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Chapter Text

Diary Entry of Abraxas Malfoy, December 31st

      I do not know if anyone will ever read these words. Perhaps they will rot along with my flesh, buried beneath the marble of the Malfoy crypt, or perhaps they will find their way to my great-grandson’s hands, decades from now. If they do, I can only hope they serve as more than the ramblings of a dying man. Let this be my reckoning. My penance.

      The Dragon Pox eats away at my body, and the guilt festers in my soul. I see them in my dreams—her, with bright, warm eyes that once gave me hope, and him, with piercing, soulless ones that robbed me of it. Her name was Augury Dagworth-Granger. His name… was Tom Riddle.

      I loved her, though I should not have. And I followed him, though I knew I should not. Between them, my life unraveled into ruin.

      Augury was the light in my dark world, but I let the shadows take her. No, that is too kind. I handed her to them. To him. The boy who grew into a monster. And now, when I close my eyes, I hear her voice calling to me from the past, filled with anguish and betrayal. She doesn’t blame me, but she should.

      As for Tom—no, Voldemort, as he demanded we call him—I still hear his cold laughter, see his satisfied smirk as he turned her into a thing, a tool, a curse. For decades, I served him, a loyal dog bound by the chains he forged. I hated him as much as I feared him, and yet I could not escape him. He bound us all, one way or another, didn’t he?

      I write this now not for absolution, for I deserve none. This diary is my confession, my story, and perhaps, my attempt to warn those who remain. Draco, my great-grandson, if you ever read this, know that I did what I did because I was weak. But you do not have to be.

      To understand how it came to this, I must start at the beginning. My first year at Hogwarts, when the world seemed simpler, and yet the seeds of darkness had already been sown. It was the year I met him—Tom Riddle.

 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE - " lumos"

      The morning air clung to the platform at King’s Cross Station, thick with the metallic tang of train steam and the hum of bustling Muggle life. Eleven-year-old Abraxas Malfoy stepped out of the sleek black carriage bearing his family crest, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the stone. His tall, pale figure was as immaculate as his neatly packed trunk, every detail of his attire screaming propriety and privilege.

      Beside him, Sylvia Williams, his caretaker, carried herself with the kind of quiet confidence that often surprised those who underestimated her. She adjusted her sensible traveling cloak and glanced at her young charge, her brow furrowing slightly at the tension in his stiff posture.

      “Chin up, young master,” she murmured with a small smile, leaning closer. “Hogwarts will suit you. You’ll see.”

      Abraxas tilted his chin upward obediently, though he didn’t respond. His father’s last words still echoed in his mind. A Malfoy does not falter. A Malfoy does not fraternize beneath his station.

      The station buzzed around them—Muggle travelers rushing past with heavy cases, porters shouting indistinct instructions. It was an unfamiliar chaos that both intrigued and repelled him. Despite himself, he stayed close to Sylvia, his fingers gripping the handle of his trunk tightly.

      As they approached the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, Sylvia slowed. Her hand on his shoulder was steady, but her eyes were scanning the crowd with sudden interest.

      “There,” she said softly, nodding toward a pair standing a few feet away.

      A girl about his age darted around the legs of a tall man, her auburn curls catching the pale sunlight that filtered through the station’s glass canopy. She was all energy—gesturing wildly with her hands, hopping from foot to foot as she spoke to the man. Her robes, though tidy, had a slightly worn look, as though they had been passed down rather than tailored.

      The man, however, was a different story entirely. Hector Dagworth-Granger stood out in the crowd, not merely because of his green wizard’s robes, but because of his commanding presence. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones gave him an air of nobility, though his warm expression softened the effect. He held himself with an easy confidence, his gaze intelligent and sharp.

      “That’s Hector Dagworth-Granger,” Sylvia whispered, her voice suddenly tinged with admiration. “The potioneer. He’s famous for—”

      “I know,” Abraxas said curtly, though he didn’t. He was more interested in the girl, who had just spun on her heel and was heading straight for the barrier.

      “Augury!” the man called after her, his tone amused but firm. “Wait for me.”

      She paused just short of the wall, turning to face him with an impish grin. “I know what I’m doing, Dad!” she called back, before catching sight of Abraxas and Sylvia.

      The girl’s blue eyes met Abraxas’s cool gray ones, and her lips quirked into a grin that made him feel oddly self-conscious. She marched toward him without hesitation, her expression a mixture of curiosity and mischief.

      “Are you going to Hogwarts?” she asked, her tone blunt and unceremonious.

      Abraxas blinked, startled by her forwardness. “Obviously,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “I’m Abraxas Malfoy.”

      “Malfoy?” She tilted her head as though trying to recall something. Then her eyes lit with exaggerated understanding. “Oh, you’re one of those families.”

      “Those families?”

      “You know—purebloods who walk around like they own the place.” Her grin widened. “Should I curtsy or something?”

      Abraxas bristled, his cheeks warming. “You could try showing some respect.”

      “Respect is earned,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “So far, you’re not doing great.”

      “Augury,” Hector said gently, though there was a note of amusement in his voice. He had joined them now, Sylvia close behind.

      “Dagworth-Granger,” Sylvia said, extending a hand. “I’m Sylvia Williams, caretaker to this young one.”

      Hector’s gaze shifted to Sylvia, and for a brief moment, Abraxas thought he saw something unusual in his expression—interest, perhaps?

      “The pleasure is mine, Miss Williams,” Hector replied, taking her hand in a firm but courteous grip. His smile was warm, and it seemed to linger just a second longer than necessary.

      Sylvia cleared her throat lightly, withdrawing her hand. “I’ve admired your work,” she said, her tone now slightly more formal. “Your theories on stabilizing volatile draughts were… inspiring.”

      “Ah, yes, my more mundane contributions,” Hector replied with a modest chuckle. “Though my daughter here insists that none of it compares to her own potion experiments, crude as they may be.”

      “They’re not crude!” Augury protested, puffing out her chest. “You said I had a natural talent.”

      “I said you were naturally enthusiastic,” Hector corrected, the corner of his mouth twitching in a restrained smile.

      Abraxas found himself watching them curiously. He had never seen an adult wizard act so… casual, so at ease. It was disarming.

      “Come on,” Sylvia said after a moment, placing a hand on Abraxas’s shoulder. “We should get through the barrier before the train leaves.”

      Augury turned and darted ahead, pausing briefly to shoot Abraxas a smirk. “Try to keep up, Malfoy.” Then she disappeared through the wall, leaving him standing there, half annoyed and half intrigued.

      “Miss Granger is a handful,” Sylvia remarked as they followed.

      Abraxas didn’t reply. His heart was pounding, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

      The platform beyond was alive with sound and color. The Hogwarts Express loomed large and red, its chimney spewing smoke into the crisp air. Wizards and witches bustled about, trunks and pets in tow, their chatter blending into an excited hum.

      Augury was already at the train, leaning out of one of the compartments and grinning at him. “Are you always this slow?” she called.

      Abraxas didn’t answer, but his feet carried him forward, his grip on his trunk tightening as he climbed aboard.

      He wasn’t sure what to make of Augury Dagworth-Granger, but one thing was certain: his first year at Hogwarts had just become far more complicated.

Chapter Text

      The interior of the Hogwarts Express was a maze of narrow corridors and compartments, all buzzing with the excited chatter of students. Abraxas Malfoy navigated the tight space with practiced ease, his trunk trailing behind him as he scanned for a familiar face. He had barely stepped into the train when a ripple of unease shivered down his spine, and he found himself pausing.

      The corridor was momentarily empty, save for a boy standing at the far end.

      The boy’s presence was magnetic in a way Abraxas couldn’t explain. He was slight, his robes a bit too large, and his dark hair fell in uneven strands over his pale face. Yet his eyes—piercing, calculating, far too old for a boy of eleven—seemed to take in every detail of his surroundings.

      Abraxas didn’t know why, but he found it difficult to look away. The boy’s gaze flicked to him, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged, almost electric.

      “You’re blocking the aisle,” the boy said, his voice quiet but firm.

      Abraxas bristled, straightening his shoulders. “And you’re standing in the way.”

      The boy’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Only one of us is moving forward.”

      There was an edge to the boy’s words, subtle but unmistakable. It wasn’t a threat—not quite—but it was enough to unsettle Abraxas. He frowned but stepped aside, allowing the boy to pass.

      As the boy brushed by, Abraxas caught a faint scent of something earthy, like damp parchment and old stone. He glanced back, but the boy was already disappearing into one of the compartments farther down the train, the door sliding shut behind him.

      Abraxas shook his head, annoyed at himself for being so rattled. Just another student, he thought, though the boy’s eyes lingered in his mind like an imprint.

