Author's Note: Hello, dear readers! If you've arrived here after reading my first story (on Wattpad), I must warn you—this is nothing like that one. This isn't a comedy, nor is it a story that can be written in a few hours. This story has been in the works for months, and this chapter was actually ready nearly half a year before I decided it was time to publish it.
I also want to be upfront about something: this story deals with themes that may not be suitable for everyone. There are mentions of mental illness in an under-aged character (not the main character—though you'll learn more about this in the first chapter if you decide to continue), and if you or someone close to you struggles with similar issues, this story may be distressing. Please read at your own risk.
This is an incredibly important story for me. I grew up immersed in the world of Harry Potter, and I've been a Potterhead for longer than I care to admit. Naturally, my first Harry Potter fanfiction had to be something special—something different. And, if I do say so myself, I think I've accomplished that.
This story is unlike any other Harry Potter fanfiction you may have read—at least, unlike any that I've come across (and I've read a lot). It's set during the Marauder Era, but it doesn't focus on the Marauders at all. Instead, the main character is an original character you'll meet in this chapter, and the story revolves around his journey. He is the Chosen One.
Yes, you read that right: the main character of this story (an original character, not a reader) is the Chosen One in this version of the Harry Potter universe. The timeline will be altered, and this is essentially a brand-new, original adventure set in the Wizarding World, with an original character at the helm.
I know that might not appeal to everyone, but this is a story I've wanted to tell for a long time, and I'm finally bringing it to life. I hope you'll join me on this journey.
But be warned—this is going to be a long ride. So, strap in, and let's get started!
oOoOoOo
The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Cambrian Mountains, its icy gusts tugging at craggy stone as thunder rumbled like the growl of an ancient beast. Beneath a sky bruised purple and black, the storm churned with a ferocity that seemed to echo from the dawn of time, rain lashing the earth in relentless sheets. Yet, amidst the chaos, something peculiar lingered—an eerie stillness at the storm's heart, as if the mountains themselves held their breath. Above, the stars blinked into sharp, uncanny focus, their alignment too precise to be mere chance, like fragments of an ancient prophecy snapping into place. It was a night when old magic thrummed louder than the wind, and the land pulsed with quiet, otherworldly energy.
Far below the storm, a single light flickered through the tempest, a beacon on the darkened moors that seemed to call to the mountain's ancient heart.
The modest chamber where Layla Goshawk lay was a stark contrast to the wildness outside. The flickering hearth cast long, trembling shadows across the stone walls, its warmth waging a futile battle against the chill that seeped into every corner. Layla writhed upon the straw-filled mattress, her golden hair—once neatly braided—now a damp, tangled halo around her face. Her features, usually serene, were now etched with pain, her amber-brown eyes squeezed shut as another wave tore through her. Her beauty was undeniable, even in her agony. With soft, symmetrical features and skin like alabaster, Layla had always carried an air of quiet strength. Yet now, she was a picture of raw vulnerability, her guttural, primal cries shaking the room as much as the storm outside.
Beside her knelt her husband, Archibald Goshawk. His strong, angular face was pale with fear beneath his round spectacles, his dark, watchful eyes betraying a helplessness he rarely felt. His sharp jawline and close-shaved head gave him an austere appearance, but the tenderness in his trembling hands as he held Layla's told another story. "You're almost there, Lay," he murmured, his deep voice steady but soft, willing himself to be her anchor. "Just a little longer."
Archie prided himself on his ability to fix things, to bend problems to his will. But now, watching Layla fight through her pain, he felt powerless. His hand brushed her sweat-drenched hair away from her face, his heart breaking with every scream. His whispered reassurances faltered, drowned out by the storm and her labored breaths.
The midwives worked with quiet urgency, their movements practiced and sure, though their eyes flicked toward the window more often than was natural. Perhaps they, too, felt the strange hum in the air, the weight of a night charged with unspoken power.
When the child's first cries shattered the oppressive tension, they pierced the storm's ferocity like an unrelenting note of defiance. Small and wrinkled, the infant trembled in the midwife's hands before being placed on Layla's chest. Layla sobbed, tears spilling freely as she cradled her son against her, her strength drained but her heart full. The baby's cries blended with the tempest outside, as though the storm itself acknowledged his arrival.
