Cassian gasped as he hit the shore, coughing up water and mud. His whole body ached,
and he was soaked from head to toe. The river behind him rushed past like nothing had
happened, like it hadn't just carried him away from the only home he'd ever known.
He pushed himself up on shaky arms, breathing hard. Everything hurt. His clothes clung
to his skin, heavy and cold. His fingers were going numb.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The forest around him was still and unfamiliar. Trees stretched high above him, their dark
green leaves barely moving. The air smelled like moss and river water. It felt old—older
than Hogwarts, older than anything he could remember. Like the forest had been waiting
a long time for someone to show up.
Cassian sat there, staring at the ground, water dripping from his hair. He didn't even
notice the compass floating in front of him until it spun slightly in place.
It wasn't glowing.
Just… hovering.
He blinked at it, confused. Wasn't it supposed to do something?
"Press it when it glows," his father's voice echoed in his head.
But it didn't glow.
Of course it didn't.
Cassian let out a shaky breath. His throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. His
hands trembled as he wiped at his face, only to realize he was crying.
He wasn't even sure when the tears had started.
"Just great," he muttered under his breath, voice cracking. "When I asked for a second
chance, I didn't mean to…"
He couldn't finish the sentence. His voice caught in his throat.
He looked around again, trying to get his bearings, but it was no use. He didn't know this
place. He didn't even know what direction to go. All he had were soaked clothes, a bag, a
floating compass, and—
Something moved in the bag.
Cassian froze, startled.
He quickly unfastened the flap and looked inside—just in time for a familiar shape to
leap out.
"Athena?"
The little black cat jumped out onto one of her glowing blue clouds, her paws barely
touching it as she floated in front of him. She looked perfectly fine. Not even wet. Her
silver eyes blinked at him, calm and steady.
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, she landed on top of his head and
meowed softly.
Cassian let out a small breath—something between a laugh and a sob. He reached up
and gently pulled her down into his arms. She immediately curled up against his chest,
purring faintly.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered.
Athena didn't say anything, of course. But her warmth helped. Even a little.
He looked down at the compass again. Still no glow.
"Leave Britain. Trust only Arcturus Black and your great-grandfather."
He remembered his father's words. They echoed in his head like a bell that wouldn't stop
ringing.
He didn't know where he was. He didn't know how far the river had taken him.
Cassian didn't know how long he stood there, holding Athena close. Everything still felt
heavy, like the world was pressing in on him. The silence in the forest wasn't peaceful—it
was loud. Too loud. Every snap of a twig or rustle of a leaf made him flinch.
Then the compass moved.
He blinked.
It had stopped hovering in place and was now… drifting. Slowly, steadily, it floated away
from him, like it had suddenly made up its mind and decided where it wanted to go.
"Wait—what?" he muttered, shifting Athena in his arms.
The compass floated a little faster.
Cassian's eyes widened. "Hey—hey! Where are you going?!"
No answer, obviously.
"Stupid thing! Stay still!"
But the compass didn't listen. It picked up speed.
Cassian groaned and took off after it, nearly tripping over his own feet. His soaked boots
squished with every step as he pushed through the underbrush, branches scratching his
arms and water flicking off leaves into his face.
"Could you not fly off into the middle of nowhere?! That'd be great!"
The compass didn't care. It just kept floating forward like it was on a mission from Merlin
himself.
Cassian ran faster, trying to keep up. "Do you even know where you're going?!"
And then—
Whack.
His foot caught on something.
He didn't even see it. Just one second he was running, and the next he was flying forward
through the air like a badly-cast levitation spell.
His face met the ground with a loud thud.
Pain bloomed across his forehead as he groaned and rolled onto his back. "Ow…"
Athena hopped off just in time, landing beside him and giving him an unimpressed
meow.
Cassian groaned again and sat up, one hand going to his head. "What even—?"
He pulled his hand back and saw blood on his fingers.
"Oh, come on…"
The root—because of course it was a tree root—stuck out of the ground like it had been
waiting for him.
The compass hovered just a few feet ahead now, like it had finally stopped to give him a
moment. It floated patiently in place, gently spinning.
