The ancient texts of the Black family library no longer provided Harry with the escape they once had. For three weeks, he had buried himself in research—on the Forgotten, on Morgana's exile, on the black feather and its appearances throughout history. He'd filled countless pages with notes, cross-references, and half-formed theories. Yet despite the academic progress, he couldn't escape two frustrations: the memory of Tonks' lips on his, and the persistent feeling that he was missing something crucial.
Harry closed another dusty tome and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. The morning sunlight filtered through the grimy windows of Grimmauld Place's study, illuminating the organized chaos he'd created. Maps with locations of suspected Forgotten activity, genealogical charts of families who maintained older magical traditions, and translations of ancient runes found at the scenes of the children's disappearances covered nearly every surface.
But for all his meticulous work, Harry felt as though he was seeing only fragments of a larger picture. Key pieces remained elusive, just beyond his grasp. Like trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces missing, his research had provided tantalizing hints but no cohesive whole.
An owl tapped at the window—the third that week from Tonks. Like the others, Harry knew it would be brief, formal, and devoid of any mention of that night. The first had thanked him for watching Teddy and had asked about a reference on magical artifacts he'd mentioned. The second had been about Rosier's case, asking if he'd found anything relevant in the Black archives. Each message carefully constructed to maintain a professional distance while providing an excuse to communicate.
Harry took the parchment from the owl's leg, confirming his suspicions. Harry—Any information on blood runes used in purification rituals? Another marking found. Not at liberty to share details. —T
He set it aside without responding immediately. He'd answer later, when he had gathered his thoughts into something resembling coherence. When he could write without revealing that despite his best efforts to focus on research, on his studies, on anything else, his mind constantly circled back to her.
Instead, Harry pulled out the letter he'd received yesterday from Cygnus Whitehall, the elderly wizard he'd met after Rosier's trial. The formal script reminded him of his appointment at the Ministry today—his first official visit as the heir to the House of Black, soon to formally claim his seat on the Whiten council.
The prospect should have excited him—access to ancient knowledge, political influence he could use to reform the rigid structures of wizarding society, connections that might help solve the mystery of the missing children. Instead, he felt a persistent guilt, as if by claiming Sirius's inherited position, he was somehow supplanting Remus as well.
Remus. The name alone was enough to flood Harry with shame. How could he have kissed his former professor's widow? The woman who was raising Remus's son? It felt like a betrayal of the worst kind, even as another part of him whispered that Remus would want them both to find happiness, to support each other.
Harry had spent hours in the Hogwarts Resonance Chamber over the past weeks, using the meditative techniques McGonagall had provided to calm the turbulent fractures in his magic. During one such session, he'd even sought out Flitwick, whose legendary sensitivity to magical energies had been mentioned in several texts.
The diminutive professor had been surprisingly understanding, sharing techniques he'd developed over decades to channel his unique perceptions. "Magical sensitivity isn't about power, Mr. Potter," he'd explained in his squeaky voice, "but about awareness—perceiving the subtle currents that most wizards ignore in favor of brute force spellwork."
Those sessions had helped stabilize Harry's fractured magic, but they did nothing to resolve the fractures in his personal life or the nagging sense that he was missing something vital in his research.
He needed a change of scene. A new angle. And suddenly, Harry realized there was something—or rather, someone—he hadn't properly investigated: Cygnus Whitehall himself. The elderly wizard had appeared in his life with perfect timing, offering access to the mysterious Whiten council just when Harry needed answers about ancient magical phenomena.
Why had Whitehall approached him so eagerly? What was the man's true interest in bringing Harry into the fold? Before entering this new arena, Harry decided he should know more about the people involved.
With renewed purpose, Harry penned a quick response to Tonks promising information on the blood runes soon, then began preparing for his appointment at the Ministry. Today was about more than duty or responsibility—it was about finding those missing pieces to complete the puzzle. And perhaps, if he was paying closer attention, Whitehall himself might provide some of those pieces.
The Ministry of Magic's atrium was less frantic than Harry remembered from his school days, but still bustling with purpose. Witches and wizards in various styles of robes hurried between departments, inter-office memos fluttered overhead like pale purple birds, and the restored Fountain of Magical Brethren sparkled at the center—though Harry noted that the new version had the magical creatures standing alongside the wizard and witch, rather than in adoring subservience.
Harry checked in at the security desk, where the guard's eyes widened slightly at his name before handing back his wand with unnecessary deference. "Mr. Whitehall is expecting you, Mr. Potter. Level Two, Wizengamot Administrative Offices."
As Harry made his way to the lifts, he was acutely aware of the stares and whispers that followed him. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. The titles sat awkwardly on his shoulders, like ill-fitting robes. What would these people think if they knew he spent his evenings alone with ancient texts and his nights haunted by thoughts of a woman he shouldn't want?
The lift ascended, stopped at several floors to admit and discharge passengers, and finally arrived at Level Two. Here, the décor changed from the Ministry's usual efficiency to something more formal—dark wood paneling, portraits of distinguished witches and wizards (many sleeping or pretending to), and the occasional display case housing historical artifacts.
The Wizengamot Administrative Offices were housed in a wing separate from the Auror Headquarters and other departments. Harry hesitated at the threshold, realizing this might bring him uncomfortably close to Tonks' workplace. The thought made his heart rate quicken, both in anticipation and dread.
"Mr. Potter." The familiar voice of Cygnus Whitehall interrupted his thoughts. The elderly wizard approached, resplendent in formal plum robes with the silver "W" pin gleaming on his chest. "Punctual, excellent. A virtue sometimes lacking in the younger generation."