Far away, in a quiet, dimly lit office filled with peculiar instruments and the scent of aged parchment, Albus Dumbledore paused mid-thought. His quill stilled over a scroll as he lifted his head sharply, his brilliant blue eyes narrowing behind his half-moon spectacles. A shift rippled through the air—subtle, like the exhalation of the mountains themselves—and carried with it a whisper, faint yet unyielding. The alignment of the stars, the storm's strange fury, and the quiet hum of old magic—they spoke of something ancient awakening, something the world had forgotten but could no longer ignore.
For a moment, Dumbledore sat in stillness, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of recognition. Then, with deliberate care, he set down his quill and leaned back in his chair.
Back in the chamber, Layla clutched her son tightly, her tears of exhaustion mingling with relief. Archie leaned over her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, his face softening with awe and love. The storm continued its relentless howl, but within the stone walls of the castle, there was a moment of fragile calm—a family bound together, unaware of the unseen forces beginning to stir.
oOoOoOo
Three Years Earlier
The year was 1956, and the room was bathed in the warm, golden light of a late July afternoon. Outside, the sun lingered on the horizon, casting a soft glow over the lush grounds of Hogwarts. Though summer was at its peak, an unusual chill hung in the air, carried by the wind that rustled the leaves of the great trees surrounding the castle.
Inside, a cozy, book-lined study offered refuge from the unexpected coolness. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the faint draft that crept through the stone walls. Stacks of parchment crowded a well-worn desk, one corner dominated by a half-finished sketch of a phoenix in flight. A small glass orb, shimmering faintly with an inner light, rested on a nearby shelf—perhaps a transfigured trinket or an object of study. The chamber had an air of intellectual curiosity, its quiet warmth reflecting the man who occupied it.
Albus Dumbledore, the Transfiguration Professor of Hogwarts, sat across from Cassandra Trelawney, the former Vablatsky. His auburn hair, streaked faintly with gray, framed his angular face, and his bright blue eyes gleamed behind half-moon spectacles. His robes, a deep royal blue trimmed with gold, were both practical and elegant, befitting a man who straddled the line between scholar and wizard of renown.
Cassandra, her presence no less striking despite her years, sipped her tea with deliberate grace. Her silver hair flowed like moonlight over her richly embroidered robes, and her sharp, violet eyes, magnified behind dark glasses, seemed to pierce the veil of the ordinary.
"Albus, my dear," she began, her voice lilting, "I cannot ignore the strange threads weaving their way through the world these days. It feels as though we are standing on the edge of something vast—something that will change everything."
Dumbledore smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet amusement. "Ah, Cassandra, you've always had a gift for seeing patterns where others see only chaos. But perhaps tonight, we can leave the future to itself. Tea, conversation, and the company of an old friend—these are treasures enough for now."
Cassandra chuckled, the sound soft yet rich with genuine warmth. "Ever the optimist, Albus. It's why I cherish these talks. You remind me that not all is shadowed, even in dark times."
The conversation paused, each retreating into their own thoughts. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its light flickering across the shelves. Outside, the cicadas fell silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
And then, it came—the shift.
The fire dimmed without warning, the warm glow of the room giving way to an unsettling chill. The shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, darkening the study's corners. Cassandra's hand trembled, her teacup rattling faintly against its saucer.
"Cassandra?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his brow furrowing.
Her eyes glazed over, her pupils fading to an eerie white. The air grew heavy, charged with a presence that seemed to seep through the very stones of the castle. Then, with a shuddering gasp, Cassandra spoke—not in her voice, but in a deep, resonant tone that reverberated with ancient power:
"When the moon's shadow bends the day, A child shall rise, in his hands fate's sway. To heal the wound of blood and bone, He must choose between the past and the unknown. The darkness he must face, the greatest of all, Yet in his sacrifice, he shall stand tall. A soul torn between love and duty, A heart bound by familial beauty. To save his kin, a price must be paid, A wound within him, forever laid. The one who walks in his blood's own vein, Will see the end of shadow and pain. But in the healing, he shall find, The deepest wound—of body and mind."
As the final words fell from her lips, the room exhaled. The shadows retreated, the fire flared back to life, and Cassandra slumped back in her chair, her trembling hands clutching the armrests.
Dumbledore rose to his feet, his face pale and solemn. "Cassandra?" he murmured, his voice soft but steady.
Her gaze flickered, the violet returning to her eyes. She blinked several times, as though emerging from deep waters. "Albus..." she whispered hoarsely. "That voice—it wasn't mine. What... what did I just say?"
