By Barnabas Cuffe, Chief Correspondent

  The Daily Prophet — May 29 1972

  The hamlet of Pilton was spared from catastrophe—not by the wands of the Ministry, but by Britain’s newest addition to the peerage: Lord Harold Peverell.

  Late last evening, a pack of werewolves, led by the notorious Fenrir Greyback, tore through the streets, leaving homes in ruin and families fearing for their lives. Aurors were dispatched, but by the time they arrived, the attack was already over.

  Survivors say the tide turned when the lone wizard stepped into the fray.

  "It was like he walked straight off the page of The Tales of Beedle the Bard," said Emmeline Harper, 22, who keeps a small apothecary in the village. "I swear, he just appeared out of the dark, calm as you like, like he knew exactly what he was about. One moment, we was saying our goodbyes, and the next, there he was, standing right in the middle of it all, like something out of a story. Not a bit of fear. Just strode in, raised his wand, and everything changed. I’ve never seen anything like it."

  What followed, by all accounts, was a feat of magic rarely seen in this age.

  “It was like he walked straight off the page of the Tales of Beedle the Bard.”

  — Emmeline Harper, 22

  "The trees and ground itself turned on them," said Arthur Fleetwood, 63, whose home was damaged in the attack. "One of ’em lunged, and before it could even get close, the earth swallowed it up. I saw roots twist round a great brute of a thing, dragged it straight under. They fought like mad, but it didn’t make a difference. Not against that kind of magic."

  By the time reinforcements arrived, Greyback lay bound and muzzled in silver chains, snarling but unable to move. Around him, more than two dozen werewolves had been subdued. The village suffered damage, but miraculously, though many were injured, not a single resident was lost.

  A senior Auror who reviewed the scene spoke to the Daily Prophet on condition of anonymity.

  "We’ve seen what Greyback’s lot can do. Packs like this don’t just run. They don’t surrender. But they were stopped before we even got there. You ask me, they ought to be talking about an Order of Merlin for Lord Peverell. You don’t see magic like that every day."

  Following the battle, residents said that he visited each of them, offering what help he could.

  “He gave me a kneazle,” said Olive, 6, whose enchanted balloon companion still purrs when she pets it. “Made me feel better and told me I was strong.”

  Until last week, the name Peverell belonged to history books and fairy tales. But after a formal petition to the Wizengamot, Harold Peverell successfully reclaimed the long-dormant seat of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, securing his place among Britain’s oldest ruling families.

  Wizengamot sources say that Peverell’s claim was valid and strongly supported.

  “Veritaserum speaks for itself,” said one court scribe. “He answered every question honestly. There was no doubt he had a valid claim.”

  But if Lord Peverell’s name is now spoken in the halls of power, it is equally being discussed in scholarly circles.

  Even before last night’s events, Peverell had begun making his mark in academic and historical fields.

  In the days following his confirmation to the Wizengamot, he submitted a fully documented discovery of a previously unknown Roman fort, buried and untouched for centuries in the Scottish Highlands. Preliminary records have since been filed for ICW Arcanist certification—a rare distinction awarded only to those demonstrating exceptional expertise in magical antiquities and field research.

  Sources within the Department of Ministry and Culture confirm that early materials have been circulated internally, with a formal review expected in the coming days.

  “You don’t see discoveries of this size all too often,” said a Ministry official familiar with the report. “Not something one simply stumbles across, either. And the way he peeled the wards off was as smooth as anything I’d ever seen.”

  Despite his growing prominence, much about Lord Peverell remains unknown.

  Ministry records confirm that he was born in England at the end of the Wizarding War but left for the continent shortly after. His name appears in educational records as Harold Halloway, and his OWL and NEWT results, filed under international examination standards, show mastery-level qualifications in several fields, notably Runes, Astronomy, and History.

  Beyond these records, little else is certain.

  "Ah, Mr. Halloway, know him well, I do. A right proper gentleman and scholar, I reckon," said a member of the public familiar with him.