Harry extended his hand, which Whitehall grasped firmly, studying the older man's demeanor with newfound scrutiny. "Thank you for arranging this, Mr. Whitehall."
"Cygnus, please. Today is a significant occasion." The old wizard's eyes twinkled with something that reminded Harry of Dumbledore, though the comparison ended there. Where Dumbledore had projected warmth and occasional whimsy, Whitehall radiated formality and tradition. "Come, the ceremony will begin shortly, and there are preparations to be made."
"Ceremony?" Harry questioned, following him through a set of ornate double doors into what appeared to be a private antechamber. A long table of polished ebony dominated the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs. The walls were lined with portraits, these clearly depicting former members of the Wizengamot, and glass-fronted cabinets containing ancient-looking documents.
"Your formal ascension to Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, of course," Whitehall replied, looking mildly surprised. "When you claim your seat on the Whiten, you formally transition from heir to Head of House. It's not merely a title—it's a magical investiture that has been part of our traditions for centuries."
Harry hadn't anticipated this. "I thought I was already Sirius's heir."
"You were—and are—his designated heir. But there's a distinction between an heir and a recognized Head of House," Whitehall explained. "When you complete the ascension ritual and take your seat on the Whiten, magic itself acknowledges you as the rightful Head of House Black. It carries certain... responsibilities, but also privileges that extend beyond mere inheritance of possessions."
"Tea?" Whitehall asked, gesturing to a silver service on a side table.
"Please," Harry said, taking the seat Whitehall indicated, mind racing with this new information. What exactly did becoming Head of House Black entail? And why hadn't anyone mentioned this aspect before?
As the older wizard prepared their drinks with practiced movements, Harry studied him more carefully. Whitehall appeared to be in his eighties or nineties by Muggle standards, though wizards often lived considerably longer. His silver hair was immaculately styled, his hands steady despite their age-spotted appearance. He moved with the confident precision of someone who had navigated the corridors of power for decades.
"Now then," Whitehall said, setting a cup before Harry. "You have questions about today's ceremony and your new position, I imagine."
Harry nodded. "Starting with the most basic—what exactly is the Whiten, and what does becoming Head of House Black really mean?"
Whitehall settled into his chair, looking pleased at the direct question. "The Whiten is the oldest council within the Wizengamot, predating even the Ministry itself. While the full Wizengamot handles trials and passes everyday legislation, the Whiten concerns itself with deeper matters—the protection of ancient magical knowledge, the oversight of certain sensitive areas of magical governance, and the preservation of wizarding traditions that might otherwise be forgotten in our... progressive era."
The slight pause before "progressive" told Harry all he needed to know about Whitehall's political leanings. "And the Black family has always held a seat?"
"Indeed. The Blacks are one of the seven founding families of the Whiten, along with the Ravenscrofts, Grimsdales, Thorogoods, Pevenséys, Blackthorne, and Winterdowns." He paused, observing Harry's lack of recognition. "You wouldn't necessarily know these names. The families that make up the Whiten have largely operated outside the public eye for generations, preferring to exert influence from the shadows rather than through overt political positioning."
Harry sipped his tea, processing this. "How many seats are there altogether?"
"Thirteen," Whitehall replied. "Seven original founding families, plus six seats that can be granted by unanimous vote of the founding members to wizards or witches of particular merit or needed expertise. Currently, these seats are held by scholars and specialists in various forms of ancient magic."
"And what exactly would my responsibilities entail as Head of House Black?" Harry asked, still trying to reconcile this unexpected development.
Whitehall set down his teacup with a soft clink. "Monthly meetings, for a start. Occasional votes on matters of particular importance. The Head of House Black traditionally oversees matters related to the more... controversial branches of magic—areas of magical practice that border on forbidden knowledge. Your family has maintained extensive collections and records of magic that skirts the boundaries of what modern society deems acceptable."
His expression grew more serious. "This isn't simply about dark magic, Mr. Potter, but about practices and theories that raise profound ethical and social questions—magics involving soul manipulation, consciousness alteration, the boundaries between life and death. Areas where the Black family has historically maintained both extensive knowledge and a certain... moral flexibility."
He continued, "But most significantly, you would gain access to the Whiten Archives—a repository of magical knowledge that predates Hogwarts itself, containing texts and artifacts deemed too sensitive for general circulation. As Head of House Black, you would have broader access than merely an heir, including areas restricted to full council members only."
Harry's interest sharpened. "What kind of texts?"
"Historical records expunged from official histories. Magical theories considered... unorthodox by modern standards. Accounts of beings and forces that the Ministry prefers to pretend never existed." Whitehall's eyes held Harry's. "The kind of knowledge, for instance, that might shed light on artifacts like the black feather that has been appearing at the sites of recent disappearances."
Harry stilled. "You know about that?"
A thin smile. "The Whiten makes it our business to know many things, Mr. Potter. Including matters the Auror Office attempts to keep confidential."
"I'm researching it," Harry admitted, watching Whitehall's reaction carefully. "The black feather, the Forgotten Ones. I believe there's a connection to the Rosier case and these missing children."
Whitehall nodded, unsurprised. "Hence your interest in claiming your seat. I suspected as much." He glanced at an ornate clock on the wall. "The ceremony begins in thirty minutes. Before we proceed, there's something you should understand about becoming Head of House Black."