Dumbledore's sharp gaze turned to the window, his thoughts swirling. "You've spoken of many truths over the years," he said at last, his voice heavy with quiet conviction. "But this... this prophecy will shape the days to come. A child, a burden, and a choice."
Cassandra's hands trembled as she grasped her teacup, seeking something solid in a world now tinged with the unknown. Dumbledore's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he whispered, "We will watch. And we will wait."
Outside, the cicadas did not resume their song. Only the wind answered, carrying the weight of ancient words into the night.
oOoOoOo
Back to the present
The room was quiet now, the storm outside fading to a gentle murmur. Candlelight flickered on the stone walls, casting warm shadows that softened the sharp edges of the chamber. The faint scent of lavender from the bedside linens lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy tang of rain wafting in through the slightly open window.
Layla Goshawk lay back against the pillows, her hair damp and tangled, her chest rising and falling with the effort of long hours. Despite her exhaustion, her face glowed with quiet joy as she gazed at the bundle in her husband's arms.
Archie stood beside her, his large hands holding the baby with almost comical care. He shifted slightly, his breath catching as the infant stirred. The baby's tiny fingers curled against Archie's chest, his soft breath a rhythmic reminder of the fragile life they now held between them.
"He's so small," Archie murmured, his voice trembling. "How can something so small feel so... important?"
Layla smiled, her heavy-lidded eyes warm as she reached out, her fingers brushing the baby's cheek. "He's ours," she whispered, the words carrying a profound sense of wonder.
The storm's passing seemed to echo the moment—the turbulence giving way to calm, just as their world shifted to embrace this new, fragile life.
Archie shifted his weight, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath his boots. He glanced at her, his brow furrowed with thought. "We need to give him a name," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "A name that means something. Something worthy."
Layla nodded, her gaze meeting his. "We've talked about this. I want it to be meaningful, too."
There was a pause as Archie looked back down at the baby, his thumb gently brushing against the infant's tiny hand, which instinctively curled around it. He exhaled softly, his shoulders relaxing as a decision seemed to form.
"Well," he began, hesitating as though testing the weight of his words, "I've been thinking. Thaddeus. My grandfather's name. He taught me about the old ways—the stories, the magic. He made me believe in all the wonder that's out there. He'd be proud, you know. Proud to see our son."
Layla's expression softened as she studied Archie's face. A quiet sadness flickered in her eyes, though it was quickly replaced by warmth. "Thaddeus," she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. "It's perfect. It's strong. It'll remind him of you, and of your family."
Archie gave a small smile, the weight of the decision settling between them. He looked down at his son again, his fingers adjusting the blanket that swaddled him.
"And Xavier," he added after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "For your father. I never met him, but I know he meant the world to you. You've told me so many stories about him—how he was a man of courage, of kindness."
Layla's eyes welled with tears, her lips trembling as she nodded slowly. "Xavier..." she whispered. "He was a good man, Archie. My father... he died fighting in the war. But he was always so full of life, so full of love. I want our son to carry his name, even if he never knew him."
Archie's face softened as he shifted the baby slightly, holding him closer to his chest. "Thaddeus Xavier Goshawk," he said, as though sealing the name with his voice. "A strong name. One that carries our family's legacy—and yours."
Layla leaned back against the pillow, her tired smile radiant as she gazed at her son. "Thaddeus Xavier Goshawk. I love it. I love him."
Archie's uncertainty melted into quiet resolve, his gaze brimming with love. He gazed down at the tiny face nestled against him, feeling the weight of the world shift in his hands. Their son. Thaddeus Xavier Goshawk. He didn't know what the future held, but in this moment, he was certain of one thing: their family had just begun.
Layla reached out, her hand brushing against Archie's as she looked down at the baby, her voice filled with quiet conviction. "He's going to do great things, Archie. I can feel it."
Archie nodded, his throat tight with emotion. "I believe that too," he said softly. "I believe that with all my heart."
The two of them sat there in the dim light, the storm outside now a distant murmur, their newborn son nestled safely between them. The name they had chosen, strong and full of history, would carry their hopes and their love for generations to come. In that quiet, tender moment, everything felt perfect.
oOoOoOo
The first three years of Thaddeus "Theus" Goshawk's life were filled with love, laughter, and the quiet pride of two parents who adored him beyond measure. Archie and Layla celebrated every small milestone as though it were a grand triumph, marveling at the bright spark that already shone within their son. With Layla's dark, wondering eyes and Archie's unruly, curly hair, Theus was a perfect blend of his parents—a child brimming with curiosity and energy.