      Abraxas continued down the corridor, forcing the encounter to the back of his mind. He passed several compartments filled with older students, their laughter and chatter spilling into the hallway. Finally, he spotted a familiar face through one of the compartment windows.

      Sliding the door open, he found himself greeted by three boys roughly his age, all of whom he recognized from various pureblood gatherings and galas.

      “Malfoy!” drawled a boy with neatly combed blond hair and sharp features. “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

      “Goyle,” Abraxas replied with a nod. “Mind if I join you?”

      “Of course not,” Goyle said, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “We were just talking about what House we’ll end up in.”

      Abraxas hauled his trunk onto the luggage rack and took his seat. Beside Goyle sat a wiry boy with reddish-brown hair and a smattering of freckles. He was perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes darting nervously toward the window.

      “This is Travers,” Goyle said, jerking a thumb at the boy. “His family’s been in Slytherin for generations.”

      Travers nodded stiffly, offering Abraxas a tentative smile.

      “And that,” Goyle continued, pointing to the last boy in the compartment, “is Rosier.”

      Rosier was lounging against the seat, his dark hair falling lazily into his eyes. He gave Abraxas a crooked grin. “Pleasure.”

      “Likewise,” Abraxas replied, settling into his seat.

      “So, Malfoy,” Goyle said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I assume you’re aiming for Slytherin?”

      Abraxas arched an eyebrow. “It’s where I belong,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

      “Good,” Goyle said, grinning. “Wouldn’t do to have a Malfoy anywhere else.”

      “What about you, Travers?” Abraxas asked, more out of courtesy than genuine interest.

      Travers shifted uncomfortably. “Slytherin, I suppose,” he mumbled. “Though my mum says Ravenclaw wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

      Goyle scoffed. “Ravenclaw? Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be wasted there.”

      As the boys debated the merits of the Houses, Abraxas found his thoughts drifting back to the boy he’d encountered in the corridor. There had been something unsettling about him, something that didn’t fit into the neat categories of Hogwarts life that pureblood families like his tended to embrace.

      “What’s on your mind, Malfoy?” Rosier asked suddenly, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

      “Nothing,” Abraxas replied quickly. “Just thinking about what’s ahead.”

      Rosier smirked. “Don’t overthink it. Hogwarts is where we’ll all finally make our mark.”

      Abraxas nodded, but the unease from earlier lingered. As the train rattled on toward Hogwarts, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just crossed paths with someone who would be more than a footnote in his story. Someone who might change everything.

      As the Hogwarts Express rumbled on, the train’s rhythm was interrupted by the compartment door sliding open with a sharp clang. Standing in the doorway was a boy around their age, dressed in crisp but unassuming robes. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he carried himself with a calm confidence that instantly drew the room’s attention.  

      “Well, this is a cozy gathering,” the boy said, his tone light and dry, though his sharp brown eyes betrayed a calculating nature.  

      “Charles Nott,” Goyle muttered, as if the boy’s presence explained itself.  

      Abraxas raised an eyebrow. The Nott family was old blood, their reputation rooted in discretion and quiet influence rather than overt displays of power. Charles himself, however, had a glint in his eye that suggested he wasn’t content to stay in the shadows.  

      “Room for one more?” Nott asked, stepping into the compartment without waiting for an answer.  

      Goyle scooted closer to Travers, who looked mildly relieved not to be on the edge anymore. Nott slid the door shut behind him and perched his trunk neatly on the luggage rack before taking the newly vacated seat.  

      “You’re Malfoy,” Nott said, studying Abraxas with interest. “And Goyle. Travers, right? And you must be Rosier. All names I’ve heard often enough.”  

      “And you’ve heard yours, I’m sure,” Abraxas replied smoothly, watching Nott as he leaned back against the seat.  

      “Perhaps,” Nott said with a faint smile. “My father says you can tell a lot about someone by the company they keep.”  

      “Then you must think highly of us,” Rosier interjected with a smirk.  

      Nott’s eyes flicked to Rosier. “That remains to be seen.”  

      The boys exchanged looks, each weighing the newcomer. Abraxas couldn’t help but feel that Nott was testing them, gauging their worth like a jeweler inspecting gems.  

      “So,” Nott continued, his voice cutting through the growing tension, “who else has seen that boy?”  

      “What boy?” Goyle asked, frowning.  

      “The dark-haired one,” Nott said, his tone now carrying a hint of curiosity. “He walked past me earlier, and—well, he didn’t seem like your average first-year.”  

      Abraxas’s stomach tightened. He knew exactly who Nott was referring to. “I saw him,” he said, keeping his voice steady.  

      “What did he say to you?” Nott asked, leaning forward slightly.  

      “Not much,” Abraxas replied carefully. “Just a few words in passing.”  

      Nott tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “There’s something about him, don’t you think? Something… off.”  

      Rosier scoffed. “You’re reading too much into it. He’s probably just another over-eager student trying to make an impression.”  

      “Maybe,” Nott said, though he didn’t sound convinced. He leaned back, his eyes drifting toward the window. “But some impressions are worth noting.”  

      The conversation shifted after that, veering back to the usual first-year speculation about classes and the Sorting Hat. Nott proved himself quick-witted and sharp-tongued, earning grudging respect from Rosier and even a laugh from the usually anxious Travers.  

      Still, Abraxas found himself distracted. Nott’s words had stirred something in him, reinforcing the sense of unease that had taken root since his encounter in the corridor.  

      He didn’t know the dark-haired boy’s name yet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths were destined to cross again. And when they did, it wouldn’t be as simple as passing each other in the narrow confines of a train.  

Chapter Text

      The train screeched to a slow, shuddering halt, its whistle echoing into the dusky air like a ghostly cry. Students jostled through the narrow corridors, trunks clattering and voices buzzing with excitement. Outside the windows, the world was veiled in silvery mist, softening the outlines of towering pines and shadowy hills that surrounded the platform. Dim lanterns swung from iron posts, their warm glow fighting back the encroaching night.

      Abraxas Malfoy stepped carefully onto the platform, his polished boots landing on the slick cobblestones. The cool air carried the earthy scent of moss and damp stone, mingling with the faint tang of wood smoke drifting from somewhere unseen. Crickets chirped sporadically, their song blending with the murmur of hundreds of students spilling from the train. Overhead, a crescent moon hung low, casting long shadows that made the figures moving about appear taller, darker.

      “First-years! Over here!”

      The voice was loud and deep, a commanding rumble that carried over the noise. Abraxas turned toward its source, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a towering figure standing at the edge of the platform.

      The man was enormous, his shoulders impossibly broad beneath a patched cloak that hung down to his worn leather boots. His wild beard, streaked with gray, caught the golden light of the lantern he held high. His eyes, dark and twinkling like polished onyx, scanned the gathering crowd of young faces with an oddly gentle intensity. Around him, the shadows seemed to gather, as if reluctant to stray too far from his massive frame.

      “That’s got to be a troll,” Travers muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with unease.

      “Or worse,” Rosier quipped, though his smirk lacked its usual bite.

      “No,” Nott said, studying the man as they fell in with the other first-years. “That’s Ogg. Keeper of the Grounds. My father said he’s been here for ages.”

      “First-years, this way!” Ogg bellowed again, waving his free hand as the lantern swung in an arc, briefly illuminating the edge of the forest beyond. “C’mon, don’t dawdle now! We’ve got a journey ahead of us!”

      The first-years began to shuffle toward him, their excited chatter tapering into nervous murmurs as the towering groundskeeper turned and began leading them down a winding path that descended toward the lake.

      Abraxas followed, the crunch of gravel underfoot blending with the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The forest loomed on either side of the path, its ancient trees twisting together to form a canopy that seemed to breathe with the night. In the distance, the faint ripple of water hinted at their destination.

      “Abraxas!”

      The familiar voice made him turn sharply, his heart skipping for reasons he didn’t want to analyze. Standing a few paces away was Augury Granger, her dark curls catching the lantern light like a halo. Her face was flushed from the cold, her wide brown eyes bright with excitement as she tugged her trunk along.

      “You’ve made it this far without tripping,” Abraxas said, his tone clipped, though he couldn’t stop his lips from twitching into the beginnings of a smirk.

      “I’d be more worried about you falling into the lake,” Augury shot back, matching his stride.

      “Do try to keep up,” Augury added, her voice teasing as she swept past him.

      Abraxas rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist watching her for a moment longer. She was maddening, always quick with a retort, but there was something about her presence that unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.

      “Keep moving, Malfoy,” Nott said, nudging him forward with a knowing smirk.

      They reached the shore of the lake, its black surface stretching endlessly under the starlit sky. Small boats bobbed gently in the shallows, their lanterns flickering like will-o’-the-wisps. The first-years hesitated, their gazes darting between the boats and the vast expanse of water.