  “Indeed. Lord Peverell is a man of refined taste and evident discernment,” A Knockturn Alley shopkeeper added. “He perused several of our more esoteric acquisitions—genuine relics, of course—and expressed great interest in the provenance of our Slytherin collection.”

  Others have raised questions about the timing of his emergence.

  "The claim is legitimate, no doubt about that," said an official from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. "But after all these years, why now? Why not a decade ago? Why not twenty years in the future? What brings the Peverells back to Britain now?"

  “What brings the Peverells back to Britain now?”

  — DIMC Official

  Whether Peverell is a lost heir reclaiming his place in history, a scholar whose discoveries will reshape our understanding of magic, a defender of the people—or something else entirely—one thing is clear.

  In a matter of days, he has reshaped the landscape of magical Britain.

  From the halls of the Wizengamot to the streets of wizarding villages, his name is spoken.

  Lord Peverell has arrived, and Britain eagerly watches what he’ll do next.

  Narcissa watched as her elder sister arrived.

  The scent of fresh Darjeeling tea and warm brioche filled the room, mingling with the sharper citrus of preserved Seville oranges Narcissa was spreading over toasted bread.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, highlighting the rich chestnut of Andromeda’s hair as she sat across from her. Proper posture and composure. She was perfectly going through the motions of a daughter of House Black.

  Narcissa lifted a delicate bone china teacup to her lips, watching her sister over the rim as she took a careful sip of the steaming liquid.

  Andromeda reached for the raspberry preserve, spreading a neat layer over her toast. Her gaze was unfocused, drifting towards the garden out the window. Her mind had plainly taken leave of the room.

  Likely with that Tonks boy.

  Andi, don’t be foolish.

  Narcissa carefully set her teacup back on her saucer without a sound. She dropped a cube of sugar into the cup, then stirred clockwise exactly three times, until the tea formed the perfect vortex. The cube was pulled beneath the surface, dissolving under the heat and pressure.

  She glanced at her sister once more.

  Perhaps it was for the best.

  The quiet clinking of silver utensils on porcelain rang as breakfast continued.

  At the head of the table, Arcturus rested his hand lightly over Melania’s own, an absentminded but comfortable grip. They sat with the casual assurance of a couple who had already shaped their legacy and now stepped back to watch over its future.

  Across from them, Cygnus and Druella conversed in low tones, their words steady and measured. A habit formed over years of shared ambitions, victories, and setbacks. Her father gestured vaguely as he spoke, his hands as expressive as always. Her mother nodded, a thoughtful look on her face, as though she were giving his words proper consideration.

  Whose future are they planning now?

  The morning calm was broken by the sudden flutter of wings.

  A tawny owl swept in through the open window, depositing the morning edition of The Daily Prophet onto the ebony tabletop before launching itself back into the sky.

  Arcturus unfolded the crisp pages, his silver signet ring glinting in the morning light as he scanned the front page.

  His eyebrows lifted slightly.

  How unusual.

  “Well,” he murmured, as his eyes continued to move across the page. “It seems young Lord Peverell has made quite the impression.”

  Narcissa paused, teacup halfway to her lips, subtly glancing at the table’s reactions.

  The clink of silver on china ceased.

  All eyes were on the family’s patriarch as he turned the paper toward the table. The front-page photograph was dominating the layout.

  Narcissa stifled a gasp. Her eyes widened despite herself.

  Harry Peverell stood at the center of the frame, its subject shifting slightly as the moment looped. His fashionable tweed suit appeared immaculate despite the wreckage all around him. His hair was tousled enough to look effortlessly dashing rather than disheveled as it swayed in the wind, softening the sharp angles of his face.

  He turned toward the camera at the last moment, eyes meeting hers with an unassuming, disarming ease. Poised, effortless, and just boyish enough to be charming without arrogance.

  He does look remarkably like little Jamie.

  Behind him, an enormous werewolf lay bound in thick silver chains, struggling uselessly as his breath misted in the chilled night air.