Cassian glared at it through the pain. "You couldn't give me, like, two seconds of
warning?"
Athena pawed at his arm, then gently headbutted his side, like she was saying get up,
idiot.
Cassian sighed, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going."
Cassian trudged after the compass, his boots squelching softly in the damp forest floor.
The trees were beginning to thin, their shadows stretching longer as the early morning
light slipped between the branches. Dawn had only just arrived, casting a soft silver glow
over everything, cold and quiet and still.
His head still throbbed. He could feel the blood drying at his hairline, sticky and warm
beneath his bangs, but he didn't stop. The compass floated ahead like it was drawn by
some invisible thread, slower now, like it knew the forest was ending. Like it was giving
him a moment to catch his breath.
He followed it into a small clearing.
The trees gave way to open ground, wet with dew and brushed with mist. Cassian
slowed, his breath catching slightly as the world beyond finally came into view.
There, in the distance, through the thinning fog—houses.
Not close. Maybe a quarter-mile away, nestled down in a shallow valley. He could make
out rooftops, soft glints of glass, a few porch lights still glowing faintly in the early light.
There were no people yet. No cars. Just the suggestion of a town slowly waking up.
He took a step toward the edge of the trees.
And then stopped.
The town was right there—quiet, waking up, fog still hanging over rooftops—but going
down there, like this? Bleeding. Soaked. Three years old.
It hit him all at once just how insanely stupid that would be.
He backed up a few steps, heart pounding.
"You'd stand out like a burning wand in the middle of Diagon Alley," he muttered to
himself.
And then… the bigger thought came.
Voldemort.
He had been there.
At the Keep.
Voldemort had been injured. Badly.
And that was exactly the problem.
He was vengeful. Obsessive. Unforgiving. That man had gone after a toddler because of
a prophecy once—chased Harry year after year just because he couldn't stand not being
the one in control.
He backed up a step and muttered under his breath, "Yeah, right. Like he's gonna leave
me alone…"
His fingers clenched tighter around the strap of the satchel.
"Half his army's dead, and he got half his body blown apart, and you think Voldemort's
just gonna take that as a loss? He's probably already sending people after me."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, wincing as his fingers brushed the tender spot
where he'd hit his head earlier.
"Portkey's a no-go. Dad said the air was sealed, and even if that's lifted now, I don't know
where to get one. I don't even know how to Apparate…"
He trailed off for a second, chewing his lip, trying to think.
"Voldemort has spies. In the Ministry. Probably the whole damn Department of Magical
Transportation. Maybe even the Aurors. So if I try to use any official way out of the
country, they'll find me."
His voice dropped lower.
"Under the pretext of 'finding me.'"
"Arcturus is in London. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. If I remember right. But I don't
even know where I am right now, and who knows how far this town is from London."
He looked out at the mist again.
"Maybe a train," he whispered. "Or a boat. Maybe even a plane."
He sighed. "If I can find a train station. If I can pass as someone old enough to buy a
ticket. If they don't think I'm some runaway kid."
He looked down at his clothes—still damp, stained with river water and blood—and
snorted bitterly.
"I don't even have money."
Athena meowed softly beside him, curling tighter against his hip.
Cassian sat down again in the grass, pulling the satchel into his lap, trying to think. His
mind was spinning.
"Think, Cassian. Think."
And then it hit him.
House-elves.
He froze, staring straight ahead.
"Tipsy…"
His chest clenched, the memory crashing over him like a wave.
Her tiny body, crumpled on the stone floor of the ritual chamber. Her eyes wide and
lifeless. The warmth gone from her voice. Gone from her hands as she pushed him
forward.
Grief flooded him again, sharp and cold.
He bowed his head.
She had died for him.
Protected him until the end.
And he hadn't even had time to say goodbye.
But—his dad had said it. Told him before… before the end.
The Vaerendrals and Fontaines were old families. Powerful families. Families that
wouldn't have had just one house-elf. Not in generations of magic and legacy and wards.
There had to be another.
Somewhere.
Cassian looked up, wiping his face quickly with his sleeve.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I know this is stupid… but maybe it's better than nothing."
And then, for some reason… he remembered a fanfiction.
