The morning after the emergency summons, Hogwarts buzzed as though it were a beehive disturbed.

In the Great Hall, students huddled in whispering clusters. The events of the night before, flashing lights from the forest… unexpected summons… and Headmaster Black's dire warning, had shaken even the bravest of seventh-years.

"They say a hippogriff went mad," Percy muttered over toast, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. "Or maybe a rogue werewolf."

"It wasn't a creature," Scylla said softly, her gaze distant. "I could feel it. Magic. Something deep. Old."

Rowan, rubbing the palm that had flared with pain the night before, kept silent. He hadn't told them about the mark. He wasn't sure why… not yet. Not even Wisp, perched on the bench beside him with unusual alertness, gave any sign of what she'd witnessed.

Sera, balancing a spoon on her nose, broke the tension with a grin. "Maybe the forest just wanted some attention. You know, it's dramatic like that."

Their laughter was brief, but it helped.

~.~.~.~

Their first class was Potions.

Professor Fergus Snobbleworth awaited them in the dungeon classroom, his hair looking like it had been hexed into a permanent state of mild electrocution.

"Ah. First-years," he said without turning. "Do not touch anything unless I say. And Merlin help you if you smell anything before I tell you it's safe."

They took their seats—unfortunately, sharing the room with the Slytherins. Castor Malfoy smirked as he passed Rowan's table, his tone just loud enough for the room.

"Careful, Potter. Wouldn't want to mistake boomslang skin for flobberworm mucus again."

Rowan ignored him, though he felt heat rise in his cheeks. Percy looked ready to swing a cauldron at Castor's head, but Scylla tugged him back into his seat.

They were partnered off; Rowan with Sera, who promptly spilled her entire measuring vial of dried leech flakes onto the desk.

"Oops," she chirped. "I'll be the chaos. You be the brains."

~.~.~.~

Charms was better.

Professor Laslow's classroom was warm, his voice smooth and steady as he introduced basic wand motions. When he reached Rowan's table, he paused.

"The Potters have a long history of precise spell work," he said, tone unreadable. "Let's see if you live up to the name."

Rowan met his gaze and gave a small nod. The mark on his palm prickled, but didn't return.

They practiced the Lumos spells. Sera's wand backfired in a soft puff of glittering sparks. Percy managed a dull glow. Rowan's wand blazed to life with a crisp white light.

Professor Maslow arched a brow, murmuring something under his breath.

~.~.~.~

Defence Against the Dark Arts was… Unsettling.

Professor Pettigrew looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His robes were wrinkled, and his eyes darted around the room as if expecting an ambush.

"Danger is everywhere," he said, barely above a whisper. "Wands are not to be trusted. Spells can… slip."

He introduced basic shielding charms but jumped at loud noises and flinched when a candle flared too bright. When he passed Rowan, he stopped.

"You," he said softly. "Be careful. Sometimes, it finds you first."

Then he moved on.

~.~.~.~

That evening, Rowan wandered the library.

He couldn't stop thinking about the mark. Something about it didn't feel accidental.

He didn't expect to find answers, but as he reached for a book on family enchantments, another slipped loose from the shelf and landed at his feet.

Warded Bloodlines: Forgotten Magic's and Forbidden MarksHis breath caught.

He flipped through the pages, careful not to draw attention. Near the back, a faded sketch showed a figure holding out their palm—etched with a familiar lightning shape.

A blood-mark: a magical symbol passed down through ancestral lines. They appear when ancient curses awaken or when a bloodline is threatened by unnatural forces.

Rowan closed the book quickly. Someone was coming.

It was Charles Weasley, red-haired and grinning as always. "Fancy a bit of fun?" He whispered. "The Owlery at night. I know a secret way."

Rowan hesitated, then nodded. Percy and Sera joined them. Scylla followed last, eyes wary.

They crept through the dark halls.

The detour was thrilling, until they ran straight into Castor and his two usual shadows.

"Well, well," Castor drawled. "Potter and his merry band of misfits. Lost your prefect guide?"

"Get lost, Malfoy," Percy growled.

"Oh, I'm shaking." Castor stepped closer. "Careful, or you'll end up like your broomstick. Locked in a cupboard for a hundred years."

Rowan stepped forward, wand at his side. "Try me."

But before anything could spark, a voice sliced through the hall.

"Enough!" It was Professor Duran. "Five points from both houses. And you'll be reporting to Filch tomorrow for detention."

Castor smirked, but he didn't look entirely pleased.

~.~.~.~

Later that night, Rowan found himself alone.

Wisp meowed at the dorm window and darted out. He followed her through the quiet halls, until she turned down a corridor he hadn't noticed before. The door she led him to bore no name, just a small carving of a feather.