  Further back, the remaining werewolves were trapped where they had fallen, only their heads visible above the earth. Cowed and motionless. Their eyes, wide and darting, held none of the wild rage they’d no doubt had when they’d been preying upon the villagers. They looked like kicked dogs, not the scourge that they truly were.

  The headline was bold, bordering on pure sensationalism, but the image gave pause to that assessment.

  “It’s been less than a week,” her father mused aloud, “and he is already the hero of the hour.”

  Arcturus lightly tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Few men see such a meteoric rise. Fewer still avoid flying too close to the sun. He has pedigree, reputation, standing… And now, he has the public’s favour.” He tapped the page a final time. “Quite the debut.”

  Her mother set down her cup and glanced toward her father. “We really should invite him for dinner. It would be wise to capitalize on our connections to establish rapport sooner, rather than later.”

  Narcissa once again paused as she was lifting the teacup to her lips. She gently took a sip, careful to hide any twitches that could betray her to her ever watchful mother.

  Of course, she would seize the opportunity. She has two girls who need “proper” matches yet.

  She had, of course, expected it. From the day her father mentioned him, she’d known Druella would be putting her tendrils out, seeking advantage and connection To hear her say it aloud, though… she’d expected to feel irritation or displeasure. She didn’t. Not exactly.

  It was something else.

  She glanced at the image again.

  He seems different.

  Cygnus paused, considering for a moment, before nodding. “It would be a reasonable invitation.”

  Melania tilted her head slightly, gaze flicking over the paper once more. “With the kind of reception he is receiving, we may not be the first to consider it.”

  Arcturus nodded, though his expression remained unreadable.

  Druella’s eyes met hers, assessing. “He is to begin work on the Somerset estate soon, is he not?”

  “Yes,” Cygnus confirmed. “The wards are tangled, but he believes he can diagnose the issue, at the very least, and likely correct it.”

  Druella stirred her tea absently. “Narcissa has long been interested in our history, have you not, dear?”

  Narcissa gave a slow nod.

  “Then perhaps she should be included. This is a rare opportunity for her, and she has the necessary skills to take full advantage.”

  How very subtle, mother.

  Though, it honestly was a welcome proposal. On its surface, it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. She was interested, and were she not fated to be some lord’s trophy, she’d happily follow in her father’s footsteps. This may be one of the few chances she ever sees to be hands-on as history was uncovered.

  But that wasn’t really her mother’s intention.

  She glanced at the photograph once again. It was a striking image.

  The sort of man women whispered about in drawing rooms. The kind mothers prayed would notice their daughters.

  The kind that only existed in stories she had long since outgrown.

  And yet…

  She wasn’t na?ve. No one rose this quickly without fault. No one emerged from nowhere and carried the weight of legend so effortlessly.

  There had to be something.

  A fatal flaw. Hidden arrogance. A second face hidden beneath the one staring up at her.

  But what if there wasn’t?

  Her traitorous heart skipped a beat.

  She wasn’t fated for romance or love, if it even truly existed.

  She didn’t believe in Prince Charming or fairytales. Not anymore.

  But it seemed the rest of the world was more than happy to believe in his.

  Perhaps… Perhaps it wouldn’t be inexcusable to allow herself a moment to wonder.

  James wondered if they could pull it off.

  The scent of bacon, fresh coffee, and fried tomatoes filled the kitchen, weaving through the warmth of buttered toast and sausage crisping in the pan.

  James peered from the corner of his eye at his target.

  The table was already full, plates stacked with eggs, black pudding, and golden slices of bread slathered with marmalade. And bacon. He glanced at the platter, now tragically unburdened by the crispy delight.

  He shot a look to Sirius.

  Sirius, already watching, grinned and nodded surreptitiously.

  James leaned forward, his knife dropping to the floor with a clatter as he was buttering his toast.

  Heads turned in his direction.

  Sirius shifted, casually stretching, then, quick as a flash, snatched a handful of bacon from Fleamont’s plate. He passed half to James under the table before popping a piece into his mouth with a practised ease that spoke of years of mischief.