Some random one he'd read years ago. One of the dozens—no, hundreds—he'd
devoured while stuck in a hospital bed with wires in his arm and monitors humming
beside him. It was about Harry. Or maybe Draco. It all blurred now.
But he remembered the idea.
Elves.
Bound to old families.
They'd appear when the heir called them—when the Head of the family called them.
His hand slipped into the satchel again, and this time he pulled out the rings.
His father's first—thick and ancient, carved with the Vaerendral crest. Cold to the touch.
Then his mother's—slimmer, elegant, etched with the delicate lines of the Fontaine seal.
Still faintly warm.
He held them in his palms, feeling the weight of them.
"The headship rings…"
A weak, tired laugh slipped from his throat.
"I'm really glad I read the Harry Potter books," he muttered, voice shaky. "And the
fanfiction. Guess that cancer was good for something after all."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to push the tears away before they
started again.
"Being stuck in that hospital room got boring real fast."
He looked down at the rings one more time.
Then he took a breath.
And another.
And placed both rings—his father's and his mother's—on his fingers. They were too big,
but they shimmered the moment they touched his skin, shrinking just enough to fit.
The air shifted around him. Just slightly.
"If there are any elves… still bound to House Vaerendral…"
His fingers tightened around the rings.
"…and Fontaine…"
"…I need help."
Cassian stood still, waiting.
The wind rustled. A leaf tumbled across the clearing. Nothing happened.
No sound. No shimmer. No crack of magic.
Just silence.
He sighed and dropped heavily back onto the damp grass, pulling the satchel into his
lap. His fingers shook slightly as he reached inside and pulled out the grimoire—thick,
heavy, old as hell. It smelled like parchment and ash and something ancient beneath
both.
Cassian flipped through page after page, eyes glazing over.
Potions. Arithmancy. Ancient Runes. Spellcraft. Diagrams of human souls. Notes
scribbled in at least four different hands. Some of the ink was so old it had faded to grey.
He felt a headache forming just from looking at it.
"This is all brilliant," he muttered, dragging his fingers down his face, "and completely
useless to me right now."
Another page flipped. It was something about leyline stabilizers. The next one was a
translation key for four rune languages. The next had potion sequences with fountain
based ingredient ratios.
He slammed the book shut and groaned.
"I just want to know how to summon an elf."
The grimoire shivered in his lap.
Cassian blinked.
It vibrated faintly, then began to glow—soft blue light pulsing from the spine. The pages
flipped themselves, turning fast, faster, until they landed halfway through the book.
The light stilled.
Cassian looked down, and there it was—clearly written across the top of the page:
The title stretched across the top in flowing, archaic script:
"On the Acknowledgement of Linebound Servants When the Heir Knows Not the Name"
Below it, a block of text appeared, written in calm, old magic—like someone who had
lived a long time had taken care to make this simple, because they knew one day,
someone like him would need it.
In times of loss and silence, when names have faded and history lies shattered, the
rightful Heir may still call those bound to blood and legacy.
If the Head bears the rings and carries the name, then the call may pass through magic
itself. No name need be known. Only the will.
Cassian leaned in as the glow brightened slightly, revealing the words below—words
that felt older than the parchment, and far more alive.
"Invocation."
To summon by blood-right alone, speak thus:
"I, ____,
Heir by blood, by name, by right, and by magic,
call thee who are bound to this line.
If ye serve still, come forth and answer.
By oath, by bond, by legacy… I summon thee."
There was no flourish. No wand movement.
Just the words.
And the quiet weight of them, like a sleeping promise waiting to wake.
Cassian read it twice more, silently.
Then he stood.
He looked down at the rings on his fingers.
Took a breath.
And spoke—not to the wind, but to the legacy itself:
"I, Cassian Edric Fontaine Vaerendral…"
"Heir by blood, by name, by right, and by magic…"
"Call thee who are bound to this line…"
"If ye serve still—come forth and answer…"
"By oath, by bond, by legacy… I summon thee."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Cassian stood there, breath held, rings glowing faintly on his fingers, the grimoire still
warm against his chest.
Then—
The air cracked.