      “All aboard!” Ogg called, his deep voice carrying over the lapping waves. “Four to a boat, no more, no less!”

      Abraxas climbed into a boat with Nott, Rosier, and Travers, the wood creaking softly under their weight. As the boat began to glide smoothly across the lake, propelled by magic, the castle came into view.

      Hogwarts rose like a dream out of the mist, its turrets and towers glowing faintly in the moonlight. The sight stole the breath from every first-year, even Abraxas, though he quickly masked his awe with a cool expression.

      “Magnificent,” Nott murmured, his voice reverent.

      Rosier nodded, his usual smirk replaced by a rare, genuine smile. Even Travers seemed to relax, his earlier nervousness giving way to wonder.

      Abraxas leaned slightly over the edge of the boat, letting his fingers trail in the icy water. His gaze drifted toward Augury’s boat, just ahead of theirs, where her laughter carried softly over the stillness of the lake.

      For a brief moment, he forgot about the dark-haired boy from the train, the looming presence of Ogg, or even the weight of his own family’s expectations. There was only the castle, the lake, and the sense that something extraordinary awaited them all.

      The boats glided silently across the glassy surface of the lake, each one a beacon of flickering lantern light against the vast darkness. The stillness was broken only by the occasional splash of water as ripples spread out from the boats, their wakes disturbing the otherwise mirror-like reflection of the stars above.  

      Abraxas leaned slightly over the edge, his hand trailing just above the water. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, and he caught the faint smell of algae mingled with the crisp scent of pine drifting from the surrounding forest. The quiet murmurs of the other first-years carried across the water, rising and falling like an uncertain tide.  

      “What do you think’s down there?” Travers asked in a hushed voice, his wide eyes fixed on the dark depths below.  

      “Lake monsters, probably,” Rosier said with a shrug, though his grin betrayed his amusement at Travers’s unease.  

      “There’s supposed to be a giant squid,” Nott added, his tone measured but tinged with intrigue. “My father said it’s as old as the castle itself. Harmless, though… usually.”  

      Travers let out a nervous chuckle, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as if the weight of the boat might summon the creature.  

      Abraxas didn’t join the conversation. Instead, his attention was drawn to the ripples in the water, which suddenly seemed to move with a deliberate rhythm. A moment later, the surface broke with a quiet splash, and a long, glistening tentacle emerged briefly before disappearing just as quickly.  

      “There!” Travers yelped, pointing wildly toward the spot.  

      “I saw it too,” Nott confirmed, his brow furrowing. “That wasn’t a fish.”  

      Rosier’s smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the water. “It’s probably just a trick of the—”  

      Another ripple spread out across the lake, followed by the faintest shimmer of something massive just beneath the surface. Whatever it was, it moved with an eerie grace, the water parting around it in long, fluid arcs.  

      Before anyone could say more, the first-years’ collective gasp stole the attention away from the lake entirely.  

      There, rising out of the mist like a vision from another world, was Hogwarts.  

      The castle seemed to grow with every passing moment, its towering spires and turrets reaching toward the heavens. Warm light spilled from the high windows, illuminating the ancient stone walls with a golden glow. Shadows of passing students flitted across the windows, giving the sense that the castle itself was alive, watching and welcoming the new arrivals.  

      The reflection of the castle in the lake was so vivid that it felt as if they were sailing through the sky, the water beneath them indistinguishable from the starry expanse above.  

      “It’s…” Travers whispered, his voice trailing off as he searched for words.  

      “Unbelievable,” Rosier finished for him, his usual bravado replaced by genuine awe.  

      Abraxas remained silent, his silver eyes locked on the castle. It was more than he had expected, more than he had imagined even in his father’s grand stories of Malfoy family legacies at Hogwarts. For the first time, the weight of his name and his expectations seemed to lift, replaced by the sheer wonder of what lay before him.  

      From a few boats ahead, a burst of laughter reached his ears—light and clear, unmistakably Augury’s. He glanced forward and caught a glimpse of her turning to say something to her companions, her curls bouncing in the lantern light. For a fleeting moment, the unease from earlier, the lingering shadow of that strange boy on the train, faded entirely.  

      “Eyes ahead, Malfoy,” Nott said quietly, his voice carrying just enough amusement to draw Abraxas back to the present.  

      The boats began to slow as they approached the shore. The castle loomed larger now, its massive oak doors visible even from this distance. Abraxas tightened his grip on the edge of the boat, his heart racing with anticipation.  

      This was it—the beginning of everything. Whatever Hogwarts held, it was waiting just beyond those doors, and Abraxas Malfoy wasn’t about to let it slip through his grasp.  

      The boats bumped against the shore, each one settling with a quiet creak as the students disembarked. The first-years clambered out, their breaths misting in the chill night air as the vast shadow of Hogwarts loomed above them. The lake's surface rippled faintly in the moonlight, its inky depths reflecting only fragments of the starry sky. Somewhere behind them, the faint cry of an owl echoed, carried on the stillness like a warning.  

      Abraxas stepped onto the rocky shoreline, his polished shoes slipping slightly on the wet stones. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of moss and lake water, punctuated by the sharper tang of damp leaves. He drew his cloak tighter around himself, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the dark expanse of the Forbidden Forest. The ancient trees stood like sentinels, their twisted branches reaching into the sky as if guarding secrets older than the castle itself.  

      “Stick close now,” bellowed Ogg, the groundskeeper, his lantern swinging in one massive hand as he gestured for the group to follow. His voice was gruff, but his movements were deliberate, careful, as though herding a flock of fragile creatures.  

      Ogg was a towering man with a shaggy head of graying hair and a beard that seemed to blur the line between his face and the rest of him. His patched coat hung heavily from his shoulders, and his boots made a dull, crunching sound against the gravel path. Despite his rough appearance, his eyes held a glimmer of warmth, though it was hard to tell if the first-years noticed, so caught up were they in the overwhelming presence of the castle ahead.  

      The path wound steeply upward, flanked by jagged rocks on one side and the sprawling lake on the other. Lanterns dotted the trail, their golden light casting eerie shadows that danced across the faces of the nervous students. Every now and then, a muffled giggle or hushed whisper would break the silence, only to be shushed quickly by someone more cautious.  

      Abraxas glanced around at his companions. Travers walked with stiff shoulders, his eyes darting nervously toward every sound from the forest. Rosier’s smirk was still intact, though it had faded slightly, the bravado dimmed by the sheer scale of the castle looming above them. Nott, beside him, walked with quiet confidence, his face composed but his dark eyes scanning everything with a quiet intensity.  

      Ahead of them, Augury walked with her chin held high, her curls catching the lantern light as they bounced with each step. She turned once, her gaze meeting Abraxas’s for the briefest moment, before she smiled faintly and looked forward again. He felt an inexplicable rush of warmth, which was quickly chased away by a pang of something heavier—unease, maybe, or an acknowledgment of just how out of place her confidence seemed here.  

      The path ended abruptly at the base of the castle, where the first-years gathered before a massive pair of oak doors. The doors were ancient, their heavy wood carved with intricate patterns that seemed to twist and shift in the flickering torchlight. Iron bands reinforced the wood, gleaming faintly as though freshly polished, and enormous black handles stood ready to be pulled open.  

      “Here we are,” Ogg said, his voice breaking through the low murmurs. “Mind your manners now.” He pushed the doors open with a groan of ancient hinges, and the first-years gasped as they stepped inside.  

      The entrance hall was vast, almost impossibly so. The ceiling soared high above them, lost in shadows, while thick columns lined the walls, their surfaces etched with serpents, lions, badgers, and eagles intertwined. The stone floor beneath their feet was cool and smooth, each step echoing faintly in the cavernous space. Golden light poured from massive torches mounted on the walls, their flames flickering and casting long, wavering shadows.  

      Standing at the center of the hall was a tall witch with silver hair, her posture as straight as a wand and her presence as commanding as the castle itself. Her robes were a deep, obsidian black, tailored to perfection, and the faint shimmer of delicate embroidery caught the light with each movement. Her piercing gray eyes scanned the group, assessing each face with an air of both curiosity and expectation.  

      “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, carrying easily through the hushed hall. “I am Professor Galatea Merrythought, Defense Against the Dark Arts. I will be escorting you to the Great Hall, where the Sorting Ceremony will take place.”  

      Her eyes lingered on Abraxas for a moment, then moved to Augury, her lips pressing into a faintly approving line before returning to a smirk. Around him, the other students stood rigid, their nervous energy palpable.  

      “This is an important night,” Professor Galatea continued, her gaze sweeping the group again. “The house you are sorted into will be your family for the next seven years—and, in many ways, beyond. Conduct yourselves with the dignity and decorum expected of Hogwarts students.”  