  Fleamont didn’t even glance up. “Dear, something seems to have happened to my bacon.”

  “You really ought to watch your eating, dear.” Euphemia said as she sliced a tomato.

  James swallowed his well-earned mouthful. “Gotta keep an eye on that, dad.”

  Sirius smirked. “I think I saw Uncle Charlus nab some from your plate.”

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  James’ eyes popped wide open in alarm, and he pointed at his father. “Dad, there’s something on your face!”

  Fleamont, without looking up, replied, “Son, these are called glasses.”

  “He’s always had that dull look, James.” Charlus supplied, looking critically at his younger brother’s impassive expression.

  Sirius hand silently wandered over to Charlus’ plate, a sausage link just out of reach.

  “Oh, yeah, phew. My eyes must’ve been playing tricks on me.” James said, relief in his voice to remember his father’s face always looked like that.

  Just as Sirius retrieved his prize, Dorea’s hand shot out, catching him by the wrist.

  Sirius froze. His head turned mechanically, slowly looking up at her.

  Dorea raised an unimpressed eyebrow, looking at him the way only a mother should be able to. “Stealing from your hosts now, Sirius?”

  Without missing a beat, he beamed an innocent smile. “Borrowing, Auntie. Borrowing!”

  Then, quieter, “with no intent to return.”

  Charlus snorted into his coffee.

  Dorea plucked the sausage from his hand and placed it neatly back onto Charlus’ plate. “Try that again, and you’re helping the elves with the dishes.”

  Charlus peered down at the tainted sausage warily, uncertainly judging its edibility.

  Sirius sighed dramatically, slumping into his chair. “You lot run a cruel and merciless household.”

  “Yes,” Fleamont said dryly, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s terrible here. Hot food, warm beds… people who actually like you.”

  “Tolerate.” Charlus corrected, tucking his wand away after casting an overpowered scouring charm on the sausage. He reached out and ruffled Sirius’ long mop of raven hair.

  Sirius shot him a cheeky grin, but before he could snipe back with the patented Marauder wit, a barn owl swooped through the window, dropping the morning edition of The Daily Prophet onto Charlus’ plate, knocking a slice of toast into his lap.

  “Bloody birds,” he muttered, flicking marmalade from his sleeve before picking up the paper and unfolding its pages.

  James and Sirius paid no notice at first, enacting their next scheme to liberate choice pickings from Fleamont’s plate.

  Then Charlus let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  James looked up just as Charlus turned the paper to face them.

  The front-page photograph dominated the layout.

  A young, confident, and absurdly handsome wizard stood at the centre. The face looked startlingly familiar.

  James blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  Because that man looked just like him.

  Not just a bit similar. Not in a vague “oh-we-might-be-distantly-related” way.

  Properly, eerily, doppelg?nger levels of alike.

  The moving image shifted. Harold Peverell, apparently Lord Peverell, turned toward the camera. He gave it a cheeky grin. Relaxed and amused, as though he was in on some joke no one else knew.

  Behind him, Fenrir Greyback struggled weakly in thick chains, wriggling like a caterpillar coated in chili powder.

  Further back, the remaining werewolves were trapped up to their necks in the earth. Their heads poked above the packed soil, reminiscent of one of Professor Sprout’s freakish plants in the greenhouse. One of the wolves twitched, its ear flicking as if battling an itch it had no hope of scratching.

  Their wild fury had bled away, leaving behind simple fear.

  The headline jumped off the page, trumpeting the arrival of James’ new personal hero.

  His fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against his plate.

  “Bloody hell,” James breathed.

  Sirius yanked the paper from Charlus’ hands just a moment before James got to it. “Merlin’s hairy backside. He looks exactly like you, James.”

  Fleamont leaned forward, scanning the article. “You weren’t joking, Charlus.”

  Charlus smirked. “Told you.”

