Summary: The year is 2024, and the wizarding world is at war. Lord Voldemort, once the feared Dark Lord, has grown frustrated with his incompetent Death Eaters and the war's unending complications. Tired of their failures and the never-ending cycle of bloodshed, he does something unthinkable, he vanishes. Retreating to a hidden flat in Muggle London, long protected by his magic, he takes his most trusted companion, Nagini, and absorbs the soul fragment within his ring Horcrux, restoring his youthful 20-year-old form.
For the first time in decades, he is Tom Riddle once more, free from the immediate burdens of war. In London bookstore, where Tom, indulges in the one pleasure he has never abandoned books. Reaching for a book, another hand reached for it, it was delicate small. Hands belong to a girl, for the first time Tom felt stunning flustered over this girl. Jessica Lightning Kuran Mikcloud, which he as no idea who she really in.
As their chance meetings turn into something more, Tom begins to question his own ambitions. For the first time, he is living among Muggles not as their enemy, but as one of them. Yet, his past cannot stay buried forever. The wizarding world is searching for him-the Death Eaters, the Ministry, and the Order of the Phoenix.
This is a redo of my Harry Potter story, What If: A Different Path. My Account was hacked and someone Orphaned it. Thank god I managed to change my password. So If you come across my story thats been orphaned don't follow it. A03 is invesgating it.
change the time-line,
1st Year 2021 Philosopher's Stone (modernized)
2nd Year 2022 Chamber of Secrets
3rd Year 2023 Prisoner of Azkaban
4th Year 2024 Goblet of Fire (Triwizard Tournament)
5th Year 2025 Order of the Phoenix
Marauders Era
If they were born in 1989, their Hogwarts years would look like this:
School Year Age
1st Year 2000–2001 11
2nd Year 2001–2002 12
3rd Year 2002–2003 13
4th Year 2003–2004 14
5th Year 2004–2005 15
6th Year 2005–2006 16
7th Year 2006–2007 17
Also don't comment on my story unless it's about the story and not about asking to using this for a comic or some stupid youtube channel. It's not gonn happen, I'm not gonna fall for scamming shit like that again. Give me favs, follows and comments are always welcome but don't bother asking to use my story understand? Good!
Check out my DA, I have been posting fanart of my story my page, slytherinjess my username.
Going to my gallery, you will find the story folder there.
This story is also on my A03 and Wattpadd
A03: TheBlueMoonRose
Wattpad: QuantumCoven
Chapter 1: The Weight of Truth
The halls of the Ministry of Magic were unusually quiet—eerily so. It was the kind of oppressive silence that settled just before a storm, tense and heavy, as if the very walls of the ancient building could sense the shift in the air. Enchanted torches flickered faintly along the marbled corridors, casting long, uneasy shadows that danced like restless spirits. The usual rhythm of daily life—rushed footsteps, whispered conversations, the whoosh of the occasional disapparation—had dulled into muted murmurs and sidelong glances. There was no comfort in routine anymore. Only dread.
At the highest level of the Ministry, deep within the Minister's office, Cornelius Fudge sat hunched behind his polished mahogany desk, looking every bit the crumbling relic of a man who had once wielded power with pompous confidence. Now, that man was gone—stripped of denial, swallowed by fear. A half-drained glass of firewhiskey trembled in his fingers, the amber liquid catching the dim firelight as it sloshed against the crystal. A second glass, long since abandoned, stood off to the side, forgotten beside stacks of unopened memos and ignored reports, parchment curling at the edges from neglect.
He hadn't read them.
He couldn't bring himself to.
The fireplace crackled softly, its glow dancing over the weary lines on Fudge's face. But his eyes, bloodshot and sunken, were fixed on nothing—gazing not into flame, but into memory. And what he saw haunted him more than any headline or whisper in the corridors ever could.
He had seen him.
Voldemort.
No illusions. No whispers. No rumors. Not the wild testimony of a boy or the cautionary words of a Headmaster he had dismissed for far too long.
He had seen the Dark Lord himself—flesh and blood, risen again, impossibly real.
It had happened in the Department of Mysteries only days prior. Amid the chaos, the shattered glass, and spells flying like lightning across the black-tiled floor, Fudge had stood—stunned—as the one wizard he had denied with every breath materialized before him. Lord Voldemort. Tall. Cold. Radiating power so thick it crushed the air around him. Their eyes had met for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to freeze Fudge's soul. And just like that, he was gone—vanishing into the shadows before anyone could so much as lift a wand.
The Prophet had confirmed it the following morning, albeit reluctantly. The headlines no longer carried skepticism or doubt. The truth could not be buried any longer. The wizarding world was awakening, the gears of war beginning to turn once more. Dumbledore had been right. Potter had been right. And Cornelius Fudge... had been very, very wrong.
His grip tightened on the glass. The humiliation stung almost as deeply as the fear. Years spent carefully molding the narrative, undermining Dumbledore, discrediting a child—all undone in a moment.
And now... he waited.
He expected an inquiry. Expected scorn from the Wizengamot. Expected public distrust and political backlash. But this—what came next—he did not expect.
A sudden knock broke through his thoughts. Crisp, polite, and precise. Not frantic, not unsure. A controlled knock, formal and steady—deliberate.
Fudge blinked, heart lurching in his chest as he scrambled to his feet. He hastily wiped the sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief, adjusted the lapels of his robe, and tried to compose himself. "Enter," he rasped, his voice hoarse from drink and sleepless nights.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and what stepped through made him stiffen in disbelief.
A tall man with sharp features, jet-black hair streaked with vibrant gold, and glowing golden eyes entered first, exuding an aura of restrained menace and nobility in equal measure. At his side walked a striking woman, regal and poised, with flowing crimson hair and vivid green eyes that burned with silent authority. Her presence was like walking into the path of a storm—powerful and inevitable.
Fudge's breath caught.
"Prince Jerith... Princess Dawn..." he stammered, eyes wide. He stood fully now, straightening in a vain attempt at dignity. "To what do I owe the pleasure of the royal family's presence here—without notice?"
His words were civil, but his nerves betrayed him. For all his years in office, nothing had prepared him for an unscheduled audience with them.
And deep in his gut, Cornelius Fudge knew—this was not a courtesy call.
Jerith Kuran stepped fully into the office, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft but final click that made Cornelius Fudge visibly flinch. His golden eyes, glowing faintly beneath the sweep of his black-and-gold hair, burned with restrained fury. The sheer weight of his presence filled the room like a storm on the verge of breaking—quiet, cold, and utterly unforgiving. Though his voice remained composed, it carried the unmistakable steel of a man who commanded respect across nations and centuries.
"Mind telling me what exactly you've been allowing to be printed in the Daily Prophet?" he asked coolly, every syllable biting through the stillness. "Imagine my surprise, Minister, when the King himself contacted us—my wife and I—while we were in the middle of managing foreign magical relations in America... and ordered us to return. Not for diplomacy. Not for peace. But to deal with you."
He took one deliberate step forward, and the shift in pressure was immediate. Fudge instinctively leaned back against his desk, his composure cracking beneath the weight of ancient power he couldn't hope to match. Jerith's eyes narrowed.
"Dragging Celtica into Britain's failures, Minister... That should never have happened."
The words landed like thunder. There was no shouting. Jerith didn't need to. His disappointment—and the insult to the Crown—was heavier than any curse.
At his side, Princess Dawn moved forward with grace that belied her quiet fury. Regal in her bearing, she was every inch a ruler in her own right. Her long crimson hair shimmered in the low light of the fire, and her vivid green eyes—nearly glowing—locked onto Fudge like blades made of emerald flame. She didn't raise her voice either. She didn't have to.
