and rushed away, moving towards a platform. Harry had to run to keep up.

"Come, Harry, the train leaves in two minutes!"

Harry hardly got the chance to look at the platform before they jumped onto a bottle green steam train, slamming the door behind them.

They were just in time. A whistle, a shout, and with surprising speed the train was accelerating, the platform passing away in a flash.

Thomas pulled Harry down the corridor, looking for a compartment.

"This'll do," he said, opening a door.

The compartment was huge. It looked rather comfortable, but the size was surely impossible. There were leather seats, a fireplace, a table, and several bookcases.

Magic, Harry thought, trying to shake off his disbelief. He wondered how exactly the room was built.

Thomas took a seat and pulled out his paper again. Harry looked around the compartment for a bit, inspecting the books (several of which looked quite interesting), before collapsing into a chair so comfortable it felt like it was about to eat him.

He had so many questions but Thomas was reading the paper. He wasn't sure if he should interrupt. After all, Thomas had been quite mean to that man Bryce, and Aunt Petunia, and it was true that they did push in.

Harry was a bit intimidated by him. But he was also very curious.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

Thomas' head poked over the top of the paper.

"Of course, Harry. Curiosity is not a sin, and you have several years of living with Muggles to get over."

"Okay," said Harry, not sure what he thought of that. It made him sound stupid. He didn't like people thinking that. "What's Merlin's Citadel?"

Thomas seemed to realise that he wasn't going to get any reading done. He put down the paper and reached into his robes, pulling out a pipe.

"Merlin's Citadel," he replied, lighting the pipe with his wand, "is the capital of wizarding Britain. It is where we are going now: the city of Sanctum. It was built by Merlin at the end of the civil war. Many say it was his finest achievement."

Thomas paused to take a puff of smoke.

"It is also where I live, and where we will be going to get you your school supplies and such. You'll be staying with me for the rest of the summer, so I expect you'll get used to the place before long."

"So Merlin was real?"

"Real? Of course he was real!" cried Thomas, almost choking on some smoke. "Never was there any man more real."

Harry frowned, confused. Thomas sighed.

"Understand this, Harry, for it is the most important thing you'll ever learn: not all wizards are equal. You remember Bryce, from the station?"

Harry nodded, unsure of what to think.

"Well, as he was beneath us, so too are there wizards so great that we cannot imagine their power. We call them the Lords of Magic, Harry, and they rule our society. Albus Dumbledore, with whom I am affiliated, is one such wizard. And Merlin, well, he was the greatest of the Greats. He lived for over a thousand years, and by his power the British Empire prospered. Of course, he died nearly fifty years ago now, but his influence still remains strong."

Thomas clearly thought a lot of this Merlin guy. Harry could only think of more questions.

"I thought you said that the Ministry ruled Britain?"

Thomas snorted.

"Well, of course, the Ministry runs much of the day to day administration of the realm. And the Minister is not without power. But it is the Lords who really pull the strings, and never forget that. You'll understand it more when you're older."

Harry thought it was very odd. Lords and Ladies, empires and legions: it was like taking a trip back in time.

"So this Dumbledore guy is the Headmaster of Hogwarts?"

"Lord Dumbledore, Harry. And yes, he is, among other things, the Headmaster of Hogwarts school. I doubt you'll ever speak to him personally, of course. He's a very busy man. But you might. If you ever do, remember you manners. Our family has followed him since even before he established himself, and have been afforded great honour for it."

Harry was reminded of what Thomas said to that Bryce man. It does not do for people to forget their betters. Thomas was clearly quite important, or at least thought himself so.

"How come Merlin was so old? And how come you're so old? Do wizards live forever?"

Thomas looked pensive for a moment.

"Technically, no, wizards are not immortal. Left to the ravages of nature, our natural lifespan is but a mere one hundred and fifty years."

That sounded like a long time to Harry.

"However, with the aid of certain spells and potions, we may stay youthful forever. If we are good enough at magic, that is. Or rich enough to pay others to cast the spells on us. It is a rare skill."

Harry hoped he was good at magic. In all the years he had lived with the Dursleys, it was magic that had got him through.

The compartment fell silent for a moment. Thomas took the chance to look back at his paper; for now, the flood of questions had stopped.

Harry got up and walked over to the window. The train must have been on a hill, because all he could see was sky. Harry reached the glass and gasped.

The train wasn't on a hill. The train wasn't even on the ground. It was speeding through the air on an ethereal track, only visible when the sun caught it at a certain angle.

And that was when Harry saw it. The train was heading straight for it.

A gleaming city, sitting on an island of rock, floating on the clouds. Its towers were white and tall, its parks beautifully green, and right at its centre were four circular towers greater than all the others, piecing the sky, shining with the brilliance of the sun.

It was the most amazing thing Harry had seen in his life.

"The city of Sanctum," Thomas said from behind Harry, having noticed his gaze. "Your new home."