Archie, ever the adventurous soul, couldn't wait to share his love of flying with Theus. On Theus's second birthday, Archie presented him with his first toy broom—a small, wooden replica, sturdy enough for a determined toddler. Theus's eyes lit up the moment he saw it, and from that day on, he rarely let it out of his grasp. He would dart through the house with the toy in hand, giggling uncontrollably as he imagined himself soaring through the skies. Layla, ever the cautious one, would watch with a mix of amusement and worry.
"Theus, you're too young to be flying about like that," she would chide gently, though her heart swelled at the sight of his joy. Archie would only grin, watching his son with pride. "He's a natural," he would say, a twinkle in his eye. "It's in his blood."
One warm afternoon, when Theus was just three years old, something extraordinary happened. Layla was sorting laundry while Theus sat nearby, his small face scrunched in frustration. His favorite toy broom had fallen from his grasp, and no matter how hard he reached, he couldn't get it back. Suddenly, a burst of golden light surrounded him. The broom hovered into the air, floating gently before settling back on the floor.
Layla froze, her hands still gripping a pile of clothes. "Archie!" she called, her voice a mix of astonishment and disbelief. Archie rushed in and stood still, his eyes wide as he took in the scene.
"He did magic," Layla whispered, her voice trembling.
Archie let out a booming laugh, scooping Theus up in his arms. "Our boy's a wizard already!" he exclaimed, his pride barely contained.
Layla's initial shock faded into wonder as she approached, brushing her hand lightly over Theus's curls. "At three years old," she murmured, her voice soft. "He's something special, Archie. We always knew he would be."
Theus, too young to understand the significance of what he had done, only laughed as his father swung him through the air. But for the first time, his parents truly saw the remarkable potential their son carried—an undeniable magic that set him apart.
oOoOoOo
A year later, their lives changed forever with the birth of Daphne, Theus' younger sister. In the days leading up to her arrival, Theus had sensed something important was about to happen. He watched with wide eyes as his parents prepared, though no explanation could have prepared him for the moment he first saw her.
Archie brought him into the room where Layla cradled a tiny, swaddled bundle in her arms. Theus approached cautiously, his small hands gripping the hem of his shirt. "Is that... her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Layla smiled, her face radiant despite her exhaustion. "Yes, Theus. This is your sister, Daphne."
Theus leaned in closer, his dark eyes wide with wonder. The baby's tiny hand twitched, her fingers curling slightly as though reaching for him. Without thinking, Theus reached out, his little hand brushing against hers. In that moment, something inside him shifted—a feeling he didn't have words for.
"She's so... little," he murmured, his voice filled with awe.
"She's your sister," Archie said, his voice warm. "And it's your job to look out for her. Think you can handle that?"
Theus nodded solemnly, though he didn't yet fully understand what it meant. Over the weeks that followed, he grew into the role of an older brother with surprising ease. He was the first to rush to Daphne's crib when she cried, bringing her favorite stuffed bunny to soothe her. He would sit beside her, singing softly in a tuneless hum that always seemed to calm her.
Layla often found herself watching from the doorway, her heart swelling at the sight of her son's tenderness. Archie, too, marveled at the change in Theus. Their once-energetic, attention-loving boy now found his greatest joy in caring for his sister.
For Theus, Daphne wasn't just his sister—she was his responsibility, his anchor. He whispered promises to her, vows of protection he couldn't yet articulate but felt deeply in his heart. And in return, she gave him a sense of purpose he hadn't known he was missing.
As the years passed, Thaddeus Goshawk grew into a boy of remarkable kindness and quiet strength. The love he had for his sister became the foundation of the man he would one day become.
And though Theus didn't yet understand the full weight of his feelings, one thing was certain: Daphne had changed him. She had taught him a love that was both fierce and selfless, the kind of love that bound families together and shaped destinies.
In the quiet moments of their childhood, when the world was still and the future seemed far away, Theus would look at his little sister and feel the unshakable truth of it: she was his greatest gift.
oOoOoOo
It was a crisp autumn afternoon when everything changed.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the garden of the Goshawk estate. The leaves of the old oak tree burned in hues of crimson and amber, fluttering gently in the breeze. The air was rich with the scent of earth and the faint sweetness of decaying leaves, the kind of afternoon that whispered of simple joys and fleeting innocence.