  Euphemia set down her steaming cup of coffee, peering at the photo. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone stole your face and aged it up a few years, Jamie.”

  James still couldn’t stop staring.

  The same dark hair, the same nose, the same bloody grin. The eyes were sharper and seemed to be a different colour, but it was hard to tell in the black and white image. But the rest?

  It was like looking at himself.

  Could that be me, one day?

  Sirius nudged James, grinning. “Maybe you’ve got some long-lost brother your parents never told you about.”

  Shaking his head, James pulled himself back into the conversation and scoffed. “Right. Because Mum and Dad are the type to forget they have a spare kid kicking around.”

  “Your mother’s memory isn’t what is used to be,” his father said, taking another sip.

  “Nor your father’s judgement, apparently,” his mother responded, her playful glare joining the sharp elbow that was digging into his side.

  “Could be some mad, old, Peverell inheritance magic,” Sirius said, ignoring Dorea’s pointed look at the mentions of “mad” and “inheritance magic” in the same breath. “You know, ancient bloodline weirdness. Peverell’s were properly old magic, weren’t they?”

  Euphemia reached out, sweet smile in place, and patted Sirius’ hand. “Hush, dear, the grown-ups are talking.” She glanced to Charlus, “So, he really is a Peverell?”

  Charlus nodded. “His claim was solid. No one could gainsay it.”

  “And he’s obviously more than just some lost heir,” Dorea noted, scanning the article. “He took down Greyback’s entire pack. Alone.”

  That snapped James back from his thoughts.

  This was not simply a weird face-twin situation, but a weird face-twin situation where his face-twin had just done something straight out of an adventure novel.

  Sirius started reading aloud from a companion article below the fold. “Lord Peverell subdued the pack using a combination of advanced transfigurations and binding magic. Neutralized Greyback with silver-etched restraints. Trapped the remaining werewolves beneath the earth. Witnesses described the forest as having come alive.” He stopped, blinking. “That’s mental.”

  James leaned forward, slamming his palms on the table.

  “That,” he declared, “is the dog’s bollocks.”

  Fleamont quipped, “No one told me Sirius could read,” but it was lost in the excitement.

  Sirius grinned. “Right? We’ve got to meet him.”

  James whipped toward Charlus, eyes shining. “Uncle Charlus, the most noble and second most handsome of all Potters, you’ve met him, yeah? Can you invite him over? Please?”

  Fleamont corrected, “Third,” but it went unnoticed in the background.

  Charlus raised an eyebrow. “You’re that keen?”

  James gaped. “Obviously! Look at him! He’s brilliant!”

  Fleamont piped in, “Looks a bit shifty, you ask me,” but it went uncommented on.

  Sirius nodded. “Agreed. I need to shake his hand. Maybe steal some of his secrets.”

  Charlus laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  James grinned. “Wonder if Moony’s seen this yet.”

  Remus saw the horned owl approaching, still miles away.

  The kettle’s soft whistle on the stovetop pierced his ears.

  The scent of fresh bread filled his nose, overwhelming.

  Blackberry coated his tongue, far too sweet.

  The rough grain was almost painful on his fingertip as he pushed crumbs across the wooden table.

  The world was too much.

  His senses were always frayed the day after a full moon. His body aching and sluggish, as though he had the flu.

  Remus sat at the table. A simple breakfast of blackberry preserves on toast was all he could stomach. His mother poured tea, refilling their chipped teacups. His father sat across from him, hunched over his own cup, reading through a stack of parchment.

  It was just another morning, quiet and predictable.

  Then the owl arrived.

  It swept through the open window, ruffling the curtains before landing on the back of his father’s chair, dropping a copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table with an unceremonious thud.

  Lyall Lupin took a sip of his tea before unfolding the paper.

  Then stilled.

  Remus instantly noticed the way his father’s grip tightened on the paper, eyes locked onto it as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Leaning forward, he tried to read from across the table. A name jumped out at him.

  Fenrir Greyback.

  His breath hitched, and suddenly, he was struggling to keep down the toast and jam.

