A few more runes to inscribe in the ancient stone and his project would be complete. The material he was working on was not forgiving. It was stronger than stone. Unyielding. As if the veil knew of its given title and was determined to outlast all mortal beings. The inscribing charm proved ineffective against the structure. Within a week of undertaking this crack-pot idea, because that is what it was, Harry had contacted all the relevant shops lining the sides of Diagon Alley. He had even visited a few promising shops owned by the random collectors in the grimier parts of Knockturn Alley.

He paused in his work as a shiver broke across his back. He couldn't make a single deviation in his meticulous rune etching. He'd been at it for four hours and it had to be dark by now. He couldn't restart if he made a mistake. The veil's magic wouldn't allow for a reparo charm to take effect. The tingling from the cold air reminded him of how weary he'd been of those areas in Knockturn. He discovered that it was where werewolves lie low, goblins profited in backroom dealings, and hags ambled around in their little...Covens?Knockturn goblins - the untrustworthy, scrupulous bastards. Nothing was worse than a diligent and thorough conman. The werewolves - he just felt pity for many of them. The hags - a sneaky, vicious, and perverse bunch.

One hag had leered at Teddy with ravenous eyes. A mirky, brown tongue sloughing out of her mouth to wet permanently chapped and bleeding lips. Yeah… the last Potter had lost all ability to practice tolerance where it concerned his godson. There were multiple reasons why a parent wouldn't allow their child to wander away from them in Knockturn alley. Hags were the reason no one ever saw the odd orphan on their own…

Covens. There was speculation in the academic community that hags originated from covens of Celtic women who had been persecuted during Rome's expansion. In his honest opinion…

'A dead hag can't kill children. The math checks out.'A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Hags are horrid-looking creatures that walk an abhorrent path with only hate in their hearts and four toes on each foot. Their skin withered and gray with puss-filled warts acting like an invasive species across their insipid skin. Teeth - few and decrepit. He truly didn't know how they were able to eat anything but soup, let alone human flesh. Their magic… it felt beyond corrupted, almost broken. Barely better than a squib's and, he assumed, only capable of brewing potions. Warped through numerous ritualistic sacrifices.

Harry had viewed a memory of one such ritual taking place. It irrevocably molested one's soul. Unforgiving consequences that the human mind, soul, and body can't cope with - that was the price for the Hag's magic and semi-immortality. A cursed existence until death's release is all that awaited them immediately after their 'birth'.

Because of their threat to children, Harry had no qualms with the idea of killing whatever hags he could. Harry really hated hags.

With none of the tools able to breach the stonework's surface, Harry had resolved himself to see the goblins. Lo and behold, goblin-forged inscribing tools were his new favorite discovery.

'Expensive as fuck though. The little shits.'

The veil of death was an unknown. Or, he should say, it was a magical artifact that the magical community was very aware of. However, other than convicted criminals going in and never coming out, nothing else was known about it. Nada. Zilch. Each weathered stone contributing to its archway-like structure was infused with unknown, powerful magic that frustrated the ministry, particularly the Unspeakables that oversaw all efforts in researching the monolith. Because that's exactly what the structure was, a monolith stretching 25 feet high and located in the middle of a 20-foot-deep pit.

The eerie feeling it exuded further magnified its presence. It was almost foreboding. He felt as if he was looking up at an apathetic god and knowing he was hilariously insignificant to them. The apathetic ambience translated perfectly to the structure's magic. It was cold. Not in a physical sense. No, it wasn't cold to the touch. The ancient magic was semi-sentient and functioned in a manner that was both decisive and ruthless. If it wanted to cause him harm, he'd already be dead.

The 24-year-old man started going over each rune, meticulously ensuring everything about the layout was flawless.

The veil never pushed him fully into that sinking feeling. Each time, before that foreboding could evolve into an oppressive pressure, it settled into a comforting or content state. If he was understanding this reaction from the veil correctly, then it almost seemed uncomfortable or defensive. Allowing him to proceed with his goal but keeping a very close eye to make sure he didn't make all go tits up. The magic around him was now tense and felt sort of like a helicopter-parent watching over their kid that first morning of kindergarten.