He leaned forward slightly. "The ritual we perform isn't merely symbolic. It creates a magical bond between you and the ancestral magic of the Black family. You will feel it—a connection to the accumulated magical legacy of generations of Blacks. For some, it can be... overwhelming."
Harry considered this. "What if the family magic rejects me? I'm not a Black by blood."
"But you are Sirius Black's chosen heir, and magic recognizes intent as surely as blood," Whitehall assured him. "The fact that the Black family magic has already allowed you to inhabit Grimmauld Place without incident suggests it has already accepted you on some level."
Harry wasn't entirely convinced. "What happens during this ceremony?"
"You'll stand before the assembled Whiten. You'll declare your intention to assume the mantle of Head of House Black. The family signet ring—" Whitehall gestured to a small wooden box on the table that Harry hadn't noticed before, "—will be presented to you. If the family magic accepts you, the ring will resize itself to fit your finger, and you will feel the connection establish itself."
"And if it doesn't accept me?" Harry pressed.
Whitehall's expression grew solemn. "That would be... unfortunate. But I have every confidence it won't come to that."
The ceremony itself was conducted in a circular chamber deep within the Ministry that Harry had never seen before. The room was lined with thirteen high-backed chairs, each bearing a different family crest or symbol. Seven of them—the founding families—were positioned slightly higher than the others, forming an inner circle within the arrangement.
Ten members of the Whiten were already present when Harry and Whitehall entered, their expressions ranging from curious to skeptical as they regarded the young wizard who would be joining their ranks. Harry recognized none of them by sight, which was unusual—these were not the public faces of wizarding power, but people who operated beyond the spotlight.
"The Whiten acknowledges Cygnus Whitehall, presenting Harry James Potter, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," intoned an elderly witch at the center of the semicircle, her face bearing the distinctive features of the Ravenscrof family that Harry had seen in portraits lining the corridors.
"I present Harry James Potter, designated heir of Sirius Orion Black, last recognized Head of the House of Black, who seeks to claim his rightful seat among the Whiten Council and to ascend to Head of his House," Whitehall replied formally.
The witch—who Harry now heard addressed as Lady Ravenscrof—nodded and gestured for Harry to step forward into the center of the circle. "Harry James Potter, do you come willingly to accept the responsibilities and privileges of your inheritance?"
"I do," Harry responded, the words emerging with surprising steadiness despite his internal uncertainty.
"Do you swear to uphold the ancient covenant of the Whiten—to preserve magical knowledge, to protect the deepest secrets of our world, and to place these duties above personal enmity or alliance?"
"I swear," Harry said, feeling a subtle shift in the magic of the room as he spoke the words.
Lady Ravenscrof turned to Whitehall, who approached bearing the wooden box Harry had seen earlier. "The signet of House Black," she announced as Whitehall opened the box to reveal a heavy silver ring set with a black stone, etched with the Black family crest.
"Extend your wand hand," Whitehall instructed quietly.
Harry held out his right hand, and Whitehall placed the ring on his palm. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ring began to warm against his skin, the metal seeming to pulse with a life of its own. Without conscious decision, Harry slid the ring onto his finger, where it immediately resized to fit him perfectly.
The effect was instantaneous and overwhelming. Magic surged through him—ancient, powerful, and distinctly foreign, yet somehow recognizing him as its own. Harry gasped as images flashed before his mind's eye: generations of Black family heads wearing this same ring, wielding this same magic, binding themselves to the family legacy in this same ritual.
A kaleidoscope of faces and memories rushed through his consciousness—scenes from centuries of Black family history unfolding with dizzying speed. He saw a stern-faced witch with Sirius's eyes standing before a burning village, her hands raised as she cast protective wards around fleeing families despite the disapproval of her peers. A tall wizard with aristocratic features using the ring to unlock a hidden chamber beneath what Harry recognized as an earlier incarnation of Grimmauld Place, revealing shelves of ancient texts saved from destruction.
The memories grew darker—a gaunt man performing blood rituals in a stone chamber, whispering to something that lurked just beyond a shimmering veil; a young woman with wild dark hair learning curses from a grimoire that seemed to whisper back to her; a child locked in a warded room, manifesting accidental magic so powerful it cracked the very foundations of the house.
Then came more personal connections—Regulus Black standing before the lake of Inferi, making his final choice; Andromeda being blasted from the family tapestry, her face streaked with tears of both grief and liberation; and Sirius, young and desperate, fleeing Grimmauld Place with nothing but his wand and a fierce determination never to return.
Most disturbing were glimpses of older memories, from centuries past—Black family members standing in stone circles, communing with forces that seemed to exist in the spaces between reality, entities that whispered promises of power from just beyond perception. Harry saw a Black ancestor trace symbols that pulsed with a familiar energy—the same runes found at the scenes of the recent disappearances.
For a disorienting moment, Harry felt as though he were drowning in the collective magical consciousness of the Black family—their knowledge, their power, their centuries of accumulated magical practice. Dark and light, benevolent and terrible, the full spectrum of the Black family's magical heritage poured into him, seeking purchase in his magical core.
The ring grew almost painfully hot on his finger, and he felt his own magic rise in response—not in rejection but in recognition. To his surprise, the fractured pathways of his magic, which had seemed like weaknesses to be mended, now formed perfect channels for the family magic to flow through. Where his magic had been broken by death and rebirth, the ancestral power of House Black found natural conduits, filling the gaps without overwhelming his own magical identity.
Harry became aware of his physical body again—a sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead, and he was gripping the edge of the ceremonial stand for support. Yet internally, he felt stronger than before, more connected to a magical legacy that stretched back centuries. The ring no longer burned but pulsed with a steady warmth, like a second heartbeat.
