𝕯𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘
ACT I: Crown of Embers
Chapter 4: Between Shadows & Light
Previously on Chapter 3:
Neville, still standing beside him, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, pulling him back to the present. "You okay, Harry?" Neville asked quietly, his voice concerned.
"Yeah," Harry said, though his voice felt strained as he forced himself to focus. "Yeah, I'm fine."
But he wasn't. Not really.
He wasn't sure what to believe anymore.
As they walked down the corridor, the chatter of students around them felt muffled to Harry, his thoughts still whirling with the strange, almost unsettling sensation of déjà-vu. He glanced at Neville, who was walking beside him, seemingly lost in thought but still aware of his surroundings.
"I don't know what to make of it," Harry muttered, breaking the silence. He wasn't sure why, but he felt compelled to tell Neville. "There's this voice. Telling me to trust Ron, like it's something I should remember. But… it feels like it's not the first time I've heard it. It's been there before. Like this is happening again, only I can't remember when."
Neville stopped walking for a moment, his brow furrowing as he processed Harry's words. His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no judgment, just concern. He had always been a quiet, observant sort, and Harry couldn't help but feel that Neville was the one person who might understand, even though he couldn't quite explain why.
"You should probably go to Madame Pomfrey," Neville suggested carefully. "I mean, if you're hearing voices, it could be something magical. You remember last year, don't you?"
Harry's gaze flickered to Neville, catching a glimpse of something in his eyes—a flash of hesitation. For just a moment, Neville looked as though he were about to say something else, something that would have explained more, but then he quickly looked away, his face smoothing into a mask of concern again. Harry frowned.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" Harry pressed, his voice sharper than he'd intended. The suspicion that had been gnawing at him now tugged insistently, as though the unease in his mind wasn't just from the voice, but from something Neville knew—something he wasn't saying.
Neville hesitated, his fingers twitching nervously at the strap of his bag. For a moment, Harry thought he might just brush it off, but then Neville sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Alright, look," Neville began, glancing around as if making sure no one else could overhear. "I don't want to alarm you, but… what you're describing, Harry, it sounds an awful lot like a Confundus charm."
Harry frowned, his confusion deepening. "A Confundus charm? But… that's just a confusion spell, right?"
"Yeah, but the way you're describing it…" Neville's voice trailed off, and he ran a hand through his messy hair. "This isn't just something casual or quick. A Confundus charm like that—one that sticks with you, gets integrated into your psyche—it would take a lot of power, and it would be something you wouldn't just notice right away. If someone's been applying it to you over time, it would make your thoughts muddled, like you're having flashes of memories or déjà-vu, but not the full picture."
Harry blinked, the pieces slowly starting to fall into place. "Wait, you think someone's been messing with my mind? For how long?"
Neville's eyes shifted uncomfortably, his gaze falling to the floor as he took a long breath. "If I had to guess, it's been going on for a while. The voice you heard, telling you to trust Ron, might be a key part of it. A Confundus charm that powerful, tied to your trust in certain people—it could have been placed on you deliberately, Harry."
"But why?" Harry asked, his voice low and cautious. "Why would someone do that to me?"
Neville shifted uncomfortably, a troubled look crossing his face. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before answering. "Harry, I think it's not just about you personally. It's about your status. You're the last remaining Potter, right? That's not just some title or family name—it's a massive thing. You're the presumptive Lord of the House of Potter."
Harry blinked, confused. "What? I don't understand what you mean by 'Lord' and 'House.' What does that have to do with this?"
Neville's eyes widened slightly in disbelief, and he quickly glanced around again, his voice dropping a little lower as if he didn't want to be overheard. "You don't know about this?" he asked, his tone almost incredulous. "Your father was Lord of the House of Potter, and you're the heir now. You're the last Potter left, Harry. The House of Potter isn't just some family—it's an old, powerful line. And there are protections for you because of that. All heirs, and especially Lords, have powerful magical wards and charms protecting them from exactly this kind of thing."
Harry furrowed his brow, his mind racing. "But I don't—what do you mean, protections? How does that even work?"
Neville looked at him like he was missing something obvious. "Well, for one, heir rings. They're enchanted with a variety of protections against dark magic, particularly mind manipulation or Confundus-like spells. They're like a safeguard for your mind. But, Harry, Lord rings are even more powerful—far more so than any heir ring. They protect against most forms of mind magic, including long-term Confundus charms. If someone had tried to mess with your mind, your Lord ring would've kept it from sticking. If you really are the heir to the House of Potter, you should have one, and it should be keeping you safe from this kind of thing."