When Harry had walked the nervous Teddy to his first day of kindergarten, he simply sat next to his godson at his assigned seat, and they played hot potato until the last student arrived. He had chuckled when the teacher pointedly gestured for him to leave. It was such a simple experience and yet one of his fondest memories. Voldemort and his death eaters killed everyone and burnt the school to the ground a month later.

Needless to say, his Potter luck struck true once again when Teddy stayed home sick that day.

He quickly learned that being happy with the little things made a huge improvement to his mental health. You must accept all the little victories that you can in life. Otherwise, life can be a bitch with a hammer. And boy… was that bitch hovering near him with her wicked grin and a hammer poised on high. At all times. But enough thinking about such maudlin things. Something very… needed, would soon happen. He hoped. Oh Merlin, he hoped. He and Teddy needed this win.

"You awake, Teddy?" Harry spoke softly as he approached his 6-year-old godson after he'd carefully navigated across the floor and ascended the arena-like room, which had seating wrapping all around the platform the veil stood upon.

Steady breathing was his only reply. Teddy was asleep, dead to the world.

From here, one could still see the elaborate string of elder futhark runes wrapping around the base of the veil, climbing about 5 feet up each side of the stone archway. They mainly represented life, regeneration, renewal, and family. They spoke of one who had been unfairly lost, returning. Balance being restored.

Within his hand rested a flat, palm-sized piece of obsidian rock with a single rune carved into its surface. It was the uruz rune,ᚢ,symbolizing power, primal creative force, and gateways. Harry had magically tethered it to an identical rune located in the middle of the layout. It would power the runic cluster.

Protective runes surrounding his godson were still sufficiently charged and would prevent the 6-year-old from hearing or seeing anything throughout the ritual. By doing this, the child wouldn't be traumatized if the situation were to go south.

'A strong possibility. But a risk I'm all too willing to take.'

Harry tightened his grip and, with fervor, immediately started forcing his magic into the rune stone.

A gasp of pain through gritted teeth followed soon after the drawing on his magic.

Lurking just beneath his skin, dark magic clamped down violently on his magical core, claws piercing and dragging the tendrils back under its stranglehold. It was because of this that most wizards and witches died from magically binding curses before they were able to perform the counter-curse.

Great relief washed over him when the rune took on a faint, green glow. His suppressed magic was just able to circumvent the hindrance and seep into the rune, but it was enough, and he pushed onward. The numerous runes surrounding the veil gave a brief flash of light. The body of a man was ejected and promptly crumpled to the unforgiving stone floor.

A pregnant silence drew the last Potter's gaze away from the unmoving body. The fluttering of the tattered black cloth and the lost voices had ceased.

Harry started hurrying over to extract Sirius from the potentially volatile magic, but midway there his eyes were forced shut as the veil erupted in bright, all-consuming flames, stained with the sickly, green glow of death. The rise and fall of Sirius Black's chest illuminated with a necrotic hue.

Neither succumbing to lack of fuel nor acting with the insatiable gluttony of fiendfyre, the inferno now filled the entirety of the Veil's archway and remained steadfast, unrelenting - a testament to its legacy's will and strength. A mark at the peak of the monolith denoted to whom this legacy belonged; the mark of the deathly hollows burned bright.

Exhausted, Harry released a sigh at what this meant, but found comfort in knowing it had to be done.

For good or ill, the House of Peverell had just been reclaimed.

Shift (~9 years prior)

Sirius was in his element! It had been over 10 years since he had fought with either the aurors or the Order. But that didn't make an iota of difference when he witnessed Lucius tossing spells at his godson.

"Mouth-Toy," Sirius spoke calmly but with undisguised malice. The Black family magic was roiling beneath his skin. Dark magic waiting to take its pound of flesh.

Lucius slowly turned around. His thin set lips gave away his annoyance at such a childish insult. Good!

The bastard's eyes though, they couldn't hide fear.

"Keep your small, pedo hands away from my godson." The crunch of cartilage against bone echoed off stone and was soon followed by a whimpering scream. It was the sound of his fist being introduced to Mouth-Toy's face; and it was glorious! Praiseworthy, even.