The fire crackled low in Professor Maslow's study, casting long shadows on the shelves of ancient books and half-forgotten trinkets. Rowan sat in the worn leather chair across from the professor, Wisp curled at his feet like a silent guardian.

Laslow poured two cups of tea, sliding one toward Rowan without speaking. The quiet hung between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

After a moment, Rowan sat the cup down and pulled back his sleeve. "You already know, don't you?"

Laslow's eyes flicked to the faint outline on Rowan's palm—the lightning-bolt shaped mark now dim, but not gone. "I suspected," he said gently. "And I hoped I was wrong."

"What is it?" Rowan asked. "A curse? A scar? It… burns. Sometimes."

Laslow leaned forward, folding his hands. "It's called a blood-mark. Rare. Dangerous. It's not something anyone is born with, not really. It surfaces when old magic… cursed magic… clings to a bloodline so tightly it refuses to fade."

Rowan stared at the mark. "So one of my ancestors was cursed… and it affects me, even now?"

Laslow gave a slow nod. "Dark magic of this sort doesn't obey the laws of time as we know them. It's not bound to the past or future—it exists along the blood itself. The curse lies not with the person, Rowan… but with the line. Where on the stream it appears—upstream, downstream—it's unpredictable."

Rowan looked up, heart pounding. "You mean this curse… it's not just mine?"

Laslow's eyes softened. "You carry its weight, yes. But perhaps you're not its intended end. Or beginning."

There was a silence, broken only by the pop of the fire. Rowan ran his thumb over the mark, the skin oddly cold now.

"Can it be broken?"

Laslow hesitated. "Perhaps. But unraveling magic like this requires understanding its origin. And whoever cast it… they've hidden their hand well.

Rowan nodded slowly. "Then I'll find out. I have to."

The professor studied him for a moment, then spoke with a deep breath.

"Be wary, Rowan," Laslow said, his voice barely above a whisper. "A mark like that doesn't just bind you to danger… it calls it to you."

~.~.~.~

Defence Against the Dark Arts

The classroom was dimmer than the others, lit only by the waning sunlight filtering through tall, narrow windows. Shelves lined the stone walls, filled with cages, skulls, and books so worn their spines looked ready to crumble. A jar of what might have been a troll's hand floated in dusty amber near the front.

Professor Reginald Pettigrew stood behind his desk, arms crossed, his brow furrowed beneath a streak of white through his otherwise dark hair. His robes were frayed at the cuffs, and his eyes—sharp, restless things—roamed the class with something bordering of agitation.

"I'll be frank," he said, slapping the assigned textbook closed with a snap. "This curriculum is a joke."

The class stilled. A few students exchanged glances. Sera gave Rowan a quiet sideways grin, clearly intrigued.

"These books would have you believe the greatest threats you'll face in your lives are improperly brewed poisons and the odd rogue vampire. Utter nonsense." He began to pace, the click of his boots echoing with purpose. "There are darker things in this world than the Ministry dares admit. Shadows that linger in corners no spell can reach."

He paused beside the chalkboard and, without writing a word, turned back to them.

"Tell me—have any of you heard of The Hollow Lord?"

A few hands hovered half-heartedly in the air. Percy looked genuinely puzzled. Castor Malfoy leaned back with a smirk. "An old bedtime story. Wizarding boogeyman."

Pettigrew gave him a humourless smile. "Is that what you think?"

Castor shrugged. "It's what I've been told."

"Then you've been told very little."

He stepped forward, voice dropping into something closer to a growl. "The Hollow Lord. Abaddon. He has gone by many names, most of them lost to time. He is not a man in the traditional sense, not anymore. He is something that slipped through the cracks of our world long ago. A remnant. A hunger."

Rowan felt the hairs on his arms rise. Wisp, asleep at his feet, suddenly lifted her head.

Pettigrew continued. "There are records… sealed, scrubbed, dismissed… of plagues in wizarding enclaves that had no magical cause. Of entire families—pureblood lines—vanishing without a trace. Magical phenomena so unnatural, even the Department of Mysteries won't speak of them. All centred around whispered sightings of a figure in black flame. Of voices that should not speak. Of a hollow man with no shadow."

Sera leaned toward Rowan, whispering, "He's either brilliant or mad."

"Possibly both," Rowan murmured.

"I know what you're thinking," Pettigrew said, sweeping his gaze across the class again. "It's all stories. Abaddon is a myth. A cautionary tale. But I'll tell you this—whenever magic begins to ripple, to misbehave, to twist, he's not far from it. The Forbidden Forest has never been tame, but what's happening now… that's something else. And I fear it may be his hand, reaching through once more.

The class was silent now. Even Castor seemed less smug.