She exhaled slowly, then spoke with a sharp edge of disbelief. "Let's not forget the part where children—schoolchildren—somehow managed to sneak into a Department of Mysteries facility under your so-called jurisdiction," she said, voice crisp with righteous scorn. "They were fired upon in the Veil Chamber, Minister. By Death Eaters."
Her tone turned colder, every word falling with precise, elegant force. "Have you gone mad, Cornelius?"
Her words cut like a whip. There was no room for defense, no excuse Fudge could offer that would hold against the truth spoken by royalty. Not when the entire world had already read the bare-bones version in the Prophet. But hearing it spoken aloud, so plainly, by people with authority far above his own... it crushed whatever fragile composure he had been trying to maintain.
"I—I wasn't informed they'd gotten that far," Fudge stammered, reaching for the edge of his desk as if it might anchor him in the moment. "The Aurors assured me the children were contained—"
"Contained?" Jerith's voice rose, just slightly—but the pressure in the room grew heavier, darker. "You lost control of your own department, allowed Voldemort to reappear before your very eyes, and somehow you think this is a defense?"
Dawn folded her arms and turned toward the fireplace, though her voice remained directed at Fudge. "The royal family has watched the situation in Britain spiral for over a year now. But this?" She glanced over her shoulder, firelight dancing in her eyes. "This is negligence of the highest order."
Fudge opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
And in the silence that followed, the room seemed to hold its breath. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor. Even the air itself felt charged, humming faintly with the energy of a storm barely restrained.
Then, the door creaked open once more.
A tall, striking figure stepped through—calm, composed, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. His silver hair shimmered like moonlight, tousled just enough to suggest motion even when still. His violet eyes were sharp and unreadable, a mirror of divine authority behind a carefully measured calm. Every movement, from the slow pull of his gloved hands to the quiet click of the door closing behind him, was precise—controlled elegance honed over centuries.
Jerith turned at once, his posture shifting subtly as recognition passed through him. "Frank," he said, surprised, though his voice remained composed. "What is it?"
Frank Valkyrie—the First Grand Knight of Celtica, known across the magical world as the Angelic Knight—strode forward with purpose. His presence was silent but unignorable, like a blade sheathed in velvet. Without a word, he leaned in and whispered something only Jerith could hear.
Whatever was spoken, it hit with the force of a hex.
Jerith's golden eyes widened, then narrowed into something colder. More dangerous. He turned back to Fudge with a look that could have frozen lava.
"You let Dolores Umbridge use blood quills on the children of Hogwarts?" he asked, voice low but laced with fury.
The name alone struck like a blow, and Fudge paled instantly.
"On children, Cornelius," Jerith repeated, stepping forward now with slow, deliberate menace. "You allowed physical punishment through a cursed object—one that carves words into flesh—to be used on students. Minors. Under the eye of your appointed High Inquisitor."
Princess Dawn's jaw tightened as she turned back toward the Minister, her composure now razor-sharp. Her eyes—vivid and luminous—seemed to glow with a cold, righteous fire. "You let a woman—who wasn't even a trained educator—brand children under the illusion of discipline?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And you expect us to believe you are still fit to lead this government?"
Fudge tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mouth opened, only for silence to spill out.
Jerith exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his dark-gold-streaked hair. The fury behind his golden eyes was barely held in check. His voice, when it came, was steady but carried the edge of command.
"Alright, Frank. Where is she now?"
Frank's reply was immediate, clipped and precise. "In the Ministry holding cells. The Minister had her retrieved yesterday... after she was rescued from a pack of centaurs in the Forbidden Forest."
He did not blink as he said it, nor did his voice falter. But the quiet judgment beneath the words was unmistakable.
Dawn's expression twisted into something between fury and heartbreak. She brought a hand to her lips, biting down gently as she took a breath, her mind already moving into royal protocol. When she spoke again, her tone was formal—impeccable, cold, and absolute.
"By Magical Royal Law, Decree L-10," she stated, lifting her chin, "Dolores Umbridge will stand trial before the Royal Family. The charge: unlawful use of a dark object on a minor. There is no tolerance for such a crime—not in Celtica, not in any nation bound by our law."
Her voice dropped, firm as stone. "To use a cursed instrument on a child—to etch pain into their skin—is unforgivable."
Fudge seemed to shrink where he stood, his robes suddenly too heavy, the room too warm. He had no defense left to offer. No ally in sight.
Frank stood behind the royal couple like a silent sentinel—still, unreadable. But beneath the surface of his violet gaze, the weight of his judgment was as present as any sword. If the royals were the voice of law and order, Frank Valkyrie was the hand that would deliver it.
And though the Minister's office remained still, the echoes of what had just been declared would soon ripple through the entire magical world. Silence reigned in the chamber—not from peace, but from the stillness that follows a final blow. The fire crackled in the hearth. The light flickered across gold embroidery, crimson silk, and the black folds of power cloaked in law.
Then Jerith spoke again, his voice as calm as ever—but now it carried the finality of a closing door.
"And you, Cornelius Fudge," he said, golden eyes locked like steel on the trembling man behind the desk, "are hereby relieved of your duties as Minister of Magic."
Fudge's breath caught, his face paling in slow, sick disbelief. "W-What?" he managed, voice cracking. "You—You can't just—"
"I can," Jerith cut him off with deadly precision. "And I am."
He took another step forward, closing the distance between himself and the failing figure he no longer regarded as a leader. "By decree of the Crown of Celtica, with full jurisdiction over all international magical governments and under the authority of the Royal Conclave, you are removed from your position effective immediately."
The words rang through the room like a judgment passed from the heavens themselves.
"Pack everything in this office that belongs to you," Jerith continued, his tone iron-clad. "You are to vacate the premises within the hour. You will not set foot in this Ministry again—not as Minister, not as advisor, not as a low-level clerk."
He paused, his final words like a sentence being passed down. "You are to remain retired. Quietly. Permanently."
Fudge stood frozen, stunned beyond words. His hands, once so used to gripping power, now twitched helplessly by his sides. The firewhiskey glass wobbled on the edge of the desk, but no one moved to catch it.
Frank, motionless in the background, watched with impassive precision. There was no gloating in his gaze—only the unwavering resolve of a protector who had seen too many leaders cling to power long past their worth.
Princess Dawn turned her head, her crimson hair catching the firelight like a cascade of living flame. She didn't bother to look at Fudge again—not out of cruelty, but because he no longer deserved her gaze. "One hour," she repeated, her voice smooth and cold as falling frost. "We expect compliance."
She turned toward the door, her steps measured and precise, each one echoing like a countdown in the silent chamber.
"Frank will remain here," she added, her tone decisive and immovable. "He will ensure the removal proceeds without incident."
Behind her, Frank Valkyrie took a single step forward, silent as ever, but the subtle shift in his stance said more than any words could. A quiet, watchful force now stood between Fudge and any desperate act that might arise in the final hour of his fallen reign.
Dawn reached the door, pausing only to glance at her husband with a softer glint beneath the fire of formal anger. "Come, Jerith, my love," she said, her voice lowering but no less sure. "We must pay a visit to Dolores."
And with that, the royal couple departed, their presence leaving behind the chill of judgment and the gravity of irreversible change. The doors closed behind them with a soft, echoing thud—leaving Frank, and the weight of justice, behind.
Beneath the grandeur of the Ministry's polished floors and golden halls, the holding cells were a different world entirely. Cold stone walls, etched with ancient runes of containment, hummed faintly with suppressive magic. The flickering torches along the corridor cast a sickly, uneven light, illuminating heavy iron doors and the narrow slits that served as windows. The air was chilled, stale with dampness, and carried the lingering scent of fear.