      With a graceful motion, she turned toward the massive double doors at the far end of the hall. The sound of faint laughter and clinking plates leaked through, tantalizing hints of the life awaiting them just beyond.  

      “You will wait here,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Compose yourselves, and when I return, you will follow me to the Great Hall.”  

      She swept away, her black robes trailing behind her as she disappeared through the doors.  

      Abraxas felt his heart beating faster, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Around him, the first-years shifted nervously, whispering to one another in hushed tones.  

      “What do you think it’ll be like?” Travers muttered.  

      “Whatever it is,” Nott replied quietly, “it changes everything.”  

      Abraxas’s eyes strayed to the doors, the distant sounds of the Great Hall pulling at him like a magnet. Somewhere beyond those doors lay the Sorting Hat—and whatever fate awaited him.  

      The air around them seemed to thrum with tension, a quiet crackle that made the hair on the back of Abraxas’s neck stand on end. He felt it before he saw him—an inexplicable shift in the space, as though the shadows themselves had leaned closer to listen.

      “That,” said a voice, soft and smooth as silk, “depends entirely on what you’re hoping for.”

      The group of first-years turned as one, their gazes snapping toward the source of the voice. Emerging from the shadows at the edge of the group was a boy, his presence quiet but undeniable. He was slight of build, with sharp features that seemed carved from marble, his dark hair neatly combed and his pale skin nearly luminous in the flickering torchlight. His eyes—cold, calculating, and endlessly dark—bored into the group with an intensity that seemed to root everyone to the spot.

      “Name’s Tom Riddle,” the boy said with a faint, enigmatic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I suppose we’re all wondering the same thing—what comes next.”

      A hush fell over the group, broken only by the faint rustling of robes as several students leaned closer to get a better look at the newcomer. Among them were Slias Avery, a round-faced boy with a quick, nervous smile; Seraphina Lestrange, a girl with long, dark hair and a haughty expression that could have withered stone; Cassius Mulciber, a stocky boy whose small eyes glittered with something that would grow to be predatory; and Antonin Dolohov, slender and sharp-featured, his smirk a perfect reflection of his future quiet malice.

      “Avery,” Lestrange said softly, her voice dripping with disdain as her gaze flicked toward the other students. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

      “Of course I do,” Avery replied, his voice trembling slightly. He leaned closer to Cassius, who whispered something back that caused both boys to glance nervously at Tom.

      “Riddle,” Cassius finally said aloud, his voice carrying a mixture of curiosity and challenge. “You’ve already made quite the impression.”

      Tom’s smile widened just a fraction, his gaze shifting to meet Mulciber’s. “I’ve done nothing but introduce myself,” he said smoothly. “It’s the impression others decide to take that makes all the difference.”

      The words hung in the air, laden with an unspoken weight that set the group whispering.

      “Who does he think he is?” Travers muttered under his breath, glancing nervously between Charles and Abraxas.

      Seraphina’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as she stepped forward, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Whoever he is, he’s already cleverer than half the people here. That much is obvious.”

      “Careful, Lestrange,” Dolohov said, his voice light but laced with mockery. “You’ll have the others thinking you’re impressed.”

      “Better to be impressed by something real,” she shot back, “than by titles and family trees.”

      The jab sent a ripple of tension through the group, particularly among the Slytherin purebloods, who exchanged sharp looks.

      Abraxas felt a swell of irritation at Lestrange’s comment. His family’s legacy was a matter of pride, and he was not about to let some newcomer, mysterious or not, dismantle it.

      “It’s easy to talk about substance,” Abraxas said coolly, his voice cutting through the low murmur of whispers, “but harder to back it up. Legacy, power, those things matter. They don’t vanish just because someone thinks they shouldn’t.”

      Tom turned his head toward Abraxas, his expression unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with interest. “And you are?”

      “Abraxas Malfoy,” he replied, his chin lifting slightly.

      “Of course,” Tom said, the faintest edge of amusement creeping into his tone. “I’ve heard the name. Power and legacy, as you say.” He took a step closer, his gaze steady. “But tell me, Malfoy—how do you plan to make them your own, instead of just borrowing them from your ancestors?”

      The question caught Abraxas off guard, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of doubt. But he straightened his shoulders and met Tom’s gaze evenly. “I don’t borrow,” he said. “I build on what I inherit. I make it more.”

      Tom’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smile. “Good answer,” he said softly, before turning his attention back to the rest of the group.

      The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating, as if the entire castle were holding its breath. Tom’s presence was magnetic, his quiet confidence drawing attention like a lodestone. Even those who had initially dismissed him now watched him with something approaching awe—or perhaps fear.

      The sound of the massive oak doors opening cut through the charged atmosphere, and Professor Galatea stepped through, her silver hair catching the torchlight as she swept her sharp gaze over the gathered students.

      “Form a line,” she instructed, her voice calm but commanding. “It is time for the Sorting.”

Chapter Text

“Form a line,” she instructed, her voice calm but commanding. “It is time for the Sorting.”

      As the first-years shuffled into position, Abraxas couldn’t help but glance back at Tom, who had seamlessly inserted himself into the middle of the line. Their brief exchange lingered in his mind, unsettling and thought-provoking in equal measure.

      Whatever this boy’s story was, Abraxas had the uneasy feeling that it would intersect with his own in ways he couldn’t yet predict.

      The line of first-years slowly gathered, all of them now acutely aware of the weight of the moment. The air seemed to pulse with an electric charge as they made their way toward the Great Hall, each student standing a little straighter, trying to hold onto whatever composure they could muster. Abraxas, still caught in the aftermath of his conversation with Tom, kept his gaze ahead, but the flicker of uncertainty lingered in his mind. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him, sharp and measuring, like a predator sizing up its prey. It made his skin prickle with something he couldn't quite name—unease or challenge, maybe both.

      The grand double doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, the sound of murmured conversations and clinking cutlery growing louder as they approached. Professor Galatea walked ahead of them with an air of finality, her robes swishing around her legs like the tail of some great bird of prey. She moved with purpose, her silver eyes occasionally flicking over the students as though she were assessing each of them, marking them for what they would become.

      As they reached the entrance to the hall, she turned back to them, her sharp gaze sweeping over the group one final time. “You will be sorted now,” she said, her voice rich with authority. “Remember your manners, and show respect to the Sorting Hat.”

      The doors swung open before them with a deep, resonating groan. A vast room stretched out before them, its high ceiling twinkling with stars, as if the night sky itself had been brought indoors. Four long tables stretched out beneath it, each one crowded with older students, their faces a mix of curiosity, impatience, and indifference. The long staff table at the front held the professors, their faces just as expectant, though some—like Professor Dumbledore—wore faint smiles of encouragement.

      The first-years hesitated for a moment, caught in the enormity of the room and the weight of the gaze upon them. Abraxas could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a sharp throb that echoed in his ears. But the Sorting Hat was all that mattered now. He would stand before it, and it would decide his fate.

      The line began to move, slowly but steadily, as each first-year stepped forward to stand before the Sorting Hat. Abraxas found himself beside Tom again, his hands clammy but his posture still proud. Tom’s face was unreadable, his eyes locked on the hat, his expression steely.

      A boy ahead of them, a lanky one with bright red hair, was called forward first. His name was announced with a flourish, and the Sorting Hat was placed on his head. It wobbled for a moment, then let out a loud mutter. "Gryffindor!" it proclaimed.

      The crowd at the Gryffindor table burst into applause, their cheers ringing out with enthusiasm. The boy smiled, looking both relieved and a bit overwhelmed, before hurrying to join the rest of his new housemates.

      The Sorting continued at a steady pace, each name called and each house revealed, but Abraxas felt the growing pressure as his turn drew closer. He glanced at Tom, who stood stiffly beside him, his eyes flicking toward the head table where Professor Dumbledore sat, watching with a quiet, knowing gaze. Dumbledore’s eyes met Abraxas’s for just a moment—an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement, though it did little to ease the unease that had settled in his chest.

      “Malfoy, Abraxas,” Professor Galatea called, her voice ringing through the hall like a bell.

      Abraxas took a deep breath, his heart racing as he stepped forward, feeling the eyes of the entire hall on him. The Sorting Hat was placed upon his head, and for a moment, everything went silent. The cool velvet of the hat pressed against his forehead, and he could almost hear the faintest whispering in his mind.

      "Ah, a Malfoy, are we?"  The voice was old, ancient, and very wise. "I see ambition in you, young one, but also a desire for something... more. Something bigger. Hmm, difficult, difficult..."

      The Sorting Hat paused, as though contemplating something deeper than mere house placement. Abraxas clenched his jaw, trying to steady his breath. He didn’t want to seem nervous—he was a Malfoy, after all.