Once. Twice. A dozen times over.
Soft pops echoed around the clearing—like sparks of air igniting—and light shimmered
in sudden bursts, one after the other, circling him in a wide arc.
Figures began to take shape.
Small. Robed. Familiar.
Eyes wide, ears long, expressions solemn.
Elves.
Fifteen of them.
They appeared in flashes of white-blue magic, like starlight stepping out of space itself.
Some arrived from the west. Others from the east. One blinked into view from high
above the trees and drifted softly down. A few looked exhausted. One had dried blood
on his sleeves. Another held a set of potion vials still clutched in one hand.
But they came.
Every last one.
Cassian stood frozen, unable to speak.
Athena growled low at first—then went still, curling tighter into his side.
The elves looked around the clearing, their eyes falling on him one by one. They didn't
speak right away. Didn't move.
Until the one in the center—tall for his kind, dressed in deep green robes threaded with
Vaerendral silver—stepped forward.
He bowed low.
"By the call of blood, by oath and bond… we come."
The others bowed too, almost as one.
A soft hum filled the air, like old magic settling into place after centuries of silence.
The tall elf raised his head.
His face was lined with age, but his eyes were steady—pale silver, almost like frost.
"Master is calling. Master wears the rings. Magic is listening now. House is listening."
Cassian looked around at them—fifteen elves, ancient magic, real and waiting and
bound to him now. Waiting for his word.
"You all came," he whispered. "I… I didn't think anyone would answer."
Cassian swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
Master is Vaerendral. Master is Fontaine. Master has blood, has name, has grief. Magic
hears grief best."
The others nodded, ears drooping low.
One of them wiped their eyes without lifting their head.
Athena pressed herself closer to Cassian's side, her tail curling around his wrist.
He knelt slowly, the weight of everything crashing down in his chest.
"I don't know what to do," he said quietly.
Thornik gave the smallest nod.
"Then Thornik will tell. Elves will help. Always."
Then he stepped forward, folding his long, wrinkled hands before him.
"Master is alone," Thornik said softly. "But Master is not broken. Thornik is seeing it.
Thornik is knowing. But… Thornik is needing to hear. What has happened to the House?"
Cassian looked at him.
Then at the elves still kneeling in silence.
The words nearly caught in his throat, but they had to come out. Somehow.
"We were ambushed," he said quietly. "Right after the ritual."
He hesitated. His breath hitched once.
"It was…" he almost said the name, but the word froze behind his teeth. His father's
voice echoed in his head—"Never say it. Never give it the power it craves. Never feed the
curse."
"It was the abomination."
Thornik's head gave the smallest dip, as if he understood exactly what Cassian meant.
"Vampires. Werewolves. Dark wizards," Cassian went on. "Dozens of them. They were
waiting. They knew."
He swallowed hard.
"They didn't stand a chance," he said. "They fought anyway."
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached into the satchel, pulling out the compass
f
irst.
"My father gave me this," he said. "He told me to press the button when it glows. That it
would show me the way."
He placed it on the grass between them, then reached in again—pulling out the
necklace, then the two rings on his fingers, showing them quietly, one by one.
"The Vaerendral ring. The Fontaine ring. My mother's necklace."
"They… they died to make sure I escaped. They knew they wouldn't make it out."
Tears blurred his vision, but his voice held steady, like steel buried in velvet.
"My father said to trust two people."
He looked Thornik in the eye for the first time.
"My great-grandfather."
"And Arcturus Black."
"He told me to press it when it glows," Cassian murmured. "But it's not glowing."
Thornik stepped forward, eyes flicking down to the object.
He blinked slow, long.
"Compass… is tired, Master," Thornik said, voice low, rough. "Magic gone. Used… all up."
Cassian looked at him. "Gone?"
"Yess. Compass used big-magic. Carry Master safe. Through stone. Through dark.
Through river-road."
The elf's long fingers twitched once.
"Compass is sleeping now. Magic empty."
Cassian frowned. "Can I fix it?"
Thornik gave a small shake of his head.
"Not now, Master. Compass needs time. Needs place. Safe-place. Then… will drink
magic again. Will glow."