In one of the deeper cells, Dolores Umbridge sat stiffly on a narrow stone bench, her pink cardigan now dulled and stained from her scuffle in the Forbidden Forest. The usual smugness that so often curled her lips into that saccharine smile had vanished, replaced by a pinched scowl and a stormy flush across her cheeks. Her hair was tangled from the chase, and a faint scratch ran down the side of her face—courtesy of a low-hanging branch or, more likely, a centaur's warning.
She was not pleased.
No one had spoken to her since she'd been thrown into this cell hours ago. No explanations. No hearings. No ceremony. Just silence and stone.
"I demand to speak with Minister Fudge," she snapped, her voice echoing against the cell walls with more desperation than authority. "This is absolutely unacceptable! I am a high-ranking official of this institution! I am—"
The door at the far end of the corridor creaked open.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the stillness—measured, regal, and final. Umbridge turned sharply toward the cell door, expecting an Auror, perhaps the Minister himself, come to offer apologies for this gross misunderstanding.
But it was not Fudge who appeared.
It was them.
Jerith Kuran and Princess Dawn Mikcloud stepped into view like wraiths of judgment, cloaked in royal black and silver, fire and storm. Their expressions were unreadable. Regal. Cold.
Behind them walked a silent guard in gleaming black and gold, his violet eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight—Frank Valkyrie, a name even she recognized. The Angelic Knight. Her stomach twisted.
"What is the meaning of this?" Dolores snapped, rising unsteadily to her feet, brushing dirt from her skirt with trembling hands. "I am being detained without cause—this is illegal! I am a senior undersecretary to the Minister—"
"You were," Dawn said coolly, cutting through her bluster like frost through fog. "Minister Fudge has been relieved of his position."
Dolores blinked. "W-What?"
Jerith stepped closer, his voice even colder. "And you, Dolores Jane Umbridge, are being held under Royal Decree L-10."
Her mouth opened, but no words came.
Dawn's eyes narrowed. "The use of a dark object—specifically a cursed blood quill—on a minor is an unforgivable offense under magical royal law. The fact that you did so repeatedly on multiple students, without oversight or trial, elevates it to a high crime."
"That's preposterous!" Umbridge sputtered, her voice shrill, rising in desperation as the reality of her situation clawed its way into her mind. "It was—it was discipline! Necessary action! The boy was lying—he—"
Jerith didn't blink. He stepped closer, the low torchlight casting an almost ethereal glow across his sharp, unyielding features. His golden eyes burned with restrained fury, his voice low but lethal.
"You carved words into the skin of children, Dolores."
She faltered, but he didn't stop.
"In Celtica," he continued, "such an act would earn immediate banishment. Or worse. There is no court that would call that discipline." His words sharpened further. "Your office at Hogwarts was searched. Multiple blood quills were found among your personal items. Some still laced with traces of blood magic. Children's blood."
Dawn stood behind him, silent and unmoving—her gaze locked on Umbridge with such cold disdain it could have frozen steel.
Jerith's tone dropped a final degree, the words like thunder behind lightning. "And tell me... who, exactly, was lying, Dolores?"
Umbridge's lips curled into a sneer, her composure fracturing completely. She bared her teeth like a cornered animal, the tight pink of her cardigan now clashing with the raw hatred in her eyes.
"POTTER!" she snapped. "It was Potter! He's nothing but a liar! That insolent brat—he twisted everything! He turned Dumbledore against me—he turned the school against me!"
She was trembling now, fists clenched at her sides, voice shaking with venom. "He Who Must Not Be Named is not back! He's not! It's all part of Dumbledore's twisted—twisted plan to discredit the Ministry—!"
Jerith didn't even blink.
"Enough."
His voice was final, absolute.
Dawn stepped forward then, her expression cool and pitiless. "You're not just guilty of cruelty, Dolores. You're guilty of willful ignorance. Of enabling darkness through your denial. You refused to believe the truth even as it bled in front of you."
Frank stood silently behind them, his violet eyes watching every movement she made, a silent executioner cloaked in discipline. His presence alone was enough to still the madness rising in her eyes.
Jerith nodded once to Frank.
"Prepare her for royal transfer. Her trial begins in two days. She will be held under Celtican authority until then."
Dolores Umbridge, once smug and secure in her carefully constructed tower of lies and pink cardigans, stood trembling in her cell as the iron door closed again—this time not in warning, but in sentence.
And above the Ministry, the world began to shift.
The royals had spoken.
And the magical world would never be the same.
June 24th dawned crisp and golden over the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The early morning sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a warm glow over the long house tables where students were beginning to gather for breakfast. Outside the castle, summer had fully settled in—clear skies stretched endlessly overhead, and the scent of dew-kissed grass drifted in through the tall arched windows.
But inside the Great Hall, the air was anything but calm.
A storm of laughter, whispers, and cheers had broken out around the students, all of them clustered in huddled groups over the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. Crinkling parchment echoed beneath the low hum of voices, and the headline was impossible to miss—bold, black ink stamped across the top like a firework:
"FUDGE FORCED TO RETIRED—UMBRIDGE TO FACE ROYAL TRIAL"
Royal Family Intervenes in Ministry Collapse—New Leadership Incoming?
Students leaned over the pages, grinning ear to ear, some wide-eyed in disbelief, others looking as though their birthday had come early. It was all there in the Prophet's scathing exposé: Minister Fudge had been removed by royal decree. Dolores Umbridge had been arrested and taken by the Magical Royal Family—charged with crimes against students and the unlawful use of dark objects. The accompanying moving photograph showed a pale, disheveled Umbridge being escorted in magical restraints by a tall silver-haired man—Frank Valkyrie, the caption identified him. The so-called "Angelic Knight."
From the Gryffindor table, the sound of cheering erupted as Seamus Finnigan slammed the paper down on the table. "Did you see this?! Bloody hell—Umbridge is gone! Gone, gone!"
"You mean locked away and dragged off by royalty," Dean added, smirking as he buttered a thick slice of toast. "That's better than gone."
Across the table, Lavender Brown giggled, waving the paper dramatically. "They said they found blood quills in her office! Merlin's beard, she really was twisted!"
"Mad, cruel hag," Ginny growled.
Neville was the one who glanced up first at the staff table, where Professor McGonagall sat with her usual firm composure—though this morning, there was something undeniably pleased in the tight line of her mouth. Beside her, Professors Flitwick and Sprout exchanged a glance, each nodding slightly. Even Hagrid, seated at the far end, had a proud gleam in his eyes.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione folded the paper carefully, her expression thoughtful. "It wasn't just Umbridge," she said softly. "The royal family got involved. That's not something they do lightly. They rule over every magical government in the world, not just ours."
"Yeah, and they fired the Minister of Magic," Ron added, stunned. "Just like that."
Harry didn't speak for a moment. He stared at the moving photograph of Princess Dawn Mikcloud and Prince Jerith Kuran standing like figures out of legend—regal, sharp-eyed, and cold. It was the first time he'd seen them. The people who had the power to walk into the Ministry and take control without raising a wand.
"What do you think it means?" Neville asked quietly, glancing from Hermione to Harry.
Hermione didn't answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the newspaper, her mind already racing several steps ahead. "It means," she said slowly, voice low but steady, "the Magical Royal Family isn't going to sit back anymore."
There was a hush around the table as that truth settled into the air like a dropped weight.
Harry shook his head, brow furrowed. "I didn't even know there was a magical royal family..."
Gasps rippled from the Gryffindor table, and a few students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw turned toward him in surprise. Even a few Slytherins across the hall looked up from their food.
Harry blinked. "What?" he asked defensively, looking around. "I didn't! All this time here, five years, and there's been no mention of them! Not in History of Magic—"
"Potter."
The single, cutting word sliced clean through the murmur of the hall. Every head turned as Professor Snape rose from the staff table, his black robes billowing like a shadow caught in motion.