Theus, six years old and brimming with energy, stood halfway up the oak tree in the back of the garden. It was their tree—the one Archie had claimed as their family's secret spot. From this height, the world below seemed small, the golden expanse of the garden a haven of laughter and play. He grinned down at his little sister, Daphne, who clung to the lower branches with the determination of someone much older than her two and a half years. She looked so much like Layla, with golden curls that framed her cherubic face and wide, amber-brown eyes that sparkled with curiosity and mischief.
"You've got it, Daphne!" Theus called, his voice carrying the unshakable confidence of a child who believed nothing could ever go wrong. "Just one more branch! You can do it!"
Daphne giggled in response, her small hands gripping the rough bark as she scrunched her face in concentration. She always wanted to keep up with Theus, to match his every move. The determination in her bright eyes was something that always made him proud, even if it sometimes worried him.
Her giggles faded, though, and in their place came a silence that was somehow louder than the rustling leaves. Theus frowned, leaning closer.
"Daphne?" he said, his voice uncertain. "Come on, don't stop now. You're almost—"
She froze. Her little hands slipped from the branch, and her body went unnaturally still. Her head tilted, her wide eyes fluttering as if caught in a sudden dream.
"Theus," she whispered. Her voice was faint, trembling, and it struck Theus like a cold wind.
"Daphne?" he said again, more urgently this time. Panic crept into his chest as he climbed down to her, his small fingers brushing her shoulder. "Daphne, stop playing! You—you can't just stop like that!"
But she didn't respond. Her legs gave way, and her tiny body crumpled into his arms with a weight that felt all wrong—too heavy, too cold.
"Daphne!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "Wake up! Please, wake up!"
His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the sound of the leaves stirring above. The joy of the afternoon dissolved, replaced by a suffocating fear that wrapped itself around him like a vice. The garden, which had felt so warm and alive, now seemed empty and unfamiliar, its colors dimmed by the terror blooming inside him.
Carrying Daphne's limp form, Theus stumbled toward the house, his legs trembling under the weight of her stillness. His voice cracked as he screamed for his parents. "Mum! Dad! Help! Something's wrong with Daphne!"
Archie and Layla appeared on the garden path, their faces bright with laughter that faded the instant they saw their son's tear-streaked face and the stillness of the little girl in his arms.
"What happened?" Layla's voice was sharp, panicked. She rushed forward, falling to her knees beside Theus.
"She... she just stopped," Theus stammered, his small hands clutching Daphne's even smaller ones. "She was fine, and then—then she wouldn't wake up!"
Layla's trembling hands cradled Daphne's pale face as she whispered her name over and over, her voice cracking with every repetition. "Daphne, sweetie, wake up. Please, wake up."
Archie's face turned ashen as he dropped beside them, pulling his wand from his pocket. With a flick and a muttered incantation, golden light rippled over Daphne's small frame. Theus held his breath, waiting for the magic to work its miracles.
But nothing happened. No glow of healing, no reassuring hum of life. Archie's hand faltered, his breath hitching as he performed another spell, and then another. The results were the same.
"No injuries," Archie muttered, his voice hollow. "No... no signs of anything..."
Tears spilled down Layla's cheeks as she clutched Daphne closer. "Archie, do something! Why isn't it working? Why isn't she waking up?"
Archie stood abruptly, his jaw set and his hands trembling. He scooped Daphne into his arms with a desperate strength and turned toward the house. "The Floo Network," he said, his voice tight. "We're going to St. Mungo's. Now."
Layla nodded, following him as quickly as her legs could carry her. Theus hesitated for a moment, frozen by the whirlwind of panic and fear around him. But then he forced himself to move, his small feet pounding across the grass as he chased after his parents.
"I'm coming too!" he cried, his voice shaking but resolute. "I—I have to be there!"
Archie paused at the threshold of the house, glancing back at his son. For a moment, his stern expression softened, and he gave a short nod. "Come on, Theus. Stay close."
Theus scrambled inside, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. He clung to his father's robes as Archie stepped into the fireplace, clutching Daphne tightly in his arms. Layla reached for Theus, pulling him close as the emerald flames roared to life.
And then, together as a family, they vanished into the glow, leaving behind the quiet garden, where the leaves continued to fall, unaware of the storm that had just torn through the Goshawk household.
oOoOoOo
At St. Mungo's, time seemed to unravel, each second stretching endlessly. The hospital buzzed with activity—Healers rushing from one emergency to the next, spells crackling faintly in distant rooms—but for Layla and Archie, the world stood still. The sterile light of the waiting room was harsh, casting sharp shadows that deepened the dread pooling in their hearts.