Sirius was surprised his partial apparition, hadn't been spotted. The expression on the Death Eater's face as his nose was broken and the prophecy shattered…

Who said he needed a mind healer?

Everyone…

He'd have to confirm his theory, but he assumed the color of the magic surrounding him had been gray, if not black. He wouldn't be surprised; he was a Black, despite everything. Further proving his point, the new arsenal of spells he had at his disposal was discovered in the section of the family grimoire written by his grandfather, Arcturus Black. The man had never taken prisoners in the war. Ever.

Spell fire whizzed over their heads and obliterated the area around them.

Without needing to say anything, Harry was following close behind as they traversed around one of the Veil's vertical supports. A quick glance confirmed his godson was making sure to defend their backs while Sirius began hurling the darkest spells he had learned from the Black grimoire.

The frenzy of spell fire increased and chunks of debris were haphazardly being shot across the room like buck shot. Two death eaters were doing exactly so with their alacrity to lie down pot shots on Harry showing clearly. The floor around them was nearly covered with crushed stone, forcing Harry to shuffle further away from him, lest he trip and catch an errant spell.

While the Death Eaters didn't notice at first, they were now deliberately doing so to isolate the young wizard from him.

Harry's eyes caught his attention. They were scared. Not scared of death, but of losing everyone here, because that was all Harry Potter ever had. A self-worth measured by the few relationships he'd been able to build. His godson was overwhelmed and starting to break down. He knew the signs. Harry was looking to the closest thing resembling a male role model in his life and hoping beyond hope that he would bail him out of this situation. The age-old responsibility of all parents.

His godson shouldn't feel like he needs to plead for the worthiest cause of all – protecting family. It pissed him off. Good thing his next curse thrived off melancholic anger.

He snarled at the two Death Eaters with the ferocity of his inner-grim. They hadn't let up on banishing debris towards them.

'Time to make an opening and readjust.'

With a slight twist of the hips, accompanied by 3 rapid spins of his wrist, a garish, yellow mist coalesced upon the stone floor and slunk across the chamber as a predator would. The spell was a semi-sentient curse, a real fucked up piece of dark magic. But hey, it was his!

It was only when the mist had its prey cornered without the possibility of escape that the next stage of the spell was initiated. The trapped death eater was caught between two fallen columns that had been pinched together, creating a dead-end. The mist stalking him began undulating and warbling. At first, he didn't know why the muffled sounds were perceived as foul and nauseating to his ears; they were unintelligible. However, that confusion rapidly changed its tune as understanding bleed through in the man's petrified stance and wobbling knees. They were the exact same wails and shrieks torn from his blood-coated throat each night throughout his stint in Azkaban.

Dementors were not kind creatures. And neither was this… thing.

He needed to get out of here!

Just as he was about to apparate away, the yellow mist latched itself onto the death eater's calf like he was its last meal. Spindly tendrils pierced feeble flesh and yellow mist slithered within unimpeded. Terror overwhelmed the panicking death eater, screaming and futilely trying to dig it out as its effect took hold.

Sirius was satisfied with what he was witnessing and was more than happy to let it play out. The death eater's mask slipped off, revealing the man to be Travers. He had been instrumental in the slaughter of the McKinnon family.

Once the curse had fully taken affect, Travers slowly shuffled his feet around the chamber until he stood just shy of breathing into his comrade's face. With tear-stained cheeks and gritted teeth, the death eater's wand was raised between a face of agony and one of confusion, and a piercing hex obliterated their skulls. Sinew and bone fragments froze mid-air, decorating the scene like confetti poppers at a macabre festival.

He had designed the curse himself over the past year and had settled on calling it 'Sad Man's Parade.' Its sole purpose was to terrorize and kill, bewitching someone to experience extreme anger and grief with unyielding compulsions of murder-suicide towards everyone they see as an ally – muggles and their public shootings were the inspiration.

Bleeding out the momentum from the spin/twist combination, Sirius rushed for Harry.

"Harry! Back to the wall!" He'd seen Macnair and Dolohov starting to flank them. That wasn't good. Not good at all. Dolohov was a seasoned and cruel duelist who had sent too many people back home as a vegetable. Two of them had been children receiving dueling instruction from the man.