Harry felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, as though the ground had shifted under him again. "A ring? I don't have any ring. My mum and dad never—"
Neville's eyes widened, his disbelief turning to concern. "You don't? Harry, you should have one. The moment you turned eleven, or even sooner, you should have been given your ring, your protections. You're Heir Potter now, whether you know it or not."
Harry's mind reeled. He had no idea what Neville was talking about. "Heir Potter? I never knew any of this. I thought I was just… Harry. Just some orphan who got famous because of a curse."
Neville's face softened with a mix of confusion and concern. "You really don't know? Harry, the House of Potter is one of the oldest, most respected wizarding families. There's magic tied to your bloodline, your name. It's not just about your parents' legacy, it's about your right to lead. The protections were put in place when you were born, to shield you from dark magic, to keep you safe, especially from the kind of manipulation you're describing. That voice, the one you hear, it shouldn't be able to get through if the wards are working."
Harry was still silent, trying to process the shock of it all. "Then why… why isn't it working? Why hasn't anyone told me about this before?"
Neville's expression darkened. "I don't know, mate. But someone's either messing with the wards, or… or they've been tampering with your memories for years without you even knowing. The fact that you don't have the protections you should is really troubling. And the fact that no one's told you about this… well, it's just not right."
Harry felt the weight of Neville's words settle heavily in his chest. For a moment, the world around him seemed to blur, the thought of being left unprotected gnawing at him like a growing shadow. He wasn't just some orphaned boy. He was supposed to be Lord Potter, but no one had ever bothered to tell him that. It felt like something important had been kept from him, and for the first time, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been kept in the dark for a reason.
The battle waged unseen in the void, in a place where light could not penetrate, and time held no meaning. A great, dark mass—formless yet menacing—pressed forward, its presence like a shroud that suffocated everything in its path. Its edges curled and twisted, seeking to consume, devour, and dissolve all in its way. No shape could contain it; it was a hunger, a malicious force unbound from time itself.
Yet, against it stood three spectral forces, each flickering and shifting in their own way, bound by an ancient purpose to defend what was left.
One figure appeared as a mighty creature, its wings vast and regal, its feathers radiant with flickers of light like molten gold. Yet, with every beat of its wings, the form became darker, the vibrant feathers fading into an eerie, skeletal silhouette. Its eyes were empty pits, voids that seemed to devour the light around them. This figure was not constant but flickered between this regal form and something far more haunting—a shadowed, emaciated beast, its bones visible beneath a taut, dark hide. It was a creature that once soared high, but now it dragged itself through the shadowed realm, pushing forward with the weight of both life and death in its wake.
As it moved, a second presence stirred beside it—a vast, serpentine force that slithered through the void with heavy deliberation. The creature's shape was difficult to pin down; it was both massive and ethereal, its coils winding in and out of focus. Its skin was a shimmering black, smooth as oil and cold as stone, but it held a power, an ancient, undeniable force. Its presence was ominous, heavy, and oppressive, exuding an aura that could crush the will of any who dared stand against it.
And then there was the final presence—less tangible, almost formless in its own right, but equally filled with dread. A shadow, indistinct and ever-changing, flickering like a wisp of smoke but far more dangerous. It seemed to form only when necessary, flickering in and out of existence like the shadows of death itself. Its aura pulsed with dark energy, the stench of decay clinging to it.
These three forces—two creatures and a shadow—battled against the darkness, but it was not just a battle of strength. It was a contest of wills, one that had been fought for centuries. There had been moments of respite, but now, something had shifted.
The binding that had once kept the dark mass at bay had weakened. The protections placed on the soul—those protections that were meant to guard it from malicious forces—had begun to falter. An event had come, one that had weakened the wards, one that had allowed the darkness to slip through and spread its tendrils, its influence pushing further into the very core of the soul it sought to possess.
The Dementor attack had been the final catalyst, a moment of exposure that allowed the lingering fragments of that malevolent force to break free. The wards, which had held for so long, shattered under the strain, and now the darkness surged, growing stronger with each passing moment.
In the heart of the battle, as the dark mass grew stronger and the three spectral figures strained against it, a subtle shift occurred. A part of the forces began to withdraw from the frontlines of the battlefield. Their forms flickered one last time before they moved with purpose, entering a chamber not of flesh and bone but of pure thought and ancient power.