When the sensation finally stabilized, Harry found himself still standing, though his knees felt weak. The assembled members of the Whiten were watching him with newfound interest, and even Whitehall seemed impressed.
"Magic has recognized Harry James Potter as Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Lady Ravenscrof proclaimed. "Let the record show that the family magic has accepted him, and the Whiten acknowledges him as one of our own."
One by one, the members of the council rose and approached to offer formal greetings. Harry was introduced to names he'd never heard before—Lady Pevenséy, Lord Thorogood, Master Fenwick, Mistress Blackthorne—each greeting him with the formal reserve of people unaccustomed to publicity or external recognition. These were the true power brokers of magical Britain's oldest institutions, operating entirely outside the public sphere.
When the formalities were complete, Whitehall approached once more. "How do you feel?" he asked, with genuine curiosity.
"Different," Harry admitted, still adjusting to the new magical presence within him. The Black family magic had settled into a steady hum at the back of his consciousness—not controlling or directing him, but available, integrating with his own power in ways he was only beginning to understand. "It's like... having access to a library I didn't know existed."
Whitehall nodded, seeming satisfied. "That's a good way to describe it. The family magic carries echoes of knowledge and abilities from past generations. As you grow more accustomed to it, you'll find you can draw on that legacy in various ways." He paused. "Now, as promised, I'll show you to the Whiten Archives, to which you now have full access as a recognized member of our council and Head of your House."
The Veil. Harry hadn't allowed himself to think of it directly since Sirius had fallen through it, but recent events had brought it inexorably back to mind. The goblin Tyr had mentioned connections between the Forgotten and liminal spaces. The black feather was described as belonging to a "boundary-walker." And Harry's own fractured magic seemed most responsive when he focused on that in-between state he'd experienced in the forest with Voldemort—not quite dead, not fully alive.
The lift doors opened to reveal the black-tiled corridor of Level Nine. Harry had been here before, during that fateful night in his fifth year. The memory of running through these halls, Death Eaters in pursuit, Sirius appearing to save them... he pushed it aside, focusing on Whitehall, who was leading him not toward the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, but to an unmarked door further along the corridor.
"The Whiten maintains a certain independence from other Ministry departments," Whitehall explained, using the silver "W" pin from his robes to touch the door, which swung open silently. "Few beyond our members even know of this entrance."
Beyond lay a circular antechamber not unlike the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, but smaller and lit by silver lanterns that cast no shadows. Five doors led from this room, each identical and unmarked.
"A security measure," Whitehall explained. "Without proper guidance, visitors find themselves continuously returning to this chamber, regardless of which door they choose."
He approached the door directly opposite their entrance and traced a pattern on its surface with his wand. It swung open, revealing a corridor lined with portraits, all of whom seemed to be studying Harry with unconcealed interest.
"These are the former members of the Whiten," Whitehall said. "They serve as both security and advisors. Nothing occurs in these hallways without their knowledge."
Harry spotted a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, who gave him a sardonic nod of recognition. "So that's how you became Head of House," the painted ancestor remarked. "About time someone took up the mantle properly."
They passed through several more security measures—a room where their magical signatures were weighed and measured by invisible forces, a corridor that seemed to stretch indefinitely until they spoke the correct phrase, and finally, a simple wooden door bearing the same silver "W" as Whitehall's pin.
"The archives," Whitehall announced. "Your signet ring will grant you access now that you're formally recognized as Head of House Black."
Harry touched the heavy ring to the door, feeling a resonance between the family magic now flowing through him and whatever enchantments protected the archives. The door swung open.
The room beyond was vast—far larger than should have been possible given the physical constraints of the Ministry building. Shelves stretched in all directions, some containing books, others scrolls, still others artifacts of various sizes and apparent age. The lighting was subdued but adequate, and the air smelled of parchment and preservation spells.
"How is this organized?" Harry asked, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer volume of knowledge before him.
"By era and subject," Whitehall replied. "The oldest materials are furthest back, newest nearest the entrance. Subjects are arranged alphabetically within each era." He gestured to a desk near the entrance. "The catalog can guide you more specifically. Simply state your research interest, and it will direct you to relevant materials."
Harry approached the desk, where an ancient ledger lay open. "The Forgotten Ones," he said clearly.
The pages of the ledger began turning of their own accord, finally settling on an entry:
The Forgotten Ones (Also: The Exiled, Morgan's Children, The Boundary-Walkers)
Pre-Merlin Era, Sections 17-23
Merlin Era, Sections 42-47
Artifacts: Vault 3, Shelves 7-9
RESTRICTED: Certain texts require Whiten Council approval
"Quite a substantial collection," Whitehall observed, reading over Harry's shoulder. "The Forgotten have long been of interest to the Whiten, though few outside our council acknowledge their existence."
"Why is that?" Harry asked. "Why erase them from history?"
Whitehall's expression grew somber. "Fear, primarily. The magic practiced by the Forgotten operates on principles fundamentally different from our modern understanding. It predates the channeling of magic through wands, predates our neat categorizations of light and dark. It is magic in its raw, primordial form—powerful, unpredictable, and deeply tied to the natural world and its cycles."
"You speak as if you admire them," Harry noted.
"I respect the depth of their knowledge," Whitehall corrected. "Just as I respect the destructive potential of Fiendfyre without wishing to see it unleashed. The Forgotten were driven into exile because their practices were deemed too dangerous, too uncontrollable by the emerging magical order under Merlin. Whether that judgment was correct is a question the Whiten has debated for centuries."