      "So much ambition, the Hat continued, but there’s something more. A heart divided, a mind pulling in two directions..." The voice was thoughtful now, and Abraxas felt his thoughts flutter with uncertainty. "Well, well... I know where you belong, Malfoy. It’s where you’ve always belonged, isn’t it?"

      “SLYTHERIN!” the Hat bellowed suddenly, its voice booming across the hall.

      A wave of relief and quiet pride surged through Abraxas. The Slytherin table erupted into applause, a few students nodding in approval, while others studied him with cool eyes. He walked quickly toward the table, his heart still racing but now flooded with triumph. At least one part of this night was over.

      Tom Riddle was soon after next, stepping forward with the same calm confidence he’d carried throughout the entire evening. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and for a moment, Abraxas watched with interest.

      Tom’s face remained unreadable, his eyes unfocused as though deep in thought. The Sorting Hat paused longer than it had with Abraxas, and Abraxas could almost see the mental battle happening within it.

      Finally, the Hat spoke, but it was much quieter this time, as if it were speaking directly to Tom, and Tom alone. "Ah, I see... I see..."

      The Hat hesitated again, as though it were weighing the boy’s potential. There was a murmur from the surrounding tables, whispers carried in the stillness of the hall. Tom, however, stood utterly still, his expression unwavering.

      Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Hat shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”

      The room was silent for a heartbeat, then the Slytherin table erupted into applause once again, though this time there was something more electric about it, a sense of foreboding laced with admiration.

      Abraxas glanced at Tom as he walked toward the Slytherin table. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and in that split second, Abraxas could feel the weight of something unspoken pass between them—something that would shape their fates in ways neither of them could yet comprehend.

      As the Sorting continued, the murmurs grew louder, and the atmosphere thickened with curiosity, not just about the students who had been sorted, but about the arrival of two new forces that night—a new Malfoy, and Tom Marvolo Riddle, destined to become as intertwined with the future of Hogwarts as the very walls they now stood in.

      The Sorting Hat’s soft, gravelly voice filled the air, alternating with the distant murmurs of students as name after name was called. Each child stepped forward, the hat placed upon their heads, and the hall erupted into cheers as they were sorted into one of the four houses. The ceremony was a tapestry of emotions—some first-years wore grins as wide as the Black Lake, while others trembled under the weight of hundreds of watchful eyes.

      Abraxas sat at the Slytherin table, his posture relaxed, but his silver-grey eyes were sharp, watching every movement from beneath perfectly combed blond hair. He clapped dutifully when a new Slytherin joined their ranks, though he hardly paid attention. The grandeur of the Great Hall had dulled to him now; its floating candles and enchanted ceiling of endless stars felt more like a well-rehearsed performance than true magic.

      Then the next name rang out, clear and commanding, cutting through the hum of conversation.

      “Dagworth-Granger, Augury.”

      The hall stilled. A wave of whispers swept across the tables, soft at first, then louder, like a ripple turning into a tide.

      “Dagworth-Granger?” a Ravenclaw leaned over to their neighbor, eyes wide with curiosity. “That’s his daughter, isn’t it?”

      “The potioneer? Hector Dagworth-Granger?”

      “Yes! He founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.”

      “He’s famous, isn’t he?”

      “Brilliant,” another voice chimed in from the Hufflepuff table. “But isn’t his daughter a... Muggle-born?”

      The murmurs turned sharp. Words like brilliant and famous were replaced with disgrace and unworthy, particularly from the Slytherin corner.

      Abraxas felt his spine stiffen. He turned his gaze to the girl stepping forward, her name still hanging in the air like a spell that had yet to resolve.

      Augury Dagworth-Granger moved with quiet confidence, her head held high and her dark curls cascading over her shoulders. Her face was calm, but her sharp eyes betrayed an awareness of every glance and every whisper directed her way. She carried herself like she belonged—not just in the hall, but everywhere.

      The flickering candlelight caught on the faint emerald stitching of her robes, a subtle nod to her famous lineage. Yet she seemed utterly unfazed by the weight of her father’s name or the prejudice that followed it.

      “She doesn’t even care,” muttered Seraphina Lestrange from Abraxas’s left, her voice tinged with reluctant admiration.

      “She should,” sneered a boy further down, Mulciber, his lip curling. “She’ll end up in Gryffindor. They’re blind to bloodlines.”

      Abraxas wasn’t sure why, but he felt his jaw tighten at the suggestion. His gaze lingered on Augury as she approached the Sorting Hat, every step deliberate, as if she were ascending a throne.

      When she finally reached the stool, she didn’t falter. She lowered herself gracefully, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and allowed the hat to be placed on her head.

      For a moment, the hall was silent.

      Then the hat shifted slightly, its wide brim curling down as though deep in thought.

      “Ah, a Dagworth-Granger,” the hat’s voice echoed, audible only to Augury. “Ambition... bravery... wit... loyalty... My, my, you are quite the puzzle, aren’t you?”

      The hall grew quiet as the seconds ticked by. Then a minute. Then another. The students began whispering again, louder this time.

      “What’s taking so long?” whispered someone at the Ravenclaw table.

      “Is it broken?” a Hufflepuff asked, earning a stifled laugh from their neighbor.

      “Must be a hat stall,” said a Slytherin prefect, crossing his arms. “Figures. Dagworth-Granger’s always been indecisive.”

      Abraxas leaned forward slightly, his curiosity outweighing his usual detachment. The hat stall wasn’t surprising, given what he had observed of Augury already. Her poise spoke of ambition, her sharp wit of intellect, and her cool confidence of a certain cunning. She could easily belong to Slytherin—should belong there, Abraxas thought—but there was also a fire in her, a spark of something untamed.

      At last, the hat seemed to stir, its brim curling as though coming to a decision. The pause lingered just a moment longer, enough to set the room on edge.

      “GRYFFINDOR!”

      The word rang out like the toll of a bell.

      The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers, their applause and shouts shaking the hall. Augury stood, her expression as serene as ever, and removed the hat. She didn’t glance at the Slytherin table—not once—as she strode confidently to join her new house.

      Abraxas stared after her, his stomach sinking with an unfamiliar weight. He wanted to look away, to dismiss her as unimportant, but something about her lingered in his mind like the last note of a song.

      “Well, that’s a pity,” Lestrange said beside him, her lip curling in disdain. “All that poise wasted on a bunch of loudmouthed Gryffindors.”

      “She doesn’t belong there,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the cheers.

      Lestrange smirked beside him. “And you care because?”

      Abraxas didn’t answer. Instead, he straightened his back and focused his attention elsewhere, but the feeling gnawed at him. Augury Dagworth-Granger was a Gryffindor now, a fact that should have been insignificant. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze briefly meeting his before she turned away, a touch of sadness flashing for the briefest moment.

      He forced his attention back to the Sorting, but the rest of the names barely registered. Augury’s placement felt like a blow, though he couldn’t explain why. She was a Gryffindor now—daring, bold, and completely out of reach.

      And yet, Abraxas couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t the end. No, their paths had crossed for a reason, and whether she was in Gryffindor or not, he had a feeling they weren’t finished. Not by a long shot.

      The Great Hall buzzed with the energy of the Sorting Feast, a cacophony of voices mingling with the clinking of goblets and plates. The enchanted ceiling reflected a velvety night sky streaked with shimmering stars, but for Abraxas, the beauty of the surroundings barely registered. He sat at the Slytherin table, his mind a whirl of thoughts as he picked at his roast chicken.

      Tom Riddle was seated just a few places down, perfectly composed as though he’d already been at Hogwarts for years. His posture was straight, his hands folded neatly in front of him, and his dark eyes surveyed the room with quiet intensity. It was unsettling how calm he seemed, as though the feast, the sorting, even the very castle itself were all beneath him.

      Abraxas couldn’t help but steal glances at him. There was something magnetic about Riddle—something unnerving yet intriguing. Abraxas didn’t trust him, not entirely, but there was a strange draw to the boy that he couldn’t deny.

      “Quite the show back there,” drawled a voice to his left. Abraxas turned to see Lestrange smirking at him, her dark eyes glittering with amusement.

      “What do you mean?” Abraxas asked, keeping his tone casual.

      “That little back-and-forth with Riddle,” she replied, leaning closer. “You stood your ground. I’ll give you that. But don’t let him rattle you—he’ll only play you like a fiddle if you do.”

      “I’m not rattled,” Abraxas said quickly, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

      Lestrange’s smirk deepened as she leaned back in her seat, her gaze flicking toward Riddle. “We’ll see.”

      The conversation drifted away as the feast continued, and Abraxas tried to focus on the food, the chatter, anything but the strange weight that seemed to hang over the table.

      At last, the golden plates cleared themselves with a soft chiming sound, and Headmaster Dippet rose to his feet. The hall fell silent as he spread his arms, his expression warm but commanding.