The room was cavernous, its walls lined with the timeless stone of forgotten halls. There was no sound here, only the hum of an energy too old for any mortal to comprehend. The figures that entered were distinct, each one carrying a presence so ancient that it felt like the very air around them had thickened with their power. They stood together, but their very nature was different from one another, and it was clear they were not of the same bloodline, though they were bound by the same purpose.
One figure was tall, his hair wild and untamed, a storm of silver and gray that shimmered faintly, as though holding the echoes of forgotten eras. His hazel eyes, bright and searching, seemed to pierce through the veil of truth and deception alike, glinting with a vitality that defied the years etched into his weathered face. A faint scar traced the curve of his left cheek, an old wound now softened by time but no less a mark of the battles he'd endured. His robes flowed with an otherworldly elegance, their fabric heavy as though steeped in the weight of legacy and responsibility. Yet, there was an unspoken warmth in the set of his jaw and the faint curve of his lips, a reminder that beneath the unyielding authority lay a man who had fought not just for victory, but for hope. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ancient authority, his tone calm yet unyielding.
The second figure was of a completely different nature—broad-shouldered and imposing, his features marked by an ancient severity. His hair, though gray, was neatly swept back, and his posture was rigid, as if he had long ago learned to carry the weight of responsibility. His robes were dark, almost black, and covered in intricate, unfamiliar patterns. His gaze, intense and focused, seemed to see beyond the world around him, as if he could unravel the very fabric of reality itself. There was an air of quiet strength about him, but it was coupled with an unspoken sorrow, as if he had witnessed the fall of too many great things.
A third figure was much older, his agelessness a contradiction etched in every line of his face. His silver hair fell like strands of moonlight, framing features worn and weathered, yet unyielding. His robes, of the finest fabric, carried a faint emerald sheen that seemed to shift with an otherworldly life of its own, glimmering darkly like shadows in the depths of a forest. But it was his eyes that demanded attention—piercing emerald, sharp and unrelenting, as if they could cut through time itself. His presence was ancient and vast, like an ancient oak rooted deep in the soil of history, its wisdom tempered by the knowledge of all that had been lost to time.
The final figure commanded a presence that was undeniable, a force that seemed to fill the room and press against the very air. He was taller than most, his bearing regal yet unyielding, like a statue carved from unbreakable stone. His features were sharp and ageless, his cheekbones high and his jaw set with quiet determination. His eyes, an otherworldly silver, burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce through illusions and see the truth of all things. They were the eyes of a man who had faced Death itself—and won, not by trickery, but by sheer mastery of the arcane and the will to defy the inevitable.
They gathered in the center of the room, their presences colliding with an invisible force, as though their mere coming together had disturbed the very air around them. Without speaking a word, they knew why they had come. Each had sensed the growing darkness, the threat rising from within the soul of the one they had sworn to protect. The protections they had established were weakening, and the malevolent force was breaking free, growing stronger with each passing moment.
"Time is running out," the first figure spoke, his voice quiet but full of resolve. "The child is too young. The power is not his to wield fully yet."
"We have no choice," said the second figure, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision. "The darkness is too great now, and we are too weak to stop it. If we do not act, he will be lost."
"But the cost..." the third figure murmured, his voice tinged with sorrow. "The ritual has not been done since the fall of Atlantis. It is dangerous, and we cannot undo it once begun. If we awaken that power, it may consume everything. All of us."
The fourth figure, smaller and quieter, stepped forward. His eyes were filled with an unspoken understanding, and without hesitation, he spoke. "The time for hesitation has passed. The boy has no idea what is happening. But we do. We must act now. If we do not, it will all be over."
For a long moment, the room fell into silence, the weight of their decision hanging over them like a storm. The stakes were clear: they could not afford to wait any longer. The malevolent force was too close to victory, and the soul it sought to claim was too precious to lose.
Finally, the first figure nodded, his gaze firm. "Then we activate the ritual. We do it now."
And so, with one unified motion, the four figures extended their hands, and the ritual began.
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Harry felt the sudden pull of something vast and overwhelming, a sensation so intense that it felt as though his very being was being torn from him. His legs buckled beneath him, his vision blurred, and his body went limp as if his very soul had been untethered from his flesh. His mind went black, and he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been severed.
AN: Well, was anybody expecting that? Is anybody willing to take a guess at who these four mysterious figures are? Or what they actually represent? We look forward to your guesses.
Dragonstaff and Technomage