  His father exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together before reading aloud. “Like a tale from Beedle the Bard: Lord Peverell strikes down beasts of the night.”

  Remus blinked.

  Lord Peverell… Who’s that?

  His parents seemed equally confused.

  Hope leaned closer, frowning slightly. “Peverell?” she repeated, her fingers curled lightly around her teacup. “Who is that?”

  Lyall scanned the first few paragraphs. “Apparently, some young heir that appeared from nowhere. Claimed an old noble house last week, and now he’s gone and captured Greyback.”

  Remus’ stomach fluttered and twisted. Greyback had been caught. Defeated, shackled, and paraded on the front page like an exotic animal.

  And Remus wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

  Relieved? Definitely.

  Satisfied? Yes, that as well.

  Greyback was the reason his life could never be normal. The reason he woke up bone-weary after a night of agony every month. The reason he had to live a lie, hiding his curse and shame from all but his closest friends.

  This should make me happy… right?

  But it wasn’t that simple.

  Across the table, his father’s expression darkened as he skimmed the articles. “It really was just that Peverell lad,” Lyall murmured. “Took down the whole pack, singlehandedly.”

  Remus swallowed.

  This was the first time he’d heard of Peverell, but the article read like he was some kind of mythic figure. Merlin come again. The young noble heir. The scholar. The warrior. A wizard who had done what the ministries of Europe had failed to do.

  He was being celebrated as a hunter of Dark Creatures. Well, werewolves. If there was really any difference.

  Lyall let out a short breath, nodding to himself. “About time someone dealt with him properly.”

  His mother, Hope, who had been listening quietly, hesitated.

  Her eyes flicked from the paper, to Lyall, to Remus. “It’s good that Greyback’s been captured,” she said slowly, as though picking each word with care, her gaze finding Remus’ own. “But this kind of thing… how many were turned last night? I don’t see any mention of them here, but we both know that they never report on the victims.”

  Lyall sighed, his voice softer. “I can’t say, Hope.” Then he tapped the image on the paper lightly. “But I can say his being stopped is for the good. They can’t be allowed to ruin more lives.”

  Passing on the curse.

  The thought of it was enough to bring bile to his gut. He’d never allow that to happen.

  Remus glanced at the photograph, his chest tightening.

  Peverell stood in the centre of the frame, a cold, intense look on his face. He seemed completely unaffected by the wreckage and brutalized wolves around him. Not that they deserved pity, but… Wait is that—

  James!?

  Behind his friend’s look-alike, Greyback lay bound tightly in chains. Silver, no doubt. It wasn’t the lethal solution Muggles thought it was, but Remus could attest that continued exposure to it was draining. That amount, head to toe, would sap even a monster like Greyback of his strength.

  Further behind, the remaining werewolves were buried in the earth. Their expressions showed fear and submission. Something Remus knew intimately.

  For a moment, he saw his own face lined up beside the others.

  He shivered.

  That’s not me. Never me.

  Looking back, the terror was apparent. Heads twitching, eyes darting around desperately. Even Greyback was only putting on a front, his body language betrayed desperation beneath the exhaustion.

  Remus couldn’t look any longer.

  “Put the animals down,” they’ll say. The only good werewolf is a de—

  “The world is a little safer today, and that’s not nothing,” Lyall said, as he sat the paper down and folded it carefully.

  Remus studied the wood grain on the table, his fingers tightening into fists in his lap.

  He wanted to agree.

  He really did. His father was right, after all.

  But there was something about that picture, the way they moved, the way their heads barely poked out from the earth like trembling dogs… He didn’t like it.

  And he couldn’t explain why.

  Could that be me one day? If the wolf finally wins? Can I really hold it off forever?

  His chest felt tight, like a fist was wrapped around his heart, squeezing.

  “Lyall, I just wonder what this means for—” she hesitated, glancing at Remus before choosing her words, “—for people like them.”

  Lyall’s gaze softened, just a bit. “They’re not like him, Hope.”