Cassian stared down at it, turning the compass slowly in his palm.
It felt… hollow now. Like a heartbeat had stopped.
"Father said it would take me where I needed to go."
"And it will, Master," Thornik said softly. "When it wakes."
Cassian stepped closer to Thornik, the compass cool in his hand.
"Is there a place I can go?" he asked quietly. "Somewhere safe. Just for now. Until the
compass… recharges."
Thornik's long ears twitched. He raised his hand slowly, and from his palm, a soft blue
light began to rise—thin lines and glowing dots unfurling into the air like threads of silk. A
faint map hovered in the space between them, ghostlike and humming with old magic.
"Master is having places," Thornik murmured, voice dry and low. "Old places. Some
strong, some small. Still hidden. Still ours."
A light pulsed faintly in southern England.
"Vaerendral Castle," Thornik said. "Main seat of House. Sealed. Sleeping. Wards too
heavy now. Archive is there. Deep-deep under stone. Castle not waking unless called
proper."
Another glow flickered over London.
"One flat in Muggle-side city. Small place. Has hiding charms. Quiet. No wizard looks."
A faint golden speck shivered in the north.
"Townhouse in Highlands. Windy hills. Far from roads. Not strong-warded, but secret.
Lonely."
Near Wiltshire, another spark burned dim.
"The keep," Thornik whispered. "Where Master's father did ritual. Place is gone now.
Burned. Broken. Nothing left but stone and bones."
Two more dots appeared—one tucked into Diagon Alley, the other farther north.
"Flat above Alley," he continued. "One room. Has silence spell. Old. Not used much."
"Shops too. Three. Potions. Books. Trinkets. Still rented. Still under name."
"One flat in Hogsmeade. Old glass window. Still frosts in summer."
The map shifted east, drifting over the continent.
"Germany," Thornik said. "Flat in Berlin. Hidden wall. Quiet."
"Townhouse in Hamburg. Thick door. Has cold wine room."
"One more in Munich. High roof. Garden grows wild."
Then a darker dot in the Schwarzwald.
"Castle in forest," Thornik muttered. "No elf has gone in years. Dust sleeps there. Wards
are lazy. Magic… slow."
Further south, the light pulsed in the mountains.
"Fortress in Swiss Alps. Dug into stone. Once used for hiding. Old war place. Still safe,
but cold."
Dots flickered across France.
"Five. Paris. Lyon. Coast. Old wine vault. One under chapel stones."
Then Spain.
"Four homes there. Sun-warmed walls. Empty beds."
And Morocco.
"One vault. Red stone. Quiet wind."
Tunis lit with a soft golden flicker.
"Flat above rooftops. Birds live on rail."
"Egypt," he said. "Two places. One under Cairo street. One near long river. Hidden door."
The map curved westward again, floating across the ocean.
"Caribbean has two," Thornik continued. "Island hill home. Cave under sea rock."
"Flat in New York. Muggle street. Loud above. Silent below."
"Townhouse in Los Angeles. Empty. Still smells of rain."
At last, the lights drifted into the cold north.
"Russia," Thornik said, voice lower now. "Mansion by black woods. Old. Heavy with
sleep. Bones in wall sing when snow falls."
The map dimmed slowly, sinking back into Thornik's palm like mist.
"These are Vaerendral places," he said.
Thornik's voice lowered, a new trail of golden lights beginning to rise, gentler than the
ones before.
"Fontaine holdings are fewer," he said. "But magic is deeper. Quiet places in—"
Cassian raised a hand, stopping him.
"No," he said. "That's enough."
Thornik fell silent immediately. The glowing trails flickered, then faded away.
Cassian looked down at the compass in his palm, still dark and unmoving. He tightened
his fingers around it.
"Take me to the flat in London," he said, his voice steady. "Temporarily. Just until I can
either recharge this thing… or get in contact with my great-grandfather. Or Arcturus
Black."
His jaw set.
"After that, we leave the country."
Thornik blinked slowly, but said nothing.
Cassian looked up again, meeting the elf's pale, unblinking eyes.
"Can you Apparate us there?"
Thornik's ears twitched slightly, and he gave a small nod.