Harry considered this. "Are they returning now? Is that what these disappearances mean?"
"Perhaps." Whitehall studied him with renewed interest. "You've experienced death and returned, Mr. Potter. The boundaries between worlds have been... thinned for you. You may be uniquely positioned to understand what is occurring."
The echo of Tyr's words at Gringotts was unsettling. "That's the second time I've heard that assessment."
"Because it's accurate," Whitehall said simply. "Your experience has changed you, changed your magic. I can sense it even now—the fractures in your magical core, the places where death touched you and left its mark."
Harry tensed. "How can you tell?"
"I'm rather sensitive to such things. A family trait." Whitehall waved a dismissive hand. "But more importantly, I recognize the signs from historical accounts. You're not the first to walk the path between life and death, though perhaps the first to do so under such... unique circumstances."
"The Resonance Chamber at Hogwarts showed me these fractures," Harry admitted. "I've been working to understand them, to heal them."
Whitehall shook his head. "Not heal, Mr. Potter. Integrate. These fractures aren't wounds to be closed but doorways to be understood. They connect you to aspects of magic most wizards never perceive."
Harry thought of his recent sessions with Flitwick, the increased sensitivity to magical currents the professor had helped him develop. "Are there resources here that might help me with that integration?"
"Indeed," Whitehall confirmed. "The Whiten has documented other cases similar to yours, though none identical. I would suggest beginning with the journals of Isolde Peverell, circa 1327. She experienced a near-death state during a magical experiment and documented the changes to her magical perception afterward."
Harry recognized the surname immediately. "Peverell? As in—"
"Yes, from the same lineage as the brothers of Deathly Hallows fame. The family had a particular affinity for magic concerning mortality." Whitehall checked a delicate silver pocket watch. "I must attend to other matters now, but you're welcome to remain and explore. The archives will recognize you as a member now. Simply use your key when you wish to leave, and the exit will reveal itself."
After Whitehall's departure, Harry stood alone amidst the vast collection, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer volume of knowledge surrounding him. The archive stretched further than seemed physically possible, shelves disappearing into shadow despite the gentle illumination from floating orbs of light. The air was still, heavy with preservation charms and the indefinable weight of ancient magic.
He moved through the stacks with deliberate steps, following the catalog's directions. Section 17 contained the oldest records of the Forgotten Ones, and Harry paused there first, drawn by a slim volume bound in what appeared to be iridescent scales. The title, inscribed in a script so old it was barely recognizable as English, read: "The Exile of the Boundary-Walkers."
With careful hands, Harry opened the text, finding inside an account that contradicted much of what he'd learned in History of Magic. According to this chronicle, written closer to the events it described, the Forgotten weren't simply an ancient cult or alternative magical tradition—they were an entire civilization of magic-users whose approach to wizardry fundamentally opposed the structured, wand-based system championed by Merlin and his followers.
Where modern wizards channeled magic through wands, focusing and directing it through precise movements and incantations, the Forgotten saw magic as an omnipresent force to be communed with rather than commanded. They worked in harmony with natural cycles, acknowledging the balance between worlds that modern wizardry often ignored.
Most significantly, they recognized the existence of what they called the "otherworld"—not the afterlife, but a parallel realm of pure magical energy, a place where intent and imagination could shape reality directly. According to their beliefs, this otherworld was the ultimate source of all magic, and the boundary between it and the physical world was naturally thinnest at certain times and places.
The chronicle described the conflict that arose as Merlin's structured approach to magic gained prominence. The Forgotten's practices, which included communing with entities from the otherworld and drawing directly on its raw power, were deemed dangerous by the new magical order. After a cataclysmic magical conflict that supposedly reshaped parts of what was now Britain, the Forgotten were exiled—not merely banished from wizarding society, but magically confined to the otherworld itself, their physical presence erased from the world of the living.
The final pages contained a prophecy that made Harry's blood run cold:
When the one who has walked the path of death and return bears witness, when the boundary between worlds grows thin once more, they shall seek passage through the innocent. The Forgotten shall reach across the void, and the world shall remember what it chose to forget.
Harry set the book aside, his mind racing. The prophecy seemed to describe exactly what was happening now—his own journey through death and return, the disappearances of magically gifted children, the mysterious black feather serving as a token from beyond the boundary.
He moved deeper into the archives, passing from the historical accounts to sections containing more practical information. In Section 21, he found detailed descriptions of the Forgotten's rituals, including the "purification" process mentioned in Isolde's journal. The text described how potential vessels—always children with exceptional magical potential—would be marked with specific runes, then subjected to a series of ritual cleansings designed to strip away any magical influences from the physical world, leaving their innate magic pure and receptive to otherworld energies.
The illustrations accompanying these descriptions matched exactly the rune patterns Tonks had mentioned finding at the abduction sites. This wasn't historical curiosity—it was a current threat, a methodical attempt to create conduits for the Forgotten's return.
With growing urgency, Harry continued to Section 42, where Isolde Peverell's journals awaited him. As he carefully lifted the preservation charm and opened the leather-bound volume, he knew he was no longer simply researching a puzzle—he was racing against an ancient force that had already begun reclaiming what it had lost centuries ago.