      “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts,” Dippet began, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “For our new first-years, I hope you will find this castle to be a place of wonder and learning. For our returning students, may you continue to strive for excellence and camaraderie.”

      Dippet’s speech was brief, his words wrapping up quickly before the prefects were called to lead their respective houses to their dormitories. The Slytherins gathered near their table, and Abraxas found himself swept along with the tide of green-and-silver robes as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors beneath the castle.

      The dungeon air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of stone and lake water. Torches flickered along the walls, their golden light casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. The prefect leading the group, a tall boy with sharp features named Hector Vaisey, walked with an air of authority, his voice clipped as he explained the rules of the house.

      “Curfew is strictly enforced,” Vaisey said as they turned a corner, the sound of their footsteps echoing around them. “No wandering the halls after hours unless you want detention—or worse, points docked from Slytherin.”

      A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the group, but Abraxas barely heard it. His attention was pulled to the boy walking just ahead of him—Tom Riddle, his head tilted slightly as though he were memorizing every word Vaisey said.

      Finally, they arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, a bare stretch of wall decorated with an intricate carving of a serpent. Vaisey turned to face the group, his expression stern.

      “The password is ‘Salazar’s legacy,’” he announced.

      At his words, the serpent carving seemed to ripple and shift, its coils unwinding to reveal a hidden doorway. The first-years murmured in awe as they stepped through, entering a room unlike anything Abraxas had ever seen.

      The Slytherin common room was both grand and foreboding, its walls lined with dark stone and decorated with tapestries depicting serpents and other symbols of power. Green lamps cast an eerie glow, reflecting off the surface of the black lake that loomed just beyond the high windows. The water distorted the light, sending shimmering patterns dancing across the walls.

      The first-years lingered in the common room for only a moment before the prefects began dividing them by gender and directing them to their respective dormitories. Abraxas followed the group of boys down a spiraling staircase to a room lined with heavy wooden beds, each draped in dark green curtains.

      He chose a bed near the corner, far enough from the others to afford him some privacy. As he unpacked his things, his mind wandered back to the events of the day. Tom Riddle’s face loomed in his thoughts, enigmatic and unsettling.

      Abraxas had a strange feeling that this was only the beginning of something much larger, something far beyond anything he could imagine.

      The faint green glow of the Slytherin common room flickered against the stone walls as the dormitory door creaked open. Abraxas blinked awake to the sound of Charles Nott's muffled voice.

      "Travers, if you hog the mirror any longer, I’ll start telling everyone it’s because you’re secretly in love with yourself,” Charles said, his tone dripping with mockery.

      “I don’t need a mirror for people to notice my superiority,” Travers shot back, his voice muffled but smug.

      Abraxas groaned softly and sat up in bed. The damp, earthy smell of the dungeons filled the air, mixed with the faint aroma of fresh parchment and worn leather. The glow of the enchanted lake outside the common room cast rippling shadows on the walls, the light dancing like ghosts.

      “You lot argue every morning?” Abraxas asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

      "Not every morning," Charles replied, tying his tie with exaggerated precision. "Just when Travers insists on reminding us how unbearable he is."

      Travers rolled his eyes. “You’re just jealous I’m already dressed while you look like a disheveled house-elf.”

      Silas Avery snorted from his bed, half-dressed and brushing imaginary lint off his robes. “If anyone’s a house-elf, it’s Nott. Look at him—ears practically pointy enough already.”

      Abraxas smirked, shaking his head as he slipped out of bed and began pulling on his own robes. Charles fired back, “And you, Avery, have the wit of a broken wand. Truly a marvel how you’ve made it this far in life without tripping over your own tongue.”

      The banter continued as they finished dressing, each retort sharper than the last. The Slytherin common room was alive with an unspoken hum, the shadows of the Black Lake flickering against the arched stone walls. Emerald-tinted light seeped through the high, enchanted windows, casting an eerie glow over the serpentine carvings that adorned the space. The faint scent of damp stone and brine lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of burning coals in the hearth.

      Abraxas Malfoy adjusted his robes, the sharp green-and-silver embroidery pristine as ever, and cast a glance around the dormitory. His companions were in various states of readiness. Charles Nott was already tugging at the sleeves of his freshly pressed robe, muttering about how Travers had nearly singed his best tie during a careless spell attempt the night before.

      “Honestly, Travers,” Charles drawled, his tone as dry as parchment, “if you’re going to botch a charm, at least do it when I’m not wearing something irreplaceable.”

      Travers, who stood in front of a small oval mirror mounted on the wall, barely spared him a glance. “If you’re so fond of that tie, Nott, perhaps you should learn a protective enchantment or two.”

      Silas Avery, sprawled across his bed as he lazily polished his shoes, snorted. “Protective enchantments? On a tie? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all morning—and I’ve been listening to you two argue since dawn.”

      Abraxas smirked as he tied his own green-and-silver tie with practiced ease. “And here I thought we Slytherins were supposed to be the clever ones. Imagine if someone heard this riveting debate; they’d think we cared more for tailoring than ambition.”

      Charles shot him a pointed look. “Ambition starts with looking the part, Malfoy. Not all of us can rely on a famous name to do the work for us.”

      “Famous?” Travers scoffed, finally turning from the mirror. “I’d say notorious. There’s a difference.”

      Their banter continued as they made their way down the dormitory stairs, the smooth stone steps polished from centuries of use. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed by the low murmur of other students gathering in the common room.

      When they reached the main living area, the space was already crowded with Slytherins preparing for breakfast. The common room stretched wide, its high ceilings giving way to intricate serpentine chandeliers that swayed gently in the faint underwater currents outside. Couches of deep green velvet and black leather were scattered across the room, most of them occupied by older students lounging with an air of superiority.

      Near the grand fireplace stood a group that immediately drew attention.

      Tom Riddle was at the center, his dark hair neatly combed and his posture impeccable. Even at eleven, he carried himself with a presence that demanded notice. Beside him stood Seraphina Lestrange, her dark eyes sharp and calculating, her auburn hair falling in perfectly groomed waves over her shoulders.

      Around them gathered the rest of the first-year Slytherins: Mulciber with his perpetual sneer, Dolohov with his sly grin, and a young Rosier with his sister Druella who looked distinctly uncomfortable as she shifted from foot to foot.

      But it was the older students who added an air of gravitas to the gathering. Walburga and Orion Black, twins whose presence dominated the room, stood with matching smirks. Walburga’s sharp features and cold gaze were a mirror image of her brother’s, though she wore her authority with a cruel elegance, while Orion’s was more understated, his dark eyes observing everything with quiet intensity.

      The two groups met in the center of the room, the energy between them shifting like the currents outside.

      “Well, well,” Walburga said, her voice like silk laced with steel. “If it isn’t the newest Malfoy. I was beginning to wonder if you were planning to grace us with your presence at breakfast—or if you were too busy polishing your lineage.”

      Abraxas’s lips curved into a faint smile, his tone smooth. “I find it amusing, Black, that you speak of lineage as though it isn’t your favorite topic of conversation.”

      A ripple of laughter spread through the room, though it was quickly stifled under Walburga’s icy glare.

      “Careful, Malfoy,” Orion said, his voice low and deliberate. “Words have a way of coming back to bite.”

      “Only if they lack wit,” Charles Nott interjected, stepping forward with a confident smirk. “And I’d wager Abraxas has more wit in a single retort than most could manage in a lifetime.”

      Seraphina raised an eyebrow, her gaze settling on Charles. “Bold of you to speak for someone else, Nott. Or is it that you can’t think of anything clever on your own?”

      Charles’s grin widened. “I’d respond, Lestrange, but I wouldn’t want to overestimate your ability to keep up.”

      The room buzzed with quiet chuckles, and even Tom’s lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

      “And what of you, Riddle?” Abraxas asked, turning his attention to the boy who had remained silent throughout the exchange. “Do you find this morning’s entertainment to your liking?”

      Tom’s dark eyes met Abraxas’s, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He tilted his head slightly, his tone soft but deliberate. “I find it... illuminating. People reveal a great deal when they think they’re being clever.”

      The words hung in the air, unsettling in their simplicity.

      “Well,” Abraxas said, maintaining his composure despite the weight of Tom’s gaze, “let’s hope breakfast proves just as revealing. Shall we?”

      The groups began to disperse, though the tension lingered like a shadow. As Abraxas and his friends made their way toward the common room exit, he glanced back once, catching the faint smirk on Tom’s face.

      It wasn’t until they stepped into the dungeon corridor, the air colder and heavier outside the common room, that Silas Avery let out a low whistle. “Riddle’s an odd one, isn’t he?”

      “Odd doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Charles muttered.