"Thornik can take Master," he said. "Flat is ready. Still hidden. Still safe."
Cassian exhaled, slow and even.
"Good."
He reached down, pulled the satchel tighter over his shoulder, and stepped forward.
"Let's go."
Thornik extended his hand, old fingers crooked slightly with age.
Cassian didn't hesitate. He took it.
And the world vanished with a quiet crack of ancient magic.
———————————————-
Cassian's boots hit the floor.
But before he could even stabilize himself, he was thrown off his feet and slammed
straight into the ground with a solid thud.
His hands smacked the carpet first. Then his knees. Then his shoulder.
Pain shot up his side, and for a moment he just lay there, breath knocked out of his
chest, blinking at the ceiling.
It was his first time Apparating. And it was nothing like the books said.
It felt like he'd been shoved through a pipe too small for his body, stretched, flattened,
broken, and then put back together again.
Cassian groaned, pushing himself up with shaking arms. His stomach rolled hard. For a
second, he thought he was going to throw up—but he forced it back down and took a few
shallow breaths.
Focus. He had to focus.
He blinked hard and looked around, still disoriented, still trying to piece together where
he even was.
A flat.
No—a loft, he'd call it. Somewhere modern. Simple, elegant, minimalistic.
The room around him was mostly dark, the curtains still drawn. But it wasn't cold. There
was a quiet warmth in the air, the kind that came from old, sleeping wards.
They were in the living room.
Soft carpet under his hands. White bookshelves along the far wall, most of them empty.
A low hearth sat unused at one end, dark and cold. Furniture was covered in white
sheets, untouched. A thick layer of dust shimmered faintly in the low light, glowing
where it caught the sun behind the curtain.
There were runes under the rug.
He could barely see them—but they were there. Faint, etched into the floor. Barely
visible unless you knew where to look.
Cassian had just gotten to his feet when he felt a tug at his wrist.
Thornik.
The old elf was already walking, gently pulling him forward.
"Ward-stone follows now," Thornik said, dragging him without pause.
"Wait—what—?" Cassian stumbled along behind him.
The elf didn't answer. He walked straight to the fireplace and reached toward the side of
the mantle.
There, tucked into the corner, was a small statue—a dragon, carved from stone, curled
tightly around itself.
Thornik pressed two fingers to its snout.
With a soft metallic click, the dragon tilted sideways, and a narrow iron rod slid out from
inside the stone.
The elf pulled the rod downward.
The wall beside the fireplace gave a low groan and cracked open.
Cassian stared.
Behind it was a hidden room—no bigger than a closet.
In the center of it, hovering just above a flat stone plinth, was a glowing orb. Pale blue,
soft, steady.
"Ward-stone," Thornik said. "Old one. Still strong. Flat listens to it."
Cassian blinked at the orb. His head was still spinning.
"Can they even talk in complete sentences?" he muttered to himself.
"What… do I do?"
"Master must touch," Thornik said. "Say words. Flat will hide again. Magic will hum."
Cassian frowned. "What words?"
Thornik paused, ears twitching slightly. He looked confused.
"Thornik… doesn't know."
Cassian stared at him. "You don't—what?"
The elf nodded slowly. "Yes. Thornik doesn't know. Only Master knows."
Cassian's breath caught. "I don't know anything about this!"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, on the edge of snapping.
Then he stopped.
The grimoire.
The book had shown him the spell for summoning the elves. Maybe… maybe it would do
it again.
He yanked the grimoire from the satchel and flipped it open.
"I need to activate the wardstone," he muttered. "To hide the flat."
The book shivered once in his hands—and then snapped to life.
Pages flipped in a blur of motion, faster than he could follow. The air around it hummed
softly, glowing faintly silver-blue.
Then the flipping stopped.
One page. Clear and glowing.
Activation of Ward-Stone was written at the top in neat Vaerendral script.
He scanned the headings. There were different types—barrier wards, anti-tracking, anti
Apparition, anti-portkey, concealment, protection—
His eyes landed on one.
Concealment Wards.
Underneath it:
Domus Occulto.
Cassian didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward, raised his hand, and pressed his fingers against the cool surface of
the glowing orb.