"Come with me," he said smoothly, his voice low and pointed, "to the Headmaster's office. Your presence has been requested."
Harry frowned, confused but already rising from his seat. Ron and Hermione both started to stand as well, pushing their benches back with worried expressions.
But Snape didn't miss a beat.
"Really," he sneered, narrowing his dark eyes. "Can't Potter go anywhere without you two following him like lost little puppies?"
Ron's face flushed red. Hermione's mouth tightened.
"Sit down. The both of you."
His tone left no room for argument.
Harry hesitated, giving Ron and Hermione a glance as if to silently reassure them. Then he turned and stepped toward Snape, following the Potions Master through the rows of wide-eyed students, the Daily Prophet still clutched in dozens of hands, headlines blaring behind him.
As they reached the doors, Harry threw one last look back over his shoulder at his friends.
What now? he wondered.
Because something had changed.
And whatever it was... it was waiting for him in the Headmaster's office.
The spiral staircase was already turning as they approached, the stone gargoyle having moved aside as if anticipating their arrival. The grinding sound of ancient magic echoed faintly through the stone walls. Snape ascended without a glance back.
"Come along, Potter," he said, his voice clipped and void of emotion.
Harry followed, his steps slower, more uncertain. His mind spun with questions—about the royal family, about why he was being summoned, and about what kind of meeting would require Snape to escort him personally.
As they reached the top, Harry barely had time to take a breath before raised voices leaked through the thick wooden door.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind, Albus Dumbledore?!" a man's voice thundered, sharp and commanding, laced with a barely restrained fury that sent a chill straight through Harry's spine. "You allowed that woman to use blood quills on children? Children?! Minerva found out and was threatened by her to stay silent! Are you getting senile in your old age, Headmaster—or do I need to replace you myself?"
Harry blinked in stunned silence, frozen on the top step.
Snape let out a soft sigh and opened the door. "Jerith," he said smoothly, "I brought him."
As Harry stepped into the room, his eyes immediately locked onto two unfamiliar figures.
The man was tall, statuesque, dressed in a sharply tailored black pinstripe suit that made him look like he'd stepped out of another world—and in truth, he had. His black hair was sleek and flawless, save for a striking streak of vivid gold cutting through the front like a bolt of lightning. His eyes were golden too—piercing, ancient, alive with authority that could not be faked.
The woman beside him was no less breathtaking. Her crimson hair flowed down her back like a silken waterfall, and her tailored emerald suit shimmered faintly with understated elegance. Her green eyes sparkled with intelligence and composure, but there was something steel-edged beneath her graceful smile.
Harry had never seen anyone who looked so powerful—and so modern.
The man turned to him with a faint smile that didn't diminish the fire still burning in his gaze from whatever he had just said to Dumbledore.
"Harry Potter," he said smoothly. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
He offered a respectful nod, then gestured to the woman beside him.
"I'm Jerith Mikcloud Kuran. Second Crowned Prince of the Magical Royal Family—married into it, of course. And this," he said with quiet pride, "is my wife, Princess Dawn Mikcloud Kuran. First Crowned Princess of Celtica."
Dawn gave a soft smile, warm but piercing. "Hello, Harry Potter," she said gently. Her voice was melodic, calm—yet carried the unmistakable confidence of someone used to commanding silence in any room she entered.
Harry stood still for a moment, wide-eyed and unsure what to say. His mind tripped over the titles, the power, the presence these two carried without even trying.
"Er... hello," he managed awkwardly.
Somewhere behind him, Snape closed the door.
And suddenly, the room felt smaller. Heavier.
Like something very old had woken up—and was watching.
Dumbledore, who had remained seated behind his desk in uncharacteristic silence, finally drew a slow breath, his blue eyes turning toward Harry.
"Harry, my boy, they are—"
"Keep your mouth shut, Albus."
Jerith didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
His words cut through the air like a blade through silk—sharp, direct, and unchallengeable. He turned his golden gaze back to the Headmaster with a look that could have leveled armies.
"I did not give you permission to speak."
The silence that followed was thunderous.
Snape, standing near the door with his arms loosely folded, bit down on the inside of his lip. The rare twitch of amusement threatened to escape the corners of his mouth, but he masked it quickly. Still, the glint in his eyes spoke volumes.
Harry's stomach turned uncomfortably, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed hard, feeling the pressure in the room tighten like an invisible hand around his chest. He stood still, uncertain whether to speak or wait.
Then Jerith turned back to him, and just like that—the tension eased.
His face softened into a gentle, reassuring smile, though the fire in his eyes remained undimmed.
"Harry Potter," he said warmly, "I'm truly sorry for what happened to you and your friends during your fifth year. What you endured... the loss, the pain, the cruelty—it should never have been allowed under any magical institution, much less a school."
Harry blinked, unsure what to say. He wasn't used to royalty—or anyone—offering him sincere sympathy with no agenda behind it.
Jerith stepped forward slowly, not invading Harry's space, but lowering his voice to something more personal.
"May I see your hand?" he asked.
Harry hesitated, then glanced instinctively at Snape, who simply gave a subtle nod of permission.
Slowly, Harry extended his right hand.
The one Umbridge had used.
Jerith took it carefully, reverently, as if handling something sacred and wounded all at once. He turned it palm-up and studied the faded scar still etched into the skin—I must not tell lies—a brutal reminder of the woman now awaiting judgment by royal decree.
Dawn moved closer beside her husband, eyes narrowing as she saw the scar for herself. Her hand gently touched Jerith's arm, silent and furious.
Jerith's jaw tensed.
"Unforgivable," he whispered.
And for the first time, Harry saw it—not the rage of a politician or the aloof detachment of a powerful man, but the grief of someone who had seen far too much of this world's darkest corners and would not tolerate one more scar on a child's skin.
"I'll have Frank heal your hand, Harry," Jerith said gently, releasing the boy's scarred palm with care. "He's already setting up a station in the hospital wing for the students who were harmed by the blood quills."
His golden eyes flickered back to the fading scar—narrowing just slightly. He didn't say it aloud, but Harry could feel it in the shift of Jerith's expression. He'd sensed something. The trace of dark magic still lingering in the skin. Residual. Malicious.
Harry nodded awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the sudden kindness from someone so powerful. "Uhm... thank you."
Jerith gave a quiet chuckle, his posture relaxing just a touch as he stepped back. "Don't mention it," he said with a small grin. "You sure you're a Gryffindor though? I swear, I can sense Slytherin in you."
Across the room, Dumbledore's expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands folding more tightly in his lap. His eyes flicked toward Harry—guarded. Reserved.
From above, the Sorting Hat, resting high on its shelf near the headmaster's desk, gave a soft sputter of laughter that echoed faintly into the room.
Snape straightened with a frown. "Jerith... that's not funny."
But Jerith only laughed, unbothered and teasing. "Oh, hush, my dear best bud. You've seen it too, haven't you? The ambition, the instinct. He's got it written all over him!"
Dawn chuckled softly beside him, the warmth in her voice like sunlight through winter mist. "There's nothing wrong with being in Slytherin," she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I was sorted into Horned Serpent, myself."
Harry tilted his head. "Horned Serpent?"
"One of the four houses of Ilvermorny," she explained. "In America. Horned Serpent favors the mind, but ambition runs in us too."
Dumbledore cleared his throat, fingers tightening ever so slightly as they curled together.
"Once sorted, it cannot be undone," he said carefully, almost as though trying to anchor the conversation back to firmer ground. "The Hat's decision is binding. Your Majesty."
Jerith turned toward him slowly, not in offense, but with the quiet patience of someone about to educate a student who should have known better.