Harry located Section 42, where Isolde Peverell's journals were stored in a preservation case. The leather-bound book was smaller than he'd expected, its pages covered in a neat, flowing script. As he carefully opened it, the first lines caught his attention immediately:
I died today. Not completely, not permanently, but enough to glimpse what waits beyond the veil of our world. And in returning, I brought something back with me—an awareness, a sensitivity to the threads that bind our reality together. My magic has changed, fractured and reformed. I hear whispers now, feel presences others cannot. I stand at the threshold between worlds, and I am afraid...
Harry's fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page. Each word seemed to resonate with his own experience, as if Isolde had somehow reached across centuries to describe exactly what he had felt since that moment in the Forbidden Forest. He continued reading, losing himself in her account.
The fractures in my magic are not wounds but windows. Through them, I perceive what others cannot—the thin places where our world touches the otherworld. The ancient ones called it Annwn, the Celts named it Tír na nÓg, and the Romans spoke of lands beyond the Styx. But these are merely human attempts to name something that exists outside our understanding.
As Harry read those words, he felt a strange sensation—a coolness spreading from the fractured pathways of his magic, as if something on the other side had noticed his attention and responded. The ambient magic of the archives seemed to fade from his awareness, replaced by a heightened perception of... something else. The air around him felt suddenly charged with potential, the way the atmosphere changes before a lightning strike.
When I focus on these fractures, I can sometimes glimpse what lies beyond. Not the realm of the dead—that is a different journey altogether—but a parallel existence, a place of pure magical potential, unbound by the laws and limitations of our reality.
Harry closed his eyes, experimentally focusing on the fractures in his own magic the way Isolde described. Immediately, his perception shifted. Though his eyes were closed, he could suddenly "see" the magical currents flowing through the archives—not as light but as patterns, vibrations, strands of energy weaving through the physical world. And beyond those familiar magical signatures, he sensed something else—a vast, swirling presence that seemed to exist just beyond a boundary he couldn't quite perceive.
His heart raced as the sensation intensified. The fractures in his magic weren't merely internal damage but actual connections to this otherworld, tenuous bridges across a threshold most wizards never knew existed. And something on the other side was aware of him, curious about the wizard who could perceive the boundary.
With a gasp, Harry opened his eyes, breaking the connection. The journal lay open in his hands, but now the words seemed to glow subtly, resonating with his magic. He continued reading with growing urgency:
I have learned that my condition is not unique. Others who have approached death and returned speak of similar changes to their magic. The veil between worlds clings to us, alters us. We become liminal beings ourselves, existing simultaneously in both realms without fully belonging to either.
This gift—or curse—makes us particularly susceptible to the influences of the otherworld. Its denizens recognize us, call to us in dreams, seek to use our fractured magic as conduits for their own purposes. Some are benevolent, others dangerously curious, and a few actively malevolent.
Most concerning are those entities the ancients called the Forgotten Ones, exiled from our world centuries ago but eternally seeking return. They whisper through the fractures in my magic, offering knowledge, power, reunion with lost loved ones... anything to gain a foothold in our reality.
Harry felt a chill run down his spine as he remembered his own dreams, the voice that had called to him from the darkness. Had he somehow been communicating with these Forgotten Ones without realizing it? Was his fractured magic serving as a beacon to entities long banished from the wizarding world?
He turned the page with renewed focus, the words seeming to leap from the aged parchment directly into his consciousness:
I have developed techniques to shield myself from unwanted contact. By visualizing the fractures in my magic not as open pathways but as windows with curtains I can draw or shutters I can close, I maintain some control over these connections. I cannot heal the fractures—indeed, I no longer wish to, for they have shown me wonders beyond imagination—but I can regulate the flow of energy through them.
Harry straightened in his chair, absorbing this crucial information. He had been trying to heal what couldn't—and perhaps shouldn't—be healed. Instead, he needed to learn control, to harness these connections to the otherworld without being overwhelmed by them.
Most critically, I have discovered that children with exceptional magical potential are particularly vulnerable to influence from the otherworld. Their untapped magic, not yet channeled through wands or structured education, forms natural conduits—pure, unobstructed pathways between realms. The Forgotten Ones seek such children as vessels, gateways for their return.
The implications hit Harry with devastating clarity. The missing children, the ritual sites, the black feather—it all aligned with Isolde's warnings. He wasn't researching some abstract historical phenomenon; he was tracking the early stages of an attempted return by entities powerful enough to have been exiled from the wizarding world at the height of Merlin's power.
He read on, lost in Isolde's increasingly detailed descriptions of the Forgotten Ones' methods and the protective measures she had developed. Time seemed to lose meaning in the quiet solitude of the archives, the only sound the turning of fragile pages and Harry's own measured breathing as he absorbed knowledge that had been hidden from the wizarding world for centuries.
Hours later, Harry emerged from the archives, his mind swimming with new information. Isolde Peverell's journals had been illuminating—her descriptions of fractured magic and enhanced sensitivity mirrored his own experiences with uncanny accuracy. She had spent years learning to control and direct her new awareness, developing techniques that Harry was eager to attempt.
But it was the historical accounts of the Forgotten that truly disturbed him. According to the Whiten's records, they had been not simply exiled but systematically erased from wizarding history through a campaign spanning centuries. Their magic, based on principles of balance, cyclical time, and what the texts called "the permeable boundaries between realms," had been deemed dangerous by the followers of Merlin, who championed a more controlled, structured approach to magical force.
Most worrying were the references to the Forgotten's methods of connecting to the "otherworld"—a plane of existence separate from both the land of the living and the realm of the dead. This otherworld was described as a source of tremendous magical power, accessible only through certain gateways or conduits.