"Domus Occulto," he said.
The moment the words left his mouth, the wardstone flared with light. Magic rushed
through the walls like a silent wave—almost invisible, almost undetectable.
Most wizards wouldn't have felt it at all.
But Cassian did.
He saw it.
Words etched in light flared across the walls and floor, swirling in elegant, ancestral
magic—activated wards lighting up in runic script. The air tingled. The flat shivered, just
slightly, like something old was waking up.
His mage-sight—part of the Vaerendral bloodline—let him see every line of magic as it
pulsed and sank back into silence.
The flat was alive now. Hidden.
Thornik, quiet beside him, nodded once.
"Flat is hiding now."
Cassian nodded too.
The moment my hand left the wardstone, the light faded. The soft blue glow died down,
like someone had blown out a candle. But the magic stayed, humming faintly under the
floor, in the walls, like the whole flat was breathing again for the first time in years.
I stepped back into the living room.
Behind me, the hidden door clicked shut.
A second later, the wall just… sealed. Smooth, flat, ordinary stone. Like it had never
opened in the first place.
I stood there for a second, just staring at it. My chest felt tight.
Thornik was still in the middle of the room. He hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. The
place was still half-covered in sheets, the furniture outlined in dust and soft shadows.
Light bled through the curtains like it was too tired to try.
I looked around at the flat.
And I realized how quiet it was.
"…Thornik," I said, my voice a little hoarse, "can you clean the place up? And… make
breakfast or something?"
He didn't answer right away, but I didn't wait.
"I'm gonna take a shower. Then I'm going to sleep. Wake me if anything happens."
"Thornik knows," he said simply. "Thornik will clean."
I nodded and turned away.
The hallway was small. Narrow. Clean in that untouched kind of way. Three doors on
each side. One at the end. I opened the first.
Kitchen.
Second.
Bathroom.
I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and dropped the satchel onto the tile floor.
It hit with a heavy thud. Athena jumped out like she'd just been waiting. She padded
silently across the floor, tail flicking, and leapt up beside the sink, curling herself into a
corner of the counter like it was her throne.
I didn't say anything. I just started peeling off my clothes.
They were wet. Muddy. Torn in a few places. Bloodstained. The fabric stuck to my skin
like it didn't want to let go. My limbs ached from the impact earlier. My fingers were
trembling a little, but I kept going.
One piece at a time.
When I reached the mirror, I looked up.
And froze.
There it was again—that face. That child's face. Mine, but… not. Still three years old. Still
too small. Still wrong.
I raised a hand and touched my cheek. Soft. Too soft. I didn't look like someone who'd
just watched their parents die.
But I felt like it.
And that made it worse.
I turned away from the mirror and walked to the bathtub. Turned the knob. Let the water
run. The sound was comforting in a distant sort of way—gentle, steady, almost like rain.
I stepped in, sat down, and let the warmth rise around me.
For a second, I thought maybe I could just… shut down. Sleep. Let the heat take it all
away.
But the second I closed my eyes, she was there.
My mother.
Lying on the stone floor.
Eyes wide and empty.
Blood pooling under her. Her mouth open like she had one more word left in her.
And then my father—his back to me, spells flashing from his wand, fighting him.
The abomination. Snakeface.
Voldemort.
And then everything went black.
I couldn't stop the shaking.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and tried to breathe.
Tried to stay calm.
But I couldn't.
The tears started silently—just a few. Then more. And more. My chest hurt. My ribs felt
tight. Like if I tried to take a deep breath, everything would snap.
I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt the warmth on my face mixing with the steam.
It all hit me at once.
I didn't get to say goodbye.
Didn't get to do anything.
I just watched.
And then I ran.
I buried my face in my arms, and the sobs came harder.
I didn't want to cry.
But I couldn't stop.
There was just too much.
Too much noise inside my head. Too much pain in my chest. Too many memories from
two lives crashing together. I'd died once already. From cancer. Alone. Quietly. Now I was
here, in this world, and I thought I'd get a second chance. I thought I'd get to live.
But what was this?
Was this living?
Running?
Bleeding?
Losing them?