"Not just the Founders' magic runs through this castle," he said. "Hogwarts may be built on the legacy of four great witches and wizards... but without Queen Regina—the First Queen of the Magical World—this castle would not be what it is."
His voice had deepened with reverence.
"It was her magic that allowed the founders to bind their enchantments to the land. She stabilized the ley lines beneath this ground. She blessed the wards that protect it. She placed a piece of herself in its bones."
Dumbledore said nothing.
Jerith's golden gaze remained firmly fixed on Dumbledore, unwavering and sharp as tempered steel. His voice deepened, no longer playful, but edged with long-buried irritation.
"You call her forgotten," he said. "But the castle remembers. And so do we."
His expression darkened, not with cruelty, but with centuries of royal memory burning behind his eyes. "She was Salazar's teacher in Parselmouth, you fool. Queen Regina taught him to speak to serpents when he was still a boy. Parseltongue is not a dark art. It never was. It is a gift—a sacred language, one born of nature and old gods, not darkness."
He stepped forward slightly, the air around him growing heavier with restrained energy.
"I'm growing sick of this backward belief that it's evil. Speaking with serpents is not corruption—it is connection. The goddess of magic herself—Hecate—has many magical familiars. And one of them... is a snake."
The room fell deathly silent.
Harry blinked, wide-eyed. "Wait—so... Salazar wasn't the first Parselmouth?"
Jerith turned to him with a softened smile, nodding slowly. "Goodness, no," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He was taught. He was the first at Hogwarts, perhaps, but far from the first to speak the tongue of serpents."
Harry bit his lip, a tangle of thoughts spinning in his head. "But... then... how can I speak it?" he asked hesitantly. "Dumbledore said... when Voldemort attacked me as a baby, some of his powers... transferred into me."
The temperature in the room shifted.
Dawn's smile vanished.
She turned to Dumbledore sharply, her piercing green eyes hardening like emerald blades. "Really, now..." she said, her voice cool and biting. "You've been feeding him that explanation?"
Dumbledore raised his hands in a slow, careful gesture—either to defend or deflect, it was hard to tell.
Before a storm could rise, Jerith stepped in once more, placing a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder.
"It's alright," he said, voice softening again. "We'll talk about it... in due time. There's more to that connection than you've been told. But for today—no more worry."
He gave Harry a gentle nudge toward the door, the warmth in his voice returning.
"Go to the hospital wing, Harry. Let Frank see to your hand. Spend the rest of the day with your friends. Heal. Laugh. Breathe."
Harry hesitated a moment longer, but the sincerity in Jerith's voice cut through the storm in his thoughts like a guiding star. He gave a small nod.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Jerith nodded once in return, regal yet kind. "Of course."
As Harry stepped out of the office and the door quietly closed behind him, he couldn't help but feel that—somehow—everything he thought he knew had just shifted.
Not shattered.
But expanded.
And for the first time... it felt like someone was telling him the whole story.
As the door clicked shut behind Harry, Jerith exhaled through his nose, and with a swift flick of his wand, a silver shimmer swept across the office like a curtain of water. The walls vibrated faintly as the air thickened.
"Muffliato."
The soundproofing charm settled over the room like a sealed vault.
Jerith turned on his heel, golden eyes burning with fury now fully unmasked. "You idiotic fool..."
He advanced a step toward the Headmaster, his voice rising with restrained rage. "Why haven't you notified the royal family of what Harry Potter truly is to us?!"
Across the room, Severus shifted, brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?" he asked carefully. "Headmaster?"
Albus Dumbledore remained seated, his expression drawn and unreadable. His fingers curled slowly atop his desk. For a long moment, he said nothing.
"Of course you would figure it out, Jerith..." he murmured at last, almost in defeat.
Jerith sneered, his posture tense with fury. "Harry Potter is a living Horcrux."
The words dropped like thunder.
Dawn's eyes widened instantly, the shock tearing through her royal composure like a lightning strike. She stood abruptly from her seat, her emerald eyes flashing with fury as her hands clenched at her sides.
"What?!" she breathed, her voice sharp and rising like a blade drawn across glass. "How dare you withhold that from my family?!"
She stepped toward Dumbledore, her voice no longer calm, no longer soft. "You know damn well Horcruxes are forbidden under royal law! Forbidden for a reason! It's false immortality! It doesn't grant eternal life—it shreds the soul! It creates something less than human. A fragmented creature!"
Her voice cracked with rage.
"And you allowed Harry Potter, a child—a child!—to carry a soul fragment? You let him walk these halls for years with part of Voldemort's soul inside him?"
Jerith stood beside her now, radiating royal fury. "You will tell us, everything, Albus," he said coldly. "How many Horcruxes. Where they were created. What you've discovered. You will cooperate fully."
His voice dropped low—dangerous.
"Because if you don't, I will ensure you are stripped of your wizarding credentials, your honors, your place in the magical world. You will be tried for endangerment of a magical heir and dereliction of duty in wartime."
Dawn's voice trembled—not from fear, but from righteous rage. "This isn't just political anymore. This is war against the soul."
Dumbledore slowly looked up at them both, but the weariness in his eyes now had nowhere left to hide.
"Then you understand," he whispered. "Why I didn't tell you."
"You understand nothing," Jerith snapped. "And if you'd acted sooner—Harry Potter wouldn't be carrying another man's darkness inside him."
"You let Lily's son..." Severus snapped, his voice breaking through the heavy air like a whip, "live with it? Since the day the Dark Lord went after him? When, Albus?! When?!"
His composure, so rarely shaken, now fractured beneath the sheer fury burning in his eyes. His voice trembled with more than anger—it was grief, shame, betrayal.
Albus drew a slow breath, his gaze lowering, and with deliberate movements, reached into the drawer of his desk. The sound of old wood sliding open felt deafening in the silence. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound tome—its cover worn, its corners marked with decades of use.
Jerith stepped forward instantly, his boots silent on the ancient rug as he closed the space between them. His eyes locked onto the book as Dumbledore set it gently on the desk, reverently, like it was a confession rather than a text.
"I suspected," Albus began quietly, "since the Chamber of Secrets was opened... in Harry's second year."
He opened the book with a soft crack, turning it toward them. On one page was an illustration of a Horcrux—a vessel split in pain, tainted by an image of flickering, corrupted soul shards.
"This diary," he continued, resting a hand on the page, "was one of them. Destroyed by Harry's own hand with a basilisk fang."
Jerith leaned closer, frowning deeply, absorbing the implication.
"I feared then," Albus went on, "that Voldemort had made more than one. I believe he's fractured his soul multiple times—unprecedented. Damning. When Harry first spoke Parseltongue, I did not understand. But after that year, after seeing the diary destroyed... I began to."
He looked up at them, shame thick in his features. "The reason Harry can speak Parseltongue... is because part of Voldemort's soul lives within him. Clinging to life. Feeding. And there is only one way to remove it..."
A pause.
"Voldemort himself must do it."
The room fell into a stunned, suffocating silence.
Dawn's breath caught. Her eyes went wide—not from disbelief, but from fury building to a fever pitch.
"The boy must die?" she said, her voice low, guttural, dangerous. "That's what you're telling us? That Harry Potter must die in order to rid the world of the Dark Lord?"
Albus said nothing.
"No." Dawn stepped forward now, voice rising with every syllable. "No. That is not happening. I am done with this—done with watching you push that boy into a war he never chose, forcing him into sacrifice after sacrifice as if he were a chess piece."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Starting next year, you are not to interact with Harry Potter unless it directly concerns school or classroom instruction. You are no longer allowed to maneuver him like one of your bloody long games."
Her voice cracked like thunder.
"Am I clear, old man?"
The title hung in the air—cold, final, and unrelenting.