Conduits that often took the form of magical children, their untapped potential and innocence serving as perfect channels for otherworldly forces.
As Harry made his way back to the Ministry atrium, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice calling his name. He turned to find Arthur Weasley hurrying toward him, a stack of files clutched to his chest.
"Harry! What a pleasant surprise," Arthur said warmly. "What brings you to the Ministry today?"
Harry hesitated, unsure how much to reveal about the Whiten. "Just looking into some family matters. Black family business," he added, which wasn't entirely untrue.
Arthur nodded, though his expression held a hint of curiosity. "Well, you should come by the Burrow soon. Molly's been asking after you, and we're having a family dinner this Sunday."
"I'd like that," Harry said, genuinely warming to the idea of the Burrow's chaotic comfort after weeks of solitary research. "How's George doing?"
Arthur's smile dimmed slightly. "Better, I think. The joke shop helps—keeps his mind occupied. Ron's been spending his days off there, which seems to be good for both of them."
They chatted for a few more minutes about the Weasleys before Arthur had to hurry off to a meeting. As Harry watched him go, he felt a pang of longing for simple family connections, for the uncomplicated love the Weasleys had always shown him.
His thoughts turned to Teddy—the godson he hadn't seen in weeks. Was he smiling more now? Had his hair colors stabilized at all? Was he sleeping through the night? Questions Harry would normally know the answers to, had he not been avoiding Tonks.
The realization hit him with unexpected force: in protecting himself from the complications of his feelings for Tonks, he was failing in his responsibilities to Teddy. Whatever had happened between them, whatever confusion and guilt still lingered, Teddy deserved better than a godfather who disappeared at the first sign of personal discomfort.
Harry had nearly reached the Atrium when he saw her—Tonks, emerging from one of the lifts, deep in conversation with another Auror. Her hair was a subdued purple today, her expression serious as she gestured emphatically to make some point. She hadn't noticed him yet, and Harry had a moment to decide—approach or retreat.
He thought of Remus, of the promise he'd made to be there for Teddy. He thought of the information he'd just discovered about the Forgotten and the danger they posed to magical children. And he thought of that brief moment of happiness, the connection he'd felt when kissing Tonks, however complicated its aftermath.
Before he could overthink it further, Harry moved toward her. "Tonks."
She looked up, surprise flashing across her features before her professional mask slipped into place. "Harry. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Could we talk? Privately?" he asked, aware of her colleague's curious gaze.
Tonks hesitated for just a moment before nodding. "Let me finish up with Davis here. Meet you at the visitor's entrance in ten minutes?"
Harry agreed and made his way to the designated meeting spot, his heart racing more than it had during his explorations of the ancient archives. This conversation would be more challenging than any magical research—navigating the fragile terrain of their relationship while conveying the urgency of what he'd discovered.
When Tonks joined him, they walked in silence to a small wizarding café a few blocks from the Ministry. Once seated in a private corner, a privacy charm established around them, the awkwardness between them became palpable.
"I got your note," Harry began. "About the blood runes."
"Right." Tonks stirred her tea unnecessarily, her spoon clinking nervously against the porcelain. Harry noticed her hair had shifted to a muted turquoise—a color he'd come to associate with her professional focus, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her discomfort. "Find anything useful?"
"Actually, yes. That's partly why I wanted to talk to you." Harry leaned forward. "I've been researching the Forgotten in the Black family library, but today I gained access to the Whiten archives—"
"The Whiten?" Tonks interrupted, eyes widening. Her hair instantly brightened to a more vibrant blue, a clear sign of heightened interest overriding her personal discomfort. "How did you get access to their materials?"
"I inherited the Black family seat," Harry explained. "I've only just started looking into it, but what I've found so far... Tonks, these disappearances, the blood runes, the black feather—it's all connected to an ancient magical tradition that predates modern wizardry. And these children aren't being taken randomly."
He explained what he'd learned about the Forgotten's use of children as conduits to access otherworldly power, watching as Tonks' professional interest overtook their personal awkwardness. Her posture changed subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the nervous fidgeting with her spoon replaced by the still alertness of an Auror receiving critical intelligence.
"This matches some patterns we've been seeing," she confirmed, her voice dropping as her hair darkened to a deep indigo—her most serious thinking color. Her fingers drummed a quick rhythm on the table, a habit Harry recognized from their Order meetings years ago. "All the children who've disappeared have shown signs of strong magical potential. And the runes left behind—our experts couldn't identify them conclusively, but they suspected they were tied to some kind of purification ritual."
"Preparation for becoming a conduit," Harry suggested grimly. "The texts described a process of 'cleansing' the vessel to make it suitable for channeling otherworld energy."
Tonks ran a hand through her hair, which had darkened further to an almost midnight blue. A muscle twitched in her jaw—the tell she displayed when confronting particularly troubling cases. "This is bigger than we thought. I need to take this to Robards, get more resources assigned."
"Be careful how much you reveal," Harry cautioned. "The Whiten's kept this knowledge restricted for a reason. If the wrong people learn that children can be used as gateways to this kind of power..."
"I understand," she said, and he could see she did—the grim determination in her eyes matched his own concern. Her hair shifted again, flashing briefly with streaks of red—anger, protective instinct—before settling back to blue. "I'll focus on the practical aspects—what to look for, how to protect potential targets."
Their conversation shifted to strategy, to protective measures for magical communities with children, to patterns they might have missed. For nearly an hour, they spoke as partners in a shared mission, the personal tension between them temporarily set aside in favor of protecting innocent lives.