Theus sat between them, his legs swinging slightly off the chair, his small hand clutching his father's sleeve. His wide brown eyes darted nervously between his parents. He didn't speak; he didn't cry. He just sat, still and silent, the fear radiating from him as clearly as the trembling in Layla's hands.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a Healer entered the room. His lime-green robes were pristine, but his face bore the weight of difficult news. Layla stood immediately, her expression tense but resigned, while Archie's knuckles tightened on the armrest of his chair.
"How is she?" Archie asked, his voice taut with dread.
The Healer hesitated, his gaze flicking to Layla, who was already bracing herself. "She's stable now," he began carefully. "But we've identified the cause of her collapse, and it's... troubling."
Layla closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. She didn't need to hear the rest to know what it was, but she let the Healer finish. Archie, however, leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
"What do you mean? What's wrong with her?" Archie demanded.
The Healer exhaled, his voice calm but laced with gravity. "Your daughter carries a blood maledictus curse. It's rare, ancient, and devastating in its progression." He paused, glancing at Layla again. "Mrs. Goshawk, I believe you're already familiar with this."
Archie's head snapped toward Layla, his eyes widening. "Layla?" he asked, his voice low with shock.
Layla nodded slowly, her expression pained. "It's a Greengrass curse," she murmured. "Passed down through the bloodline. I thought—I hoped it had skipped Daphne. I prayed it wouldn't touch her." Her voice cracked, and she clasped her trembling hands together.
The Healer continued, addressing them both. "This curse is passed through the maternal line, and unfortunately, Daphne has inherited it. It causes sporadic mental collapses where the mind becomes overwhelmed, forcing the body to shut down entirely as a defense mechanism. Over time, the episodes will worsen, leading to a gradual decline in her physical health."
Archie looked stunned, his face pale as the weight of the explanation settled on him. "But there's a way to cure it, isn't there?" he asked, almost pleading. "There must be some kind of treatment."
The Healer's face softened, and he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. All we can do is manage the symptoms as they arise and provide support to ease her suffering. But the curse itself is irreversible."
The words hit Archie like a blow. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent frustration and grief. Layla, however, stayed standing, though her entire body trembled.
"I knew this was a possibility," Layla whispered, her voice strained. "But I didn't think—I didn't think it would happen so soon." She pressed her hand to her chest, as though trying to keep her heart from breaking apart entirely.
Theus, still seated, watched his parents with wide, confused eyes. He didn't understand all the words, but he understood the heaviness in the room. Daphne was sick. Very sick.
As they left St. Mungo's that evening, the weight of the Healer's words followed them like an unwelcome shadow. Archie carried Daphne in his arms, her tiny form swaddled in blankets, her pale face serene but lifeless. Layla walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on her daughter's arm, her expression tight with pain.
Theus clung to his mother's hand as they stepped into the chilly night air, his gaze fixed on his sister's still face. When they arrived home, Archie and Layla tucked Daphne into her bed, surrounding her with warmth and soft blankets.
Theus climbed up beside her, settling in as close as he could, his small fingers curling gently around hers. His parents stood silently in the doorway, their hearts heavy as they watched him cling to his sister, as though his presence alone might shield her from whatever darkness lay ahead.
Layla leaned into Archie's side, her voice a fragile whisper. "We'll figure out how to manage this. We'll give her the happiest life we can for as long as we have her."
Archie nodded, though his jaw was tight. "We have to."
That night, as the household settled into uneasy silence, Theus closed his eyes, holding his sister's hand tightly. He didn't know what the future held, but for now, he only wanted to be there for her—his little sister, who needed him more than ever.
oOoOoOo
The next five years passed in a blur—a bittersweet mixture of joy and heartbreak, laughter and tears. Despite the unpredictable curse that haunted her, Daphne grew into a vibrant, determined little girl. Most days, she was like any other child—mischievous, endlessly curious, and overflowing with love for her family. Her bright voice filled the house, and her laughter had a way of lifting the heaviest of spirits.
Even with the shadow of the curse hanging over her, Daphne had a gift for drawing people into her orbit. She demanded stories, sought answers to impossible questions, and charmed everyone with her fearless imagination. Theus, now eleven, never tired of her company, even when her relentless energy tried his patience. Their bond deepened in those years, shaped as much by moments of joy as by the trials they endured together.