Albus looked up slowly. The weight of a hundred regrets lined his expression, but he did not argue. He could not.
He nodded.
"...Yes, Your Majesty."
Jerith exhaled through his nose, the fire in him still simmering. "You will not dictate this war anymore, Albus. The royal family is taking control of this from here."
Dawn stepped beside her husband, standing tall in her fury, her emerald eyes like twin blades. There was no tremble in her voice, no hesitation—only fire forged into steel.
"He is not a weapon, Albus," she repeated, each word precise and echoing like a royal decree. "He is a boy. And I will not see him thrown away like the rest of your pawns."
The silence that followed was tense, but she wasn't finished.
"Your Order of the Phoenix will stand down as well," she continued, her tone growing colder with every word. "You are no longer operating unsupervised. From this day forward, every single member of your little rebellion will be under royal watch. They will be monitored. You may have meant well... but too many lives have been gambled under your care, and I refuse to allow that pattern to continue."
Jerith gave a single approving nod, his hand resting lightly on the back of her shoulder—a gesture of support, of unity.
But Dawn wasn't done.
She took a step forward, placing both hands flat on the headmaster's desk as she leaned in, her voice now a quiet storm.
"And as for Sirius Black," she said with sharp precision, "we've been investigating his so-called arrest. The King himself ordered a full review of his case file."
Albus's brows furrowed. "I—"
"No," Dawn cut him off, eyes flashing. "You don't speak. You let it happen."
Her voice grew sharper.
"Cornelius Fudge saw to it that Sirius Black was thrown into Azkaban without a trial. No Veritaserum. No wand inspection. No dark mark check. Nothing. No procedure, no defense, no justice. Just a convenient scapegoat for a broken system."
Dumbledore opened his mouth, but the fury in her gaze silenced him.
"I want Sirius Black brought here. Tonight, Headmaster," she ordered. "No excuses. I want him in this office, and I want to hear his story from his own lips. If there's one more injustice tangled in this war, I will unravel it."
Jerith's voice joined hers, low and steady. "Celtica does not recognize corrupted convictions. If Sirius Black was wrongly imprisoned, he will be cleared and protected under royal jurisdiction.
Dumbledore finally nodded—slow, weary, and small beneath their fury.
"Yes," he murmured. "I will bring him."
Dawn stood tall once more, lifting her chin.
"See that you do."
The air inside Malfoy Manor was thick with the scent of burning wax and aged wood, the warmth of the candles doing little to cut through the chill that clung to the walls like a lingering curse. The grand dining hall—once a place of opulence and pureblood celebration—had long since transformed into something darker, something colder. The flickering candlelight cast warped shadows across the polished floor, bending around the tall figures that loomed at the edges of the room like wraiths in waiting.
At the head of the long, obsidian table sat Lord Voldemort.
Silent.
Still.
His pale fingers tapped idly against the carved armrest of his high-backed chair, each rhythmic sound echoing like a countdown in the oppressive quiet. A copy of the Daily Prophet lay spread open before him, untouched but not unread. Its bold headline blazed across the page like a curse etched in fire:
"FUDGE FORCED TO RETIRE—UMBRIDGE TO FACE ROYAL TRIAL"
Royal Family Intervenes in Ministry Collapse—New Leadership Incoming?
The article was saturated with damning details—details that simmered hotter than fiendfyre in the Dark Lord's mind. Dawn and Jerith Mikcloud Kuran. The magical royal family's swift and absolute intervention. Fudge ousted. Umbridge arrested. And worst of all—Harry Potter defended in front of the entire wizarding world by royalty themselves.
Blood quills. Used on students.
That, of all things, did not sit well with him.
Not because he cared for the children.
But because it was amateurish. Crude. Embarrassing.
Beneath him.
And it was his name now spoken in the same breath as disgrace.
All around him, his inner circle argued like squabbling dogs.
"It's your fault the boy dropped the prophecy!" Bellatrix shrieked at Lucius, her voice high and trembling with rage, her black curls bouncing as she pointed a shaking finger at him across the table.
Rodolphus exhaled beside her with the weariness of a man who had seen this performance too many times.
Lucius's eyes narrowed. His face, pale and elegant as ever, twisted with disdain. "It was not my fault. The boy dropped it. There was no warning. Our Lord knew the risk."
"The boy should have been stunned!" Bellatrix snapped, voice rising again.
"The boy was fighting us—he had friends. Dumbledore showed up!" Lucius retorted, arms folding tightly over his chest.
"The Dark Lord trusted you!" she howled.
Crackling tension shattered the illusion of order as Bellatrix slammed both palms against the long table and shot to her feet. "You don't know what our Lord wants!"
Lucius stood too, slow and deliberate. His silver-blond hair shimmered under the flickering chandelier. "He hasn't said what he wants," he replied coolly, "which tells me you don't know either, you mad hag."
Bellatrix gasped—outrage and delight lighting up her expression all at once. Her hand twitched toward her wand.
"How dare you—"
"Enough," Rodolphus muttered beside her without looking, his tone bored, his body unmoving. He had long since stopped trying to rein her in.
Next to him, Rabastan Lestrange sighed and pulled out a small velvet pouch. He casually popped a sugared candy into his mouth and chewed slowly, the faint crunch oddly loud in the growing silence.
But Bellatrix was not finished. She slammed a hand to the table, eyes wide and glinting with wild glee. "I know what our Lord wants!"
Lucius raised an unimpressed brow and drew his wand with practiced ease. "You need to calm yourself before the madness of the Black family gets you killed, Bella."
Her fingers curled tightly around her own wand, that terrifying, delighted smirk curling at the edges of her lips. She didn't see it as madness.
She thrived in it.
Across the table, Narcissa Malfoy sat still as stone. Her blue eyes flicked between her sister and her husband, lips pressed into a hard, graceful line. Then, at last, she spoke—soft and sharp as a scalpel.
"Bella... enough."
The word hung in the air.
But still, Voldemort said nothing.
He hadn't moved since the meeting began, hadn't looked up from the Prophet in minutes. Yet his silence filled the room more than any shout ever could.
"Cissy!" Bellatrix shrieked, throwing her hands up in wild frustration. "How can you let your husband talk to me like that?!"
She whirled around with a dramatic spin of her robes, curls bouncing wildly. "My Lord!" she called toward the end of the table, her voice taking on a faux-innocent, singsong lilt. "Lucy's being mean! A bad host!"
Lucius growled under his breath, wand still clenched in hand. "It's Lucius," he snapped, his voice low and venomous. "You unhinged, walking, love-sick fool."
Across the table, Rodolphus bit his lower lip hard, barely restraining the laughter building in his chest. Merlin, this was getting out of hand—and yet, undeniably entertaining. His brother, Rabastan, seemed to agree, judging by the way he slowly popped another sugared candy into his mouth and chewed with all the concern of a man watching children squabble in a garden.
And then—a shift in the air.
A soft hiss.
Barely audible, but unmistakable.
A sudden, primal chill swept through the hall like a gust of wind from the grave. The flames of the candelabras flickered. The laughter died in Rodolphus's throat. Even Bellatrix, mid-rant, went perfectly still.
Everyone turned.
Voldemort had risen.
He stood at the head of the table, his long, spindly fingers now curled tightly around his wand—held in his left hand with casual lethality. His movements were fluid, but there was something deeply inhuman in the way he turned his head, the way his red eyes scanned the room with coiled restraint.
The silence stretched—taut and unrelenting.
Then, the hiss came again—this time, from him.
"Imbeciles."
His voice, smooth as silk yet colder than any winter wind, slithered through the hall like a serpent through dry leaves. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. That one word was enough.
A single syllable, and it cut deeper than any hex.
The contempt in it was absolute.