"Sirius… I'm sorry. Voldemort… he tricked me into coming here," his godson nearly sounded broken, but as Sirius noted, his wand was steady and sure.

But it just had to get worst. Rookwood was advancing straight for them between Macnair and Dolohov. The man was an Unspeakable and was sure to have more tricks up his sleeve than the animagus. Sirius shook his head. But then again… he was a marauder, and marauders were meant for odds like this.

Throwing up a shield to buy them a few seconds of time and giving a brief tug on his magic, the knife kept in his boot came rushing into his left hand as he pulled Harry closer to him. Exhaustion was starting to set in. With a quick snap of his wand, the loose stone littered about was transfigured into a thick metal wall, further separating them from the impending fight.

"It's alright, Prongslet. I was going to tell you to leave and take your friends, but I think I may need a Potter's help. Listen, I have an idea that should work. It's… dark stuff." A grimace covered his face, quickly replaced with the shallow upturn of his lips. "I need you to trust me and hold up a shield around us for about 10 seconds."

Sirius was reluctant, it was a lot to ask of the boy, but there simply wasn't another option. They either battled their way through this melee or perished. He settled firm hands gently upon the shoulders of his godson, grey eyes staring down to emphasize the importance of what he was asking. "The drain on your magic will be swift and the toll will be great. You will most likely pass out from magical exhaustion by the time I'm ready. I will protect you when this happens. Can you do this?"

Harry had questions, and Sirius would gladly answer them all, but with a furrowed brow, the last Potter gave a determined nod without hesitation or question and silently cast his own shield around them.

Shift (still ~9 years prior)

Bellatrix was having a grand time toying with the little Longbottom heir. She teased about his parents' torture and the pathetic screams they made. Though before she could continue her fun, her attention had been drawn to her cousin by the comment he'd made about Lucius. She couldn't prevent the chuckle that escaped her lips. Sirius didn't know how right he was. Lucius loved defenseless, muggle boys. Cissy had kept a cautious eye on him when Draco was still a young child.

As she observed the Potter boy and her cousin holding their own quite well with the young wizard even having the wherewithal to levitate debris in front of any unforgivables, she saw Sirius cast a spell she had neither seen nor heard of before. It traveled at its own pace, crawling across the floor in search of something… or someone.

Her eyes widened in shock; that spell was moving independently! Even with how close she was, Bellatrix could barely sense the spell.

'Could be one of the functions of the spell.'

She maneuvered around the chamber to get a better look and ensure it was within sight to maintain a healthy distance between it and herself. Based on how it was behaving, seems like her cousin came across a sentient spell, similar to fiendfyre. From what little she could surmise, it only thought about finding, capturing, and consuming prey.

A wicked grin stretched across the dark witch's face when it started mimicking exactly how Travers would scream when the dementors would take their time at his cell. Sirius had finally started learning the family magic. For someone who had mocked her for years for the simple reason of wanting to learn the dark arts, he quickly succumbed to depending on it since escaping Azkaban. Probably for his precious, half-blood godson. The retch would die today… They both would. For her Lord!

However, even though she found petty victory in her cousin's newfound dependence on dark magic, she grew more cautious of him and whatever else he had picked up. He was the most unpredictable one in the chamber. He needed to be removed.

"Oh… it looks like Rookwood, Macnair, and Dolohov are going to kill your cousin," Malfoy purred from beside her. His tone had an ever-arrogant tone to it. If it was up to her, the Dark Lord would torture Mouth-Toy – she was going to use that – every day.

She lifted her nose in the air with haughty disdain,'for the children, of course.'Every magical in the UK would have looked exasperated if they were to know how serious that thought had ruminated in Bellatrix's mind. To everyone's understanding, she had tried to torture baby Neville that night so long ago.

Some would have chuckled in appreciation for dark humor, in a detached sort of way. Harry.

Dolohov and Macnair were flanking Sirius and Potter while Rookwood was heading the charge. Being an Unspeakable, Rookwood had a vaster collection of obscure spells compared to her cousin. Their chances looked good. She was about to agree with the blonde pedophile when she saw a knife fly into Sirius's left hand.