But there were the darker days—days when the curse struck without warning, stealing the breath from Daphne's small body and leaving her limp and unresponsive. Theus could never forget the terror of those moments, the way his parents would scramble to help her, their faces pale with fear. Each episode felt like a crack in the fragile happiness they had built, and yet, every time, Daphne would return to them. Weak but defiant, she would laugh, hug her family, and act as though nothing had happened.
Through it all, Theus became her steadfast protector. He watched over her during the good days, when her giggles filled the air, and on the bad ones, when the Healers at St. Mungo's worked to stabilize her. He began to understand what it meant to love someone deeply—not just with the carefree affection of childhood, but with a fierce, unyielding determination to shield her from harm.
Of course, they were still siblings, and that meant moments of bickering and exasperation. Daphne had an uncanny knack for getting under his skin, often borrowing his things without asking or pestering him with endless questions.
"Daphne," Theus groaned one afternoon, spotting her with his prized copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. "I told you not to touch that!"
"You said I could read it when I was older," Daphne replied with a sly grin, holding the book just out of his reach.
"I didn't mean now," Theus retorted, though his frustration was quickly softened by her giggle.
Even in those moments, Theus couldn't stay angry for long. Annoying or not, she was his sister, and he wouldn't trade her for anything.
But then came the summer of his eleventh birthday, and with it, the letter that would change everything.
Theus had dreamed of Hogwarts for as long as he could remember. When the envelope arrived, sealed with the school's familiar crest, he tore it open with trembling hands, barely able to contain his excitement. His parents were thrilled, of course, but when he shared the news with Daphne, her reaction was quieter.
She sat on the edge of his bed, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit, her face downcast. "You're leaving," she said softly, her voice small.
"I have to," Theus said, sitting beside her. "But I'll come back every holiday. I promise, Daph. I'll write to you all the time, and it'll be like I never left."
Daphne looked up at him with wide, teary eyes. "I don't want you to go. What if... what if something happens while you're gone?"
Theus felt his heart clench. He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Nothing will happen. Mum and Dad will take care of you, just like they always do. And I'll still be your big brother, no matter where I am."
Daphne nodded slowly, but her sadness lingered.
A week later, as the sun climbed high into the sky, Archie and his son stepped through the enchanted brick archway into Diagon Alley. The bustling street unfolded before them like a dream, alive with the vibrant energy of the magical world. Shopfronts glittered in the morning light, enchanted signs swayed gently in the breeze, and witches and wizards hurried about their errands, robes swishing as they passed.
"Quite something, isn't it?" Archie said, glancing down at his son, whose wide eyes drank in every detail.
The boy nodded, his grip tightening on the letter from Hogwarts. The list of supplies it contained felt heavy with promise, a tangible sign of the adventure ahead.
Their first stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Inside, the shop was warm and welcoming, the air filled with the faint rustle of enchanted measuring tapes flitting about. A young witch bustled over, pulling a soft black robe from the rack.
"First year at Hogwarts?" she asked with a kind smile.
Archie nodded, stepping back as his son was guided onto a small platform. The tapes sprang to life, zipping around to measure every angle.
"This one's going to grow tall," Madam Malkin observed as she marked adjustments with a flick of her wand.
Archie chuckled. "He takes after his mum in that regard."
From there, they made their way to Flourish and Blotts, the boy's excitement bubbling over as they entered. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, and the shelves towered with books on every subject imaginable. He reached eagerly for a copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), running his fingers over the embossed title. "This was written by your great-grandmother, Miranda Goshawk," Archie noted with a hint of pride, watching his son's face light up with new appreciation, and pride.
"Careful, now," Archie said as the growing stack in his son's arms wobbled precariously.
But it wasn't just textbooks that caught his eye. He lingered over a beautifully illustrated copy of Magical Theory and couldn't resist thumbing through Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the vivid sketches of magical creatures leaping off the page. Archie, with a resigned smile, added the extra books to their purchases.
The air grew heavier and more pungent as they stepped into the apothecary. Shelves lined with jars and vials glinted in the dim light, their labels written in neat, spidery handwriting. The boy wrinkled his nose at the sharp, earthy scents that mingled in the air.
"Keep your hands in your pockets," Archie warned as they passed a jar of what looked like writhing roots.