He looked upon them—his so-called inner circle—with thinly veiled disgust. Not rage. Disappointment. And in that moment, it became terrifyingly clear that no one in that room could ever meet his expectations.
Not anymore.
The Dark Lord's skeletal fingers tightened slowly around his wand, the gesture silent, yet violent with suppressed fury.
Then, without a word, without so much as a look back, he turned on his heel.
His long black robes billowed like shadows crawling after him, swallowing light as they passed. The rhythmic click of his boots echoed across the marble floor—sharp, slow, final.
And then... he was gone.
The door closed behind him with a whisper.
And what remained was silence—heavy, suffocating, absolute.
The air itself seemed to recoil in his absence. Even the shadows clung to the corners like they were too afraid to move.
Lucius was the first to breathe. A slow, deliberate exhale. He lowered his wand with a controlled grace, the tension sliding off him like a winter cloak.
He turned to Bellatrix, voice flat, cold, and steeped in irritation. "See what you did."
Bellatrix, still standing, her eyes wild and her curls in disarray, trembled with suppressed emotion. Her wand remained tight in her grip, her knuckles white.
But she said nothing.
Even she knew she had pushed too far.
Rodolphus exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. The moment had passed, and with it, any patience he had left. Rabastan, as always, seemed unfazed—still sucking thoughtfully on a piece of candy like this was just another Thursday.
And Narcissa?
Narcissa remained seated, perfectly composed—outwardly. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her posture refined. But those close enough to see her clearly noticed the slight tremble in her fingers as she reached for her wine glass.
She took a sip—not from thirst, but to avoid meeting anyone's gaze.
The Death Eaters had grown used to pain. To torture. To bloodshed.
But this?
Disappointment.
That was something else entirely.
And somehow... it was so much worse.
Voldemort strode through the dimly lit corridors of Malfoy Manor, his presence casting a weight that stretched beyond mere shadow. The air itself grew colder in his wake, dense and oppressive, as if the ancient stones of the estate were recoiling from his very existence. The flickering sconces lining the walls trembled in their golden holders, the flames shrinking as he passed—shrinking, retreating, as if aware that their warmth was not welcome in his presence.
He did not glance at the fine decor, the ornate tapestries depicting old, proud pure-blood ancestry, or the masterful carvings embedded in the crown molding. All of Lucius Malfoy's meticulously curated wealth—his obsession with status—meant nothing to a man who had long since shed any desire for such trappings. Voldemort had no need for gold. No use for luxury. Power was the only currency he valued.
His mind burned with quiet contempt. The petty squabbling of his Death Eaters echoed faintly in the recesses of his thoughts like buzzing insects. Pathetic. They argued like children. Fought over blame. Waited—always waited—for him to think, to plan, to act. They needed him to breathe direction into their empty chests. Not one of them had the intellect or initiative to move the war forward without holding his coattails like frightened acolytes.
The war had begun to stagnate. He could feel it.
It dragged like a corpse through the mud—bloated, slow, wasting time. And he hated nothing more than wasted time.
His footsteps, crisp and sharp, echoed alone as he turned down a secluded hallway, one far removed from the inhabited wings of the manor. This corridor—narrower, darker—led to his private wing. A sanctum Lucius was wise enough never to enter. The darkness here was deeper. Older.
With a flick of his wand, the towering double doors at the end of the hall creaked open, groaning under their own weight. The chamber beyond welcomed him like a vault of stone and shadow.
Inside, the only light came from the hearth. The flames within burned low and steady, casting a slow-dancing amber glow across black marble floors and walls of slate gray. No portraits. No paintings. No trophies. The space was silent, smooth, and stripped of all things unnecessary.
A single high-backed chair sat before the fire, its design stark and angular—functional, commanding, not meant for comfort. Voldemort passed it without pause.
Curled near the warmth of the flames lay Nagini, her body stretched in elegant coils like darkened silk. Her iridescent scales shimmered as she stirred, the subtle light revealing patterns that slithered like shifting oil. Her large, golden eyes opened, vertical pupils narrowing in recognition. She did not move to strike. She did not hiss. She simply watched him, unblinking, her tongue flicking out once in lazy acknowledgment.
"Nagini," he murmured, his voice low, yet more intimate than it had been all evening. The cold edge faded slightly from his tone, replaced by something quieter. A calm reserved only for her.
She uncoiled slowly, her powerful form slinking across the stone as she approached him with silent grace. Her head rose to meet his gaze, and in her golden eyes, he saw something no Death Eater could offer—understanding.
He crouched slowly beside her, his fingers ghosting along her jaw, just behind her hood. Her body moved to his touch like a well-trained creature, but there was no subservience in her posture—only mutual awareness.
For a moment, there was peace.
But it would not last.
"They are weak," she hissed, her voice a silken whisper, threading itself through his mind like smoke in the dark. No one else could hear it. No one else would be worthy of understanding.
Voldemort lowered himself into the tall-backed chair, the slow, deliberate movement more ritual than rest. His jaw, perpetually tight with command and calculation, loosened just slightly. He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, as his pale fingers moved absently to Nagini's scales, tracing the familiar grooves beneath her jaw with idle precision.
"They are," he murmured. No emotion. No anger. Just cold, immutable truth.
Nagini slithered closer, her body a dark ribbon against the black marble floor. She curled herself at his feet, her heavy head resting against his knee, her forked tongue flicking lightly over the hem of his robe. Not in reverence. In kinship.
"You are tired," she said, voice low and steady—more observation than concern.
His fingers paused, resting against her warmth.
Yes.
He was tired.
But not in the way mortals tired. His exhaustion ran far deeper, a quiet rot eroding the edges of his soul. It wasn't his body that ached—it was his purpose. The war had become a loop. A dull, cracked wheel dragging across the same worn path: plan, command, punish, kill, repeat. His enemies never learned. His followers never evolved. The dance of power, once intoxicating, now felt mechanical.
The flame that had once roared with ambition... had begun to smolder.
And in that silence, an unfamiliar thought whispered its way through the cracks.
What if I left?
He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. But Nagini felt it all the same.
"Then leave them," she whispered, her voice slinking between the firelight and the shadows. "If they bore you... abandon them. No one controls you. Not even destiny."
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the walls—serpents and wraiths, flickering in time with the thought that had now taken root.
He didn't reply. He didn't need to.
He simply sat there, stroking Nagini's scaled head, the weight of her presence grounding him. And then, with a dry, almost amused breath, he murmured something so absurdly foreign to his own tongue that it surprised even him.
"I need... a vacation."
The words were light. Ironic. And yet, undeniably true.
Nagini lifted her head, eyes gleaming with reflected firelight. "Where though, Master? Do you have another hideout we can escape to?"
He leaned back into the chair, his red gaze drifting over the dark room. His mind wandered through decades—places long abandoned, safehouses buried beneath the names of dead men. None of them called to him. None of them felt right.
Then his eyes fell on something.
Across the room, the wardrobe stood open, half-forgotten. And inside, still hanging like a memory that refused to fade, was an old, worn leather messenger bag—scarred and aged, with the subtle charm of a life lived before power had consumed him.
From another time.
Slowly, Voldemort raised his wand. The bag lifted from its hook, floating gently across the room, and settled in his lap with a muted thump.
He unbuckled it.
The scent of aged parchment and old ink rose up to greet him. Inside were forgotten fragments of a life that had been shelved away—notes in his handwriting, a pocket edition of Advanced Transfiguration, a spare wand holster, even a cracked pair of reading glasses he had once worn while pretending to be mortal.
And then—his fingers brushed something cold.
Metal.
He reached in, brow creasing as he pulled it into the light.
A key.