I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I just curled tighter and sobbed like a broken thing.
I felt Athena shift.
When I looked up, she wasn't on the counter anymore. She was floating.
Tiny blue clouds had formed under her paws, holding her gently as she stepped through
the air and landed at the edge of the bathtub.
She didn't say anything. Didn't move much.
She just sat there, tail curled around her legs, watching me with those strange, silver
eyes.
She meowed.
Soft. Small.
Like she was saying, I'm here.
I blinked at her through tears.
"…This is too much," I whispered, voice cracking. "It's too much…"
I sniffed and wiped my face with one shaking hand.
"I wasn't ready. I didn't even get to breathe. I just woke up and… and they were already
dying."
My voice broke again.
Athena tilted her head, ears twitching.
I let out a shaky breath and lowered my forehead to my arms.
And then, just like that… I heard her voice.
My mother's voice.
Soft. Clear. Just a memory—but it filled the whole room like a song.
"Dors, mon petit trésor…
Ne crains pas le noir…"
I sucked in a breath. My eyes stung again.
"La lune veille sur toi…
Et maman est là…"
My lips moved before I even thought about it.
"…Dors, mon petit trésor…"
My voice was thin. Barely a whisper.
"…Ne crains pas le noir…"
The tears returned, slow and steady.
"…La lune veille sur toi…"
I looked at Athena.
She didn't move. She just stayed.
"…Et maman est là…"
I pressed my face back into my arms and cried until there was nothing left in me.
——————————————-
I must've fallen asleep not long after the bath.
I don't remember getting out of the water, don't remember drying off or pulling on the
too-big clothes I found in the bag. Just soft fabric and numb fingers and my body moving
without really thinking.
The bed wasn't made, but I didn't care. I found a bedroom that looked clean enough,
threw the sheets back, and collapsed on top of them. Face down. Eyes closed.
Sleep came fast.
Too fast.
And then the nightmare hit.
It wasn't even one thing.
It was everything.
The screams.
The fire.
The Keep falling apart.
My mother's body—her eyes still open. Her mouth frozen mid-breath. Blood in her hair.
My father—spells slamming against wards, dueling like a man already dead. His voice,
distant, yelling my name.
And him.
The abomination.
Standing in the dark like he belonged there. Like death had always been his friend.
I couldn't move in the dream. Couldn't speak. I was trapped. Watching them die again
and again and again—
I woke up screaming.
My whole body jerked forward. My throat was raw. My hands were clenched so tight my
nails dug into my palms.
It took me a second to remember where I was.
London.
The flat.
Safe—for now.
My chest was still heaving. I sat up, breathing hard, still shaking.
Then, just like that, Thornik popped into the room with a soft crack. No sound, no
warning. Just appeared like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
He was holding a small bottle in his hands.
I flinched when I saw him.
He walked forward and held the potion out.
"What is it?" I asked, voice still hoarse.
"Calming drot," he said. "Master is needing."
I stared at the bottle for a second. The liquid inside was cloudy. Kind of green. Kind of
grey. Like pond water that had been sitting too long.
I didn't care.
I took it and drank it in one go.
It was horrible.
Like drinking old socks. Wet, moldy socks. With a hint of toothpaste.
I gagged, wiped my mouth, and forced it down.
But within seconds, I could feel it working.
My heartbeat slowed. My hands stopped trembling. The edge in my chest—the panic,
the fire—dulled.
It didn't take away the grief. That was still there. Just quieter now. Like it had been buried
under something heavy.
I didn't feel better.
Just… empty.
Like there was a hollow spot inside my ribs where everything used to be. And now it was
just silence.
The silence of the flat pressed in all around me. No voices. No footsteps. Just me. Just
the echo of what I'd lost.
I looked at Thornik and mumbled, "…thank you."
He nodded once.
Then disappeared with a soft pop.
Gone again.
I lay back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The sheets were warm.
But I wasn't.
My fingers curled into the blanket, and I whispered into the stillness of the room, not
really expecting an answer.
"…Shouldn't be surprised, after all."
I blinked slowly, my eyes heavy again.
"Loneliness was always our greatest companion."
———————————————