      Abraxas said nothing, his mind still turning over the encounter. For all the bravado in their exchanges, there was something about Tom Riddle that made him uneasy. Something he couldn’t quite place.

Chapter Text

      The halls leading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom were a study in contrasts, their worn grandeur reflecting centuries of magical history. The stone walls were a tapestry of shadows, the flickering torchlight casting jagged patterns that danced like restless spirits. Occasionally, the light would glint off faded silver accents embedded in the stone—symbols and sigils long forgotten by most. High-arched windows let in slivers of the overcast morning, their panes streaked with rain from the storm earlier that day. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed unevenly, a chorus of first-years racing to their destinations, the clinking of cauldrons and books adding to the cacophony.

      The heavy clang of the clock’s chime echoed through the dungeons, each strike urging Abraxas, Charles, and Travers to move faster. They sprinted up the spiral staircase, their robes flapping wildly, breath coming in short bursts as they navigated the winding halls of Hogwarts.

      “You said we had plenty of time!” Abraxas snapped at Travers, who was just ahead of him.

      “I didn’t expect Silas to take that long polishing his wand!” Travers shot back, his voice tinged with irritation.

      Charles, puffing slightly, smirked. “I’d say this is fitting punishment for letting him convince us he knew a shortcut.”

      The three boys skidded to a halt in front of a tall, arched doorway marked Defense Against the Dark Arts. The door was ajar, and faint murmurs and gasps of excitement could be heard from within.

      “Do we slip in unnoticed or—” Travers began, but Charles nudged the door open before he could finish.

      It was as though they’d stepped into an entirely different world. The space was circular, its high ceiling adorned with a fresco of mythical creatures locked in eternal battle—griffins clashed with basilisks, and serpentine dragons coiled around their prey. The walls were lined with towering bookcases stuffed to bursting with ancient tomes, their spines bearing titles in glittering runes. Among them were enchanted cages containing a variety of magical creatures: a tiny, glowing bowtruckle perched in one, while another housed a chittering, shadowy creature that flitted from corner to corner.

      The air smelled of aged parchment and faintly of lavender, likely from the charmed candles floating lazily near the ceiling, their flames a soft, ethereal blue. At the front of the room was a massive desk, its surface cluttered with an assortment of magical oddities—a smoking crystal orb, a stack of neatly rolled parchments sealed with silver wax, and a tank holding a serpentine fish that shimmered as it swam. Behind the desk stood an imposing blackboard with elegant, looping script already inscribed: Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts - Lesson Day One.

      They stepped into the classroom, only to freeze at the sight before them.

      A massive bird of prey, its plumage a deep, shimmering bronze, perched on the desk at the front of the room. Its sharp, golden eyes scanned the gathered first-years with an intelligent gleam, its talons clutching the wood with an audible scrape. The Gryffindors and Slytherins alike sat entranced, whispers rippling through the rows.

      “What is that?” Charles whispered, his eyes wide.

      “A hawk,” Abraxas murmured, though his voice betrayed his unease. “Or maybe an eagle?”

      Before they could speculate further, the bird spread its enormous wings and, with a flash of light, transformed in a seamless, fluid motion. Where the bird had stood now stood a regal woman with sharp, silver hair and flowing emerald robes. Professor Galatea Merrythought surveyed the room with a smile that was equal parts kind and mischievous.

      “Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she said, her melodic voice cutting through the stunned silence. “And congratulations—you’ve just witnessed the art of the Animagus. I am Professor Galatea Merrythought, and yes, I am that bird.”

      The class erupted in murmurs of excitement, many students exchanging awed glances.

      “I apologize for the dramatic entrance,” Merrythought continued, her eyes landing on Abraxas, Travers, and Charles as they lingered awkwardly near the doorway. “And I see we have a few latecomers. I trust you won’t make a habit of this?”

      “No, Professor,” the three chorused, quickly taking seats near the back.

      As they settled in, Abraxas glanced toward the Gryffindors and immediately caught sight of Augury Dagworth-Granger. She was seated near the center, her posture immaculate as always, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders like a crown. Her lips quirked into a small, knowing smirk as their eyes met, and Abraxas felt an unbidden flush creep up his neck.

      “Caught staring, Malfoy?” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

      “I was wondering why the hawk didn’t pick you up for breakfast, Dagworth-Granger,” he shot back smoothly, his voice low and teasing.

      Her smirk widened. “Careful, Malfoy. Gryffindor claws are sharper than you think.”

      Their exchange drew the attention of several students nearby, including Tom Riddle. Seated toward the back with his usual air of quiet calculation, Tom observed the banter with mild interest. His dark eyes lingered on Abraxas, his gaze sharp and inscrutable.

      Merrythought clapped her hands once, drawing attention back to the front. “Now that we’re all settled, let’s begin. Today, we’ll be studying one of the most fundamental spells in defensive magic: the Shield Charm. Protego is the first line of defense against a variety of offensive spells, and mastering it is crucial.”

      She moved gracefully across the room as she spoke, her wand tracing glowing lines in the air to illustrate her words. “The key to a successful Shield Charm is intent. Your desire to protect must be stronger than your fear or hesitation. Pair up, one Slytherin and one Gryffindor—no exceptions. Defense requires teamwork, even among rivals.”

      The classroom had fallen into an expectant hush, the other first-years leaning forward in their seats as Professor Merrythought waved her wand to clear the space at the center of the room. Desks slid back with a smooth, silent grace, creating an arena bathed in the golden glow of sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows. Dust motes danced in the air, sparkling like tiny stars, and the scent of old wood and ink hung heavy around them.

      "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Dagworth-Granger," Professor Merrythought called, her voice carrying an almost musical lilt. Her sharp eyes gleamed with curiosity as she gestured to the cleared space. "Let’s see what the two of you can manage. Get ready.”

      Abraxas inwardly groaned. Before he could turn to Charles or Travers, Augury was already standing beside him, her wand in hand and a confident glint in her eye.

      “Looks like it’s you and me, Malfoy,” she said, her tone light and teasing.

      “Lucky me,” he replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

      As they moved to an open space, Abraxas couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly Augury carried herself, her movements fluid and self-assured. For someone who had barely started her magical education, she exuded a confidence that was both infuriating and intriguing.

Abraxas stepped forward, his polished black shoes clicking against the stone floor. He glanced at Augury as she strode up opposite him, her dark hair catching the light as she tied it back with a confident flourish. Her chin was lifted in that irritatingly proud way, her wand already poised in her hand like it belonged there.

      “You attack first,” she said, raising her wand.

      “Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself already?” he quipped, earning a soft chuckle from her.

      “You sure you’re ready for this, Malfoy?” Augury asked, her voice light but tinged with challenge.

      Abraxas smirked, drawing his own wand. The smooth wood felt cool and familiar in his grip, and he gave it a slight twirl before leveling it at her. “I don’t need luck to win, Dagworth-Granger.”

      Professor Merrythought raised her hand. “The rules are simple: disarm, deflect, or subdue. Nothing damaging, and nothing permanent. Begin!”

      The moment her hand dropped, Augury was the first to move. Her wand flicked in a sharp, precise motion. “Flipendo!”

      The Knockback Jinx shot toward Abraxas, a shimmering wave of force rippling through the air. He barely had time to react, raising his wand with a smooth arc.

      “Protego!”

      The Shield Charm materialized in front of him, a translucent barrier that absorbed the jinx and dissipated it in a cascade of sparks. The room murmured in appreciation, but Augury didn’t wait for praise. She was already moving, darting to the side and casting again.

      “Expelliarmus!”

      Abraxas sidestepped, her spell grazing the edge of his shield. He countered immediately, his voice crisp and steady. “Rictusempra!”

      The Tickling Charm streaked toward her like a silver ribbon, forcing Augury to duck and roll to avoid it. She came up on one knee, her eyes narrowed and blazing with determination.

      “Not bad, Malfoy,” she muttered, flicking her wand in a circle. “Aguamenti!”

      A jet of water erupted from her wand, not strong enough to knock him over but enough to throw him off balance. The spray hit him squarely in the chest, soaking his robes and eliciting a burst of laughter from their classmates.

      Abraxas scowled, wiping his face. “Clever,” he admitted, his tone grudging. Then, with a flourish of his wand, he retaliated. “Ventus!”

      A gust of wind howled through the room, scattering parchment and sending Augury’s hair flying as she dug in her heels to keep from being pushed back. The force was enough to knock her water jet off course, and she gritted her teeth, raising her wand high.

      “Lumos Solem!”

      A blinding beam of light shot toward him, dazzling enough to make him stagger. Abraxas turned his head, his free hand shielding his eyes. She was fast—faster than he had anticipated.

      He grinned despite himself, his heart pounding with exhilaration.

      “Alright, Dagworth,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see how you handle this.”