His eyes widened slightly, the smallest crease of recognition stirring deep within a part of him that had been dormant for decades. The brass was worn smooth beneath his fingers, the metal dulled with age, but the shape was unmistakable. The faint, curling engravings—once sharp—were now half-erased by time, but still visible to the one who had etched them there.
The key pulsed with memory.
His loft.
A small, forgotten apartment hidden away in the tangled veins of Muggle London. He had nearly forgotten it even existed—a place buried beneath years of war, death, and ambition. But it was still there. Waiting.
He had bought it sometime in the early 1960s, when he had been no one—just Tom. Tom Riddle. A man moving in shadows, untethered from the world, not yet fully swallowed by the name he would later wear like a crown of ash.
It had been a sanctuary then. A strange, quiet space carved out of the world he claimed to hate. Hidden behind layer upon layer of enchantments, protected by his own variation of the Fidelius Charm, it had been veiled so perfectly that not even death could unravel it without his consent.
No one knew about it.
No one could know—unless he willed it.
He wasn't even sure why he'd created it. Perhaps it was a curiosity. An experiment. A test of his control over magic and over himself. Or maybe—though he would never have admitted it then—it had been a place of silence. Of solitude. A space where he wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, or the serpent of prophecy, or the thing Dumbledore feared.
Just Tom.
He hadn't set foot in it in nearly four decades.
And now, holding the key in his hand, he realized it had never left him. Not really.
The flat had remained untouched. Dormant. Waiting like some sealed tomb of an old self.
And now... it called to him again.
Not with urgency. But with something else. A place where he could vanish—not as Voldemort, the Dark Lord, hunted or feared—but as something else entirely. For a time.
He closed his hand around the key, the cool metal pressing into his palm like a pact made in silence.
Nagini shifted beside him, lifting her head to study his expression, golden eyes sharp with awareness.
Sitting up, Voldemort raised his wand with the fluid precision of someone who didn't need to speak to command. Across the room, a long-forgotten trunk slid out from the depths of a hidden closet, its metal fittings groaning in protest as it was pulled forward across the marble floor. Dust rose in the still air as it came to rest before him—worn, old, and familiar.
With a silent sweep of his hand, the contents of the room stirred.
Books, old parchment rolls, carefully preserved scrolls, and relics of a past life floated up into the air—some worn and brittle with age, others sealed tight in protective wards. Personal artifacts, long buried beneath decades of indifference, now rose like memories summoned from the deep. One by one, each item shrank down neatly, tucking itself inside the trunk with perfect precision. Not a word spoken. Not a thought wasted.
Nagini slithered closer, her vast coils sliding across the floor with a soft, silk-on-stone whisper. She coiled loosely at the base of his chair, her head rising slowly until her golden eyes met his once more—piercing, intelligent.
"Master," she hissed, her voice tinged with something between amusement and concern, "you intend to walk through Muggle London... looking like this?"
Voldemort's fingers paused where they rested, tapping rhythmically against the lid of the trunk. The silence that followed was weighty. Thoughtful.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the tall, narrow mirror mounted along the far wall.
And what stared back at him... was not a man.
The creature reflected in the glass was pale, almost translucent, with skin stretched unnaturally tight across sharp, bone-white features. Hollow cheeks. No eyebrows. No hair. Eyes like glowing embers in a dying hearth—red, inhuman, devoid of warmth. A face sculpted by cruelty and dark magic, twisted and hollowed by the very path he had carved through death and beyond it.
He had become something else. Something more. Something less.
He studied the ridges where his nose had once been, the way the shadows clung to his face like stains. There was no humanity left to shape. No illusion that could mask the damage his choices had wrought.
And then... a flicker.
A memory.
A younger face. Angular, sharp—but handsome. Devilishly so. Charisma woven into every line. Tom Riddle. A boy with charm sharper than any dagger, and a smile that could both enchant and devour.
The thought was a distant one, but it was there, nonetheless. Tom Riddle. The name felt like an echo, something locked away in the past, buried beneath layers of power and transformation. He had shed that face long ago, sacrificed it in pursuit of immortality, of dominance.
And yet, now, for the first time in decades, he found himself resenting his current form. Not for its fearsome presence—no, that had served him well. But because it was limiting. He could not walk unnoticed. He could not slip into the world without eyes trailing after him in horror.
Voldemort's grip tightened around his wand.
If no charm could disguise him... then perhaps it was time to take more drastic measures.
His gaze swept over the chamber, the cold glow of the dying fire casting flickering shadows along the dark stone walls. This place had once been a sanctuary—not a home, never a home—but a space carved out of necessity, where he could withdraw, scheme, and surround himself with only silence and thought. Yet now, it felt hollow. His patience had worn thin, and the luxury of time—something he had long tried to conquer—was slipping away in the most mundane of ways.
He had wasted enough of it.
The decision had already been made.
With a deliberate flick of his wand, the trunk at his feet trembled, shrinking in an instant until it was no larger than a matchbox. It landed in his outstretched palm, the familiar weight grounding him as he rolled it between his fingers before sliding it into the deep pocket of his robe.
Nagini shifted from her place on the floor, her smooth coils sliding against the polished black marble as she lifted her head, her golden eyes narrowing.
"Hold on, Nagini," he hissed, voice low and controlled.
The great serpent obeyed without question, her powerful form winding effortlessly up his arm until she settled across his shoulders, her cool weight pressing against his collarbone like a second skin.
Voldemort straightened, his crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable before he turned on the spot—
And then, he was gone. Leaving a Note on the desk for Lucius.
And a single piece of parchment on the desk—heavy with ink, written in a precise, elegant hand. A crack split the silence, the rush of displaced air stirring the loose parchments on the desk before they drifted to the floor, abandoned. The fire behind the hearth let out one final flicker before extinguishing entirely, casting the chamber into total darkness.
The silence that followed was deafening.
A sharp knock rang out against the heavy oak doors, hesitant at first, then firmer.
"My Lord? Would you like something—"
The door creaked open, and Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. The moment his eyes landed on the empty room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The sight before him made his breath catch.
Everything was gone.
No robes left draped over the chair, no personal artifacts, no lingering trace of the Dark Lord's presence. The air still carried the last traces of the fire's dying embers, the scent of smoke and something colder—finality.
Lucius's grip tightened around the edge of the door, his knuckles whitening. He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. This wasn't some casual departure. No... this was abandonment.
His Lord... had left.
And he had taken Nagini with him.
Then—he saw it.
A single note.
Folded neatly atop the desk, pale against the black wood.
Lucius approached as if the parchment might bite him. He stopped just before it, the name on the front facing him in looping, elegant script.
He reached out—slowly—and picked it up, his gloved hands brushing against the chill of the desk.
He unfolded it.
The ink was crisp. The message was short. Every letter cut with surgical precision.
Lucius,
Do not seek me. Do not follow. I'm leaving for a secret mission in Ireland.
Hold your tongue and your position.
Await further instructions. I will return after for What I seek.
—L.V.
Lucius stood in place, the parchment gripped carefully in his gloved hands. He read it once—then again. Not out of disbelief, but out of reverence.
The message was clear.
And the honor, implicit.
The Dark Lord had chosen to leave without escort, without announcement—entrusting only Lucius with the knowledge of his movements. Not Bellatrix. Not the Lestranges. Him.
There was no panic. No confusion.
Only obedience.
Lucius exhaled slowly, folding the letter with practiced care and slipping it into an inner pocket of his robes. He turned back toward the door, his expression unreadable, mask firmly in place. The flicker of surprise had long since been buried beneath decades of poise.
He understood what was required.
He would guard this secret. He would maintain order. Keep the Death Eaters from unraveling. Hold the line, hold the image, and when the time came—be ready.
Because if the Dark Lord was going to Ireland...
Then something ancient had awoken.
And when he returned, the world would not be the same.