  She said nothing.

  Are they not? Was the curse not inflicted on them? Did the world not force them away? What they’ve done is inexcusable, but…

  Remus felt his mother’s eyes on him. Felt the quiet weight of it all pressing down on him. He wanted to escape. To be anywhere else.

  He couldn’t stay. Couldn’t let her see.

  His chair scraped quietly against the floorboards as he stood, mumbling something about needing fresh air. Stepping out onto the porch, he gripped the wooden railing. Tight.

  The cool morning air soothed his skin, but his thoughts swirled.

  The world was cheering for Peverell, the hero who defeated the beasts.

  But what about me?

  Would he see a boy who just wanted to be normal?

  Would he see just another monster that needed caging?

  Remus exhaled sharply, closing his eyes.

  Which was he, really?

  He didn’t know.

  He didn’t know who bestowed names upon House Elves.

  He’d made inquiries over the years, of course, but had yet to find an answer satisfactory to explain some of the peculiarities of the convention.

  “Thank you, Nitwit, that will be all,” Dumbledore said warmly, dismissing the elf after receiving his breakfast tray. The little creature gave a small bow before vanishing.

  The tray was arranged with his usual fare: a soft-boiled quail egg in an ornate silver cup, toast cut into the outline of a goat—one of Oddment’s artistic creations, a dish of pineapple marmalade, a freshly steeped teapot, and three chocolate-covered crickets.

  He surveyed his breakfast with great pleasure, kicking his thick woolen-socked feet under the desk as he hummed the Prewitt twin’s sublime rendition of the Hogwarts song.

  Across the room, Fawkes stirred on his perch, rustling his feathers. Lifting his head and noting Albus was already halfway through the pineapple covered goat, he sang a chirping tune.

  Dumbledore glanced up, giving him a fond smile before flicking a cricket his way. Fawkes’ head snapped out, crunching it in his beak.

  The castle was still in the way only summer break permitted. No students meandered the halls. No hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors. Hogwarts was at rest, her students on break, emptying their heads before returning to fill them anew.

  A snowy owl swooped in through the window, wings silent as it deposited the morning edition of The Daily Prophet onto his desk.

  “Good morning, Octavius,” he greeted the courier.

  Setting down his cup, he pulled the paper toward him.

  His bushy white eyebrows lifted over his spectacles.

  The headline was rather evocative, though that was admittedly unsurprising for the esteemed gazette.

  The contents, while fascinating, hinted at a night of sorrow for an untold number. Alas, sales remained the chief determinant of what was fit to print, burying the no doubt tragic reality of last evening in subtext.

  Some days it felt that the older he grew, the less things changed.

  Fawkes crooned a comforting tune.

  Dumbledore sat in silence, eyes closed, for a few moments.

  When he reopened them, he allowed his gaze to travel to the image of young Lord Peverell..

  The moving photograph shifted, displaying the aftermath of a type of battle he’d not seen in some years. A kind he was known for.

  The werewolves were buried to their necks, held beneath the ground by a dense layer of roots. As the image reset, he caught a slight slithering quality, indicative of both impressive transfiguration and in depth animation. The chains binding young Fenrir were etched with subtle runes. Conjuration paired with runework to fortify the restraints; rather remarkable. This demonstrated scale and control.

  As well as restraint.

  It would’ve been far easier for someone with this level of mastery to act as a bull in a china shop, crushing and breaking the creatures. Instead, he’d entrapped the entire pack, ensuring they would answer for their crimes before justice was delivered.

  He set the paper down, drumming his fingers lightly against the desk.

  Peverell.

  A name that had been lost to time, barely remembered in wizarding society, now announcing its return in grand fashion.

  The hearing to reinstate young Harry’s house would stick with him for the rest of his days. The Veritaserum questioning and vault key were enough support, in his mind, but that wasn’t what he’d remember.

  He had held the stone, decades after giving up his search. It had been genuine, matching all the records he and Gellert had pored over. And then…

  Turn. Turn. Turn.