Pettigrew exhaled and straightened. "You don't have to believe me. Not yet. But if you're wise, you'll pay attention to the signs. And if you're foolish, well… you'll wish you hadn't been."

He turned back to the chalkboard and, finally, scrawled across it in harsh, white strokes:

Lesson One: Fear is not weakness. Ignorance is.

~.~.~.~

The sky was awash in fading gold and lavender as the last of the sun dipped behind the Forbidden Forest. From the stands, Percy North leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes tracking Rowan's form as he looped around the far goalpost at breakneck speed.

"Blimey," he muttered. "He's quick. Reckless, but quick."

Sera Harper popped a jellybean into her mouth and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "He's a Potter, isn't he? I mean, isn't that their thing? Heroic flying and brooding destiny."

Percy snorted. "He's not brooding."

She arched a brow. "Oh please. He's got the mark, Percy. On his palm. It lit up. That's full-on prophecy behaviour."

"Maybe." Percy admitted. "But it's not like he asked for it."

Sera grew quiet for a moment, watching Rowan drop into a sharp dive to snag the falling Quaffle before it hit the ground. A few upper-years in the stands clapped. Wisp, the black-furred cat, watched lazily from the sideline, as if she expected nothing less.

"Do you think Pettigrew was serious? About the Hollow Lord?" Sera asked softly.

Percy chewed on the inside of his cheek. "He sounded serious."

"Yeah, well, my Aunt Thalia sounds serious when she's convinced the gnomes in her garden are part of an international spy network."

He smiled at that, but his gaze stayed on Rowan. "It's different. The mark. The dreams. The forest. Something's not right."

Sera looked over at him, curious. "You believe in all that then? Abaddon? The Hollow Lord?"

"I believe something's coming," he said. "And if it's anything like the stories, Rowan might be the only one who can stop it."

They both watched as Rowan hovered for a moment, turning his broom to look out across the horizon. The wind caught his hair as the sun finally disappeared behind the trees, shadows stretching across the field like reaching hands.

Sera tossed another jellybean into her mouth. "Well, then," she said, voice light, "guess it's a good thing we're brilliant and charming and ride the coattails of powerful friends."

"Speak for yourself," Percy muttered. "I plan on getting famous through sheer athletic superiority."

Sera laughed.

Down on the pitch, Rowan touched down and jogged toward them, broom in hand. His eyes sparkled, flushed from the wind, but there was a hint of something unsettled behind them.

"Oi," Percy called. "Try not to look so heroic. You're making the rest of us look bad."

Rowan gave a tired smile. "No promises."

As he climbed the stands to meet them, Wisp leapt to her paws and followed, tail flicking.

Rowan dropped into the seat beside them, the broom resting across his knees. Wisp curling at his feet like a sentinel. For a few breaths, none of them spoke. The fading light washed the stadium in deepening hues, and the strange howling from the trees had long since vanished, though it lingered in the air like a memory.

Sera broke the silence first. "So. Your hand is cursed, you might be haunted by some ancient evil, and people are calling you the next great Seeker." She popped another jellybean in her mouth. "No pressure."

Rowan huffed a laugh. "That about sums it up."

Percy leaned back with a grunt. "That thing on your hand… it burned, didn't it? Not just a tingle or a flash. You looked like someone had hexed you."

Rowan turned his hand over and stared at the skin. Smooth now. Clean. No sign of the lightning-shaped mark that had seared itself there earlier.

"It was like fire," he said. "Like something trying to wake up. Or get out."

Sera tilted her head. "And Laslow? He really didn't know what it was?"

"He said it was a blood-curse," Rowan said, voice quiet. "Old magic. Older than even he could name. And not bound by time the way we think it should be." He glanced up at them. "He said it could've been placed on any Potter, at any point in our bloodline. Maybe even meant for someone who hasn't been born yet."

Sera's brows lifted. "That's… terrifyingly vague."

Percy nodded. "You think it's connected to that Hollow Lord that Pettigrew was going on about?"

"I don't know," Rowan admitted. "But I don't think it's random. The mark. The forest. The stories. They're all tied together somehow."

"Everything's always 'tied together' when ancient evil is involved," Sera chimed.

Rowan gave her a tired smile. "Laslow told me to be careful. Said the mark might be a beacon. That whatever cursed my family might be… watching."

Percy sat up a little straighter. "Then maybe we should all be careful."

Sera nodded firmly. "You're not alone, Rowan. Whether it's curses, dark lords, or shadowy forest nightmares—we're in this together."

Wisp purred, curling tighter around Rowan's boots.

For a long moment, the three of them sat in the dim light, facing the horizon where the stars began to bloom. Somewhere, far beyond the Forbidden Forest, a shadow was moving. But for now, the trio sat as one.

Strong. Unbroken.

Together.