The shopkeeper handed over a neatly packed first-year potion kit, the vials inside clinking softly as Archie tucked it safely into their bag.
From there, they wandered into Eeylops Owl Emporium, drawn by the soft rustling of feathers and the occasional hoot. The boy stopped in his tracks, his gaze darting from cage to cage. Snowy owls, tawny owls, and barn owls—all perched majestically, their intelligent eyes watching the visitors with interest.
"Choose wisely," Archie said.
His son's eyes landed on a sleek barn owl with dark, shimmering feathers and piercing amber eyes. It tilted its head, meeting his gaze with a steady, unblinking stare.
"That one," he said, pointing.
The shopkeeper grinned. "Ah, fine choice. She's sharp as a tack, that one. Any name in mind?"
"Vesper," the boy said without hesitation, and the owl gave a soft hoot, as if in approval.
Their final stop was Ollivander's. The dim, narrow shop felt different from the others—older, quieter, and filled with an air of reverence. The shelves that lined the walls were crammed with slender boxes, each humming faintly with magic.
The sound of shuffling footsteps preceded the appearance of a thin, pale man with silvery eyes. "Ah," he said softly, studying them both. "Good morning. Here for a wand, are we?"
"Yes," Archie said, stepping aside.
The boy stepped forward, his heart thudding in his chest. Ollivander studied him for a long moment before reaching for a box.
"Try this," he said, handing over a wand of oak and dragon heartstring.
The moment the boy held it, a loud crack echoed through the shop, and a stack of boxes tumbled to the floor.
"No, no," Ollivander murmured, already reaching for another.
Wand after wand was tried, each producing disastrous or comical results—flames, bursts of wind, even a brief, startling shower of sparks that set Archie laughing.
Finally, Ollivander paused, his fingers hovering over a particular box. He pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully. "Maple wood, phoenix feather core, thirteen inches, supple flexibility," he said, handing it over.
The moment the boy's fingers closed around the wand, a warm, golden light filled the room. A gentle breeze stirred his hair, and the hum of magic settled into something sure and steady.
"Ah," Ollivander breathed, his eyes alight. "That is a powerful match. Exceptional."
As he returned the empty box to the shelf, his gaze flickered to Archie. "Your wand, Mr. Goshawk—hazel, dragon heart-string, twelve and a half inches, firm—was made by my father, Gervaise. A fine wand. Still serving you well, I hope?"
Archie laughed. "It's been through a lot, but yes, it's still in good shape."
Ollivander smiled faintly. "Good wands always are."
As they left the shop, Theus clutched his wand like a treasured secret, the thrill of the day still coursing through him. The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over Diagon Alley, but the promise of Hogwarts—and everything that came with it—burned brightly in his chest.
"Ready?" Archie asked as they stepped back through the Leaky Cauldron into the ordinary world.
Theus nodded, his gaze steady. "More than ready."
oOoOoOo
As the weeks passed and September 1st approached, Daphne became unusually quiet, clinging to Theus whenever she could. Her chatter slowed, and her questions grew hesitant. She seemed to sense, in her own way, that things were changing.
It was during one of those late summer evenings that Theus overheard his parents talking in hushed voices in the living room.
"She can't go to Hogwarts, Archie," Layla said, her tone resolute but tinged with sorrow. "Not like this. The curse... the stress would be too much for her."
Archie sighed heavily. "I know. But a Muggle school? Are we sure that's the right decision?"
"The Healers think it's best," Layla replied. "A calmer environment, less exposure to magic—it might help stabilize her episodes. She needs time, Archie. Time to grow stronger, to learn how to manage this."
Theus, standing silently in the doorway, felt a pang of sadness. Hogwarts had always been part of the dream, not just for him but for Daphne too. The idea of her being separated from the magical world felt unfair, like the curse was stealing more than just her health.
That night, as he sat with Daphne in the garden, he found himself watching her closely. She was humming softly to herself, her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm, her gaze fixed on the stars.
"You'll be amazing at Hogwarts," she said suddenly, her voice quiet but sure. "You'll make loads of friends and learn all sorts of spells. Just... don't forget me, okay?"
Theus swallowed hard. "I could never forget you, Daph."
oOoOoOo
Author's Note: And that is it for the prologue. I know, it's quite a bit to process, but I hope you liked it. I have lots of things planned for this story, so look forward to that. The next chapter will be coming in a couple of days, thanks for reading, and have a great rest of your day.