Bellatrix scowled in scrutinization. It wasn't just any knife; she was familiar with that blade. It had several runes etched along the entirety of the blade with pale metal, six inches in length, and a smooth and sharp edge. A roman symbol was engraved into each of its scales.

The Black family's ritual knife, meant to only be used by the Lord of their family. It was the final safeguard to ensure their line continued. Bellatrix could still recall what her grandfather had been able to accomplish with its aid. He was known as 'The Butcher's Resolve' well before the conclusion of the war. She remembered the conversation he had with all the grandchildren. The secrets that were the family's alone to carry, the history they were to remember, and their legacy to uphold. The madness. All of it.

If Sirius was able to wield it, then the pact had already been sealed, along with him gaining its protections and advantages.

An uncontrollable shiver raced down her spine and filled her with dread. She wasn't going anywhere near him while he held that blade. She always got the sense it would break her if she were to pick it up.

However, the witch noticed how close the wizard was standing to the veil. Her eyes crinkled with vicious delight.

"Not likely." Amethyst eyes wondered to the wizard beside her and returned to the scene playing out before them. She would need his help. "They're going to make a great distraction though."

Mouth-Toy had already lost the prophecy. He was desperate for anything to curtail their Lord's keenness for doling out punishment.

Lucius glanced up to the ceiling and exhaled a harsh breath. "What do you have in mind?"

Shift (still ~9 years prior)

'Protego Maxima!'

10

The three death eaters struck simultaneously. CLANG!

Harry hadn't expected the recoil from his shield when their spells made impact, but the barrier remained unrelenting. Spinning quickly out of the way of a crucio, the young wizard got a glimpse of his godfather slicing open his palm and drawing sigils around them with his blood.

8

It flickered once and the pushback forced Harry to take a step back, and another, and another. The salvo of spells unrelenting as they continued their onslaught. Once again, the gryffindor's back was touching the vertical support of the veil where they had taken their stand against the followers of Voldemort. He pushed more of his magic into the protection spell. He would not lose while Sirius depended on him.

6

Teeth gritted and eyelids nearly clinched shut, both hands were now needed to maintain their defense. His arms trembled violently as the magic being directed through them smashed against the magical shield's recoil from the assault. Green eyes were forced open and clammy hands nearly dropped his wand when Dolohov paused in his assault to strike a fleeing Hermione, the unofficial Ravenclaw who proved she was the greatest Gryffindor of them all time and again, whom casted a silencing charm on the death eater in her best friend's aid. With an abrupt slash, purple flame erupted from his wand and burst across her back; she crumpled to the floor immediately.

Footsteps slamming unforgiving stone echoed throughout the chamber, accompanied by a pain-filled guttural roar. Harry wasn't the one yelling; that was his enraged friend, Ron Weasley, crashing through the barrage of insurmountable spellfire and lassoing a whip of pure, righteous flame around Dolohov's neck. The loyalty of the Weasley clan was tested that day. That selfless bastard endured it all when Rookwood and Macnair turned their wands on him; the vile curses they utilized on the lone lion brought forth screams and whimpers of excruciating pain, but his body held stubbornly as the last line of defense for the fallen body of Hermione Jean Granger.

Yes, the loyalty of Ronald Weasley was tested… and it plunged after friend into darkness, hand outstretched, casting its unyielding gaze into the depths and darkness of insurmountable danger and guaranteed death, its inferno choking life from foe.

Heart galloping and feet stumbling to get closer, Harry watched as his friend stared into the shifting and horror-stricken eyes of Antonin Dolohov and denied death its due until the death eater's head thudded on the ground, his mouth and eyes still fixed in a state of horror, and his body crumpled onto unforgiving stone.

Ron followed in death soon after. It all happened so fast. The salvo of spellfire returned full force.

Darkness seeped into his vision.

1

"Thanks, Harry," softly murmured his godfather, "I'll take it from here." Then he was banished back to the wall and his shield torn down. Sirius was completely open to the death eaters now and his grey eyes burned with hatred.