When the immediate planning was complete, however, the awkwardness returned. Tonks stared into her now-cold tea, avoiding Harry's eyes. Her hair began to fade to a dull brown—the color it took when her emotions were too complicated for a single hue, or when she was too tired to maintain her preferred vibrant shades.
"I should get back," she said finally, her voice softer than it had been during their strategic discussion. "Write up some of these recommendations."
"Tonks," Harry said, the word heavy with unspoken questions. "I haven't seen Teddy in weeks."
Her expression softened immediately, her eyes warming as they always did at the mention of her son. A flash of pink appeared in her hair before she seemed to consciously suppress it. "He misses you. Keeps changing his hair to that messy black whenever I mention your name."
The simple statement twisted something in Harry's chest. "I've missed him too. I've missed..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
"Harry," Tonks began, then stopped. She took a deep breath, her fingers curling around her mug so tightly her knuckles whitened. "What happened between us—"
"Was a mistake," Harry finished for her, though the words tasted bitter. "I know. I shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"
"No, that's not—" Tonks looked frustrated, a streak of red flashing through her hair. She pushed her mug aside abruptly, nearly spilling it. "It wasn't a mistake because I didn't want it. It was a mistake because I did. Because I still do." She met his eyes directly now, her own dark with emotion, her hair cycling rapidly through colors that reflected her internal struggle—flashes of pink, purple, red, and blue, before settling into a muted violet. "But I'm a widow with a baby. I'm still figuring out who I am without Remus. And you're—Merlin, Harry, you're barely eighteen. You should be dating girls your age, not dealing with my broken pieces."
Her voice caught slightly on the word "broken," and Harry noticed the almost imperceptible tremor in her lower lip, quickly controlled. Tonks had always been physically expressive, her metamorphmagus abilities amplifying rather than concealing her emotional states. The rapid cycling of her hair colors told him more than her words—she was conflicted, yearning, guilty, and afraid all at once.
"I don't see you as broken," Harry said quietly. "I see you as one of the strongest people I know. And maybe I am young, but I stopped having a normal teenager's life the moment Voldemort killed my parents."
Tonks gave a small, sad smile, her hair settling into a more subdued rose color—a hue Harry had rarely seen on her. Her fingers, no longer clutching her mug, played with a loose thread on her sleeve. "That's just it, though. You deserve a chance at something normal, something uncomplicated. Not... whatever this is becoming."
As she spoke, she unconsciously touched the simple gold band she still wore on her left hand, then seemed to realize what she was doing and quickly dropped her hand to her lap. The gesture spoke volumes about her ongoing grief, her lingering connection to Remus.
"What if I don't want normal?" Harry asked. "What if what I want is to be part of Teddy's life, and yours, however that looks?"
"And Remus?" Tonks challenged gently, but Harry could see the flash of hope in her eyes, quickly suppressed. "I've seen how you look when his name comes up. You feel like you're betraying him."
Harry couldn't deny it. "He was my father's friend. My teacher. He trusted me to look after his son, not to—" He broke off, unable to complete the thought.
"Exactly," Tonks said softly, her hair fading to a subdued brown once more. She bit her lower lip briefly—another tell, one that indicated she was holding back words she wasn't ready to say.
They sat in silence for a moment, the truth of their situation hanging between them. Finally, Harry spoke.
"I still want to see Teddy. Whatever else happens or doesn't happen between us, I made a promise to be his godfather."
Tonks nodded immediately, conviction straightening her posture. "Of course. He needs you in his life, Harry. That was never in question." She hesitated, then added, "Maybe we just need time. Space to figure things out individually before we can decide what we might be to each other."
As she suggested this compromise, her hair lightened slightly, streaks of blue—clarity, reason—appearing amidst the brown. Her expression was earnest, hopeful but cautious.
"And in the meantime?" Harry asked.
"In the meantime, we focus on finding these children and stopping whoever or whatever is taking them," Tonks said decisively, her Auror training evident in her tone. Her hair stabilized into a professional, determined purple. "We work together when we need to, share information, protect Teddy and other magical children. And we... don't rush into anything else."
It wasn't a solution, not really, but it was a path forward—a way to maintain their connection without pressuring either of them to resolve feelings that were still raw and complex. Harry nodded his agreement.
As they parted outside the café, Tonks hesitated, then reached out to squeeze his hand briefly. The touch lingered longer than necessary, her fingers warm against his skin. "Sunday afternoon," she said, her voice softer than it had been inside, a hint of pink returning to her hair. "Come by around two. Teddy will be awake then, and we can... talk more."
Her eyes held his for a moment, communicating what she couldn't quite say aloud—that despite the complications, despite the guilt and uncertainty, there was something between them worth exploring, even if they couldn't do so yet. Then she turned and walked away, her stride purposeful but her shoulders carrying a tension that hadn't been there during their professional discussion.
Harry felt the warmth of her touch linger as he watched her walk away. The afternoon had brought revelations on multiple fronts—about the Forgotten, about his changed magic, and about the delicate, unresolved feelings between himself and Tonks.
He had research to continue, meditation techniques from Isolde Peverell to practice, and a Sunday visit with his godson to anticipate. For now, that would have to be enough. The rest—like the fractured pathways of his magic—would need time to integrate, to find its natural balance.
As he Apparated back to Grimmauld Place, Harry felt the brief echo of that happiness again—not complete, not uncomplicated, but real. And for someone who had walked the boundary between life and death, perhaps that complexity was exactly what he needed.