      With a sharp gesture, he sent a barrage of harmless sparks toward her, each one crackling like fireworks. They weren’t strong, but they were distracting, and he used the moment to aim a precise disarming spell.

      “Expelliarmus!”

      Augury’s wand flew from her hand, clattering to the floor a few feet away. She gasped but didn’t falter, diving for it with an agility that surprised even Abraxas. Before he could follow up, she had her wand back in hand and was on her feet.

      “Levicorpus!”

      The spell shot from her wand, narrowly missing him as he ducked just in time. The duel had the entire class enthralled now, even Professor Merrythought leaning forward slightly with an intrigued expression.

      Finally, with a last burst of movement, Augury and Abraxas met in the middle of their arena, their wands locked in a dazzling clash of sparks. Their spells collided, energy crackling between them like a storm trapped in miniature.

      “Enough!” Professor Merrythought’s voice cut through the tension, her wand raised high. The dueling pair froze, breathing hard, as the shimmering remnants of their magic faded into the air.

      “Well done, both of you,” the professor said, her tone rich with approval. “I don’t often see first-years with such control and creativity. Twenty points each to Gryffindor and Slytherin.”

      As the applause broke out, Abraxas caught Augury’s eye. She was smiling—not her usual smug smirk, but something warmer, almost genuine. Their practice duel quickly drew the attention of the room. Abraxas’s precise Shield Charms had clashed with Augury’s creative and forceful attacks, each exchange sharper and more intense than the last.

      From the back of the room, Tom Riddle leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. He watched Abraxas with a new intensity, noting the boy’s poise under pressure and the spark of rivalry between him and Augury.

      When the lesson ended, Merrythought praised their performance again but warned them not to let competition overshadow focus.

      As they packed up, Augury turned to Abraxas with a small, triumphant smile. “Not bad, Malfoy. For a Slytherin.”

      “Likewise, Dagworth. For a Gryffindor,” he replied, his tone deliberately mocking.

      Tom lingered near the doorway as they filed out, his expression unreadable. Whatever had just unfolded, it was clear to him that Abraxas Malfoy was someone worth watching—and perhaps, someone worth keeping close.

      The classroom emptied slowly, the excited chatter of first-years echoing off the stone walls as they gathered their belongings. Shadows stretched long across the floor, cast by the late morning sunlight filtering through the narrow windows. The air was still charged from the duels, and the scent of spellfire and old parchment lingered like a memory.

      Abraxas Malfoy adjusted the strap of his leather satchel, his mind replaying his match against Augury Dagworth-Granger. The way she had smirked at him, her spellwork sharp and unyielding, stirred an irritation he couldn’t quite place. She had been relentless, as if she’d known exactly how to draw out the best—and worst—in him.

      He was halfway to the door when a voice cut through the murmur of the departing crowd.

      “Interesting duel.”

      Abraxas turned sharply to find Tom Riddle standing a few feet away, his dark hair falling neatly against his pale face. His expression was calm, his hands clasped behind his back as though he had been waiting for this moment. There was an intensity in his gaze that seemed far too knowing for an eleven-year-old.

      Abraxas blinked, caught off guard. “You were watching?”

      Tom tilted his head slightly, a faint, humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s hard not to notice when someone is… making an impression.”

      The words weren’t outright hostile, but there was a subtle edge to them that made Abraxas’s spine stiffen. He frowned. “I wasn’t trying to make an impression. I was dueling.”

      Tom’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Though one might argue that the two often go hand in hand. A good duel tells us more than just a person’s skill. It reveals their intentions. Their weaknesses.”

      The words hung in the air like a challenge, the faint murmur of the other students fading into an uneasy silence between them.

      Abraxas narrowed his eyes, his instincts telling him to tread carefully. “What are you getting at?”

      “Nothing,” Tom said lightly, though his gaze didn’t waver. “It’s just… curious. You duel like someone who’s always been told they have to win, yet you weren’t as focused as you could’ve been. It makes me wonder if your attention was… divided.”

      Abraxas bristled, his mind flashing to Augury’s taunts and her infuriatingly smug smile. “I wasn’t distracted,” he said coldly.

      Tom’s dark eyes gleamed, as if he found this response particularly amusing. “Good,” he said softly, his voice dropping just enough to make the air around them feel heavier. “Because distractions can be dangerous. Especially when ambition demands focus.”

      Abraxas’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know whether he was being mocked or measured, but he wasn’t about to back down. “Ambition isn’t something you’ll ever have to question about a Malfoy.”

      Tom stepped closer, his movements as fluid and deliberate as a predator’s. He was barely taller than Abraxas, but the way he carried himself made him feel much larger, as though the very shadows bent toward him.

      “Ambition,” Tom said slowly, “isn’t always enough. You’ll find that the world has a way of testing how far you’re willing to go for it. And those who aren’t prepared… often lose more than they bargained for.”

      There was something almost hypnotic in his tone, and for a moment, Abraxas felt the chill of the dungeons more keenly against his skin. He forced himself to stand straighter, his chin lifting in defiance.

      “And I suppose you think you’re prepared?” he asked, his voice steady despite the uneasy knot forming in his chest.

      Tom’s smile returned, colder now. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

      With that, he turned and walked away, his black robes whispering against the stone floor like a parting specter. Abraxas watched him go, the weight of the encounter pressing heavily against him.

      For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Abraxas felt a flicker of something he wasn’t used to—doubt. But he quickly shook it off, straightened his robes, and strode out of the classroom. Whatever game Tom Riddle was playing, he wouldn’t be its pawn.

      Yet the lingering chill of that unreadable smile followed him all the way to breakfast.

Chapter Text

      The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm, though Hogwarts never lacked surprises. Classes filled the days with a mix of exhilaration and challenge, each professor leaving a distinct impression. Abraxas found himself gravitating toward Potions, where the dark, simmering cauldrons in the dungeon mirrored the quiet cunning of his house. Professor Slughorn’s jovial encouragement was a balm to the Slytherin ego, and Abraxas quickly earned a reputation for his precise brews and knack for experimentation.

      Between classes, the castle’s labyrinthine corridors became a playground for exploration. The high-ceilinged halls whispered secrets, and the moving staircases teased first-years with their unpredictable shifts. Abraxas and his Slytherin peers often tested their limits, darting through forbidden corridors and ducking Peeves’ chaotic pranks.

      Evenings were spent in the Slytherin common room, where emerald-green lamps cast a faint, aquatic glow over the space. The murmuring of the Black Lake through the enchanted windows added a hushed ambiance to their debates and strategizing. Abraxas and his dormmates—Charles Nott, Silas Avery, and Travers—quickly formed a tight-knit group, often joined by the enigmatic Tom Riddle.

      Tom was a study in contradictions. He excelled in every subject with a natural brilliance, but his quiet intensity unnerved even the boldest of Slytherins. The older students, including the formidable Walburga and Orion Black, took notice of him, subtly testing his mettle in conversations laced with double meanings. He never faltered, his words cutting and precise.

      Abraxas found himself drawn into Tom’s orbit, though not without hesitation. Tom’s knowledge was vast, his questions probing, and his interest in the ancient roots of magic bordered on obsession. He would often lean in close, his dark eyes fixed on Abraxas, asking questions that felt like traps.

      “How far would you go for greatness, Malfoy?” he had asked one evening, his voice a low murmur under the flickering light. Abraxas had deflected with a joke, but the question lingered, unsettling as the shadows in the dungeon.

      Despite the unease Tom stirred, life at Hogwarts had its lighter moments. Abraxas’s rivalry with Augury Dagworth-Granger flourished, spilling into nearly every class they shared. Whether it was a race to perfect a spell in Charms or a heated debate over magical ethics in History of Magic, their exchanges were sharp and unrelenting.

      The other students had begun to take notice, whispers following their interactions like a low tide. The Gryffindors cheered for Augury’s fiery wit, while the Slytherins rallied behind Abraxas’s cutting retorts. It was an unspoken game between them, a balancing act of admiration and defiance neither dared acknowledge.

      On weekends, the grounds offered a reprieve from the castle’s confines. The golden hues of early autumn gave way to the stark chill of winter, the Forbidden Forest looming dark and silent at the edge of their vision. Abraxas often found himself wandering the edges of the Black Lake, his thoughts a tangled web of ambition, curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite name.

      By the time the first snowfall blanketed the grounds, the initial awe of Hogwarts had settled into something deeper, a sense of belonging tinged with foreboding. The castle was alive with secrets, its magic pulsing in the stones, and Abraxas felt the weight of it pressing down on him.

      But the year’s peace would not last. Unseen forces were already shifting, their movements subtle but inexorable, and Abraxas would soon find himself drawn further into a world of power and peril he was only beginning to glimpse.

     The day began like any other, with the crisp chill of winter seeping