  He had seen her.

  After so many years, to speak with her once again… To apologise. To hear her plea.

  He lowered his head, hearing her words once more.

  I must see Aberforth. Perhaps, I could make a selfish request of Lord Peverell. Aberforth deserves to speak with her more than I ever did.

  Now, a week later, that same young wizard’s numerous grand achievements were being celebrated by the entire nation.

  He looked up, Fawkes was observing him, his midnight eyes unblinking.

  Dumbledore took a slow sip of his tea, savouring and considering.

  After a moment, he set his cup down and reached for his wand. If it was truly his. A question for another time.

  A flick of it at the photograph on the paper, and a projection rose above his desk. The image’s limited view was expanded, blooming outward into a far more complete picture.

  Peverell’s magic truly is most interesting. Oh, is that Alastor? Perhaps I should give him a call.

  Fawkes let out a soft trill, the morning light catching on his feathers.

  Albus sat back in his chair, already turning over the many possibilities. Peverell’s timely return and proof of competence were a welcome surprise to the old man. Britain would need all the aid that could be found to combat the rising threat.

  Tom’s return had brought with it a shadow that was stretching across Britain, fomenting fear and discontent at an alarming rate. His influence even reached into this very castle, tempting promising students down the wrong path.

  And Death’s good son shall catch the one who flees.

  Yes. This changed things.

  This changed things.

  Her Lord had planned on putting leashes on those filthy mutts and training them into loyal hounds. But the beasts went and got themselves impounded.

  She glanced down at the paper before her, gritting her teeth at the image.

  A man not much her senior stood in the foreground. His domineering presence contrasted with the pathetic animals bound at his feet. He turned, noticing the camera, then dismissively turned his head away.

  Arrogant.

  I want to carve some emotion into that face. But which one?

  Which one?

  Fear? Ecstasy? Agony?

  She licked her lips.

  Crucio!

  Crucio!

  Crucio!

  Oh what fun!

  Maybe his other wand was equally impressive. She’d find out. She’d chain him down and finally fill that void deep inside that Rudie just couldn’t.

  Handsome too.

  He’d look beautiful bathed in red.

  Still, none of her Lord’s other followers could handle a pack of werewolves under the full moon.

  Why didn’t she get to do it?

  Impressive.

  Her fingers tightened. Nails bit into skin. A streak of red dripped down her palm.

  Let me play with him. Just once. I’ll be good.

  The room buzzed. The gnats. Oh, were those voices?

  Ah, Lucius, of course.

  Impertinent.

  “A new player on the board,” he drawled. Silly Lucie thinks it’s chess.

  She sneered.

  “A capable wizard,” Rudolphus remarked. “And one I’d never heard of before this.” She could fill the ocean with things Rudolphus hadn’t heard of before. She stifled a giggle at her simple, little betrothed.

  Rookwood, always so stiff and serious, leaned in. “That alone is worth considering. This man didn’t exist, and now he’s everywhere. A new variable.”

  “This isn’t arithmetic, Auggie.” She grinned, all teeth. “He’ll kneel. Or I’ll teach him how to.”

  Rookwood’s stony face didn’t budge.

  Oh poo. No fun. His head’s stuck in books.

  “Not all impediments in our path can be blasted aw—”

  Boring.

  “Then blast harder,” she sang. Her voice turned cold. “Or get out of my way.”

  A low laugh cut across the room, leaving silence in its wake.

  Her head snapped toward the sound.

  His eyes were on her.

  Her skin flushed with heat.

  Her chest rose—trembling.

  “Sweet Bella,” he crooned, “when the time comes, I promise you’ll be able to play to your heart’s content. But for now, we’ll watch this Peverell.”

  Her vision blurred. Lips parted. A moan at the root of her throat. She crossed her legs, pleasure pulsing, heat rising.

  He’d promised.

  She would kill for him.

  Burn. Gut. Flay. Whatever pleased him.

  She was his.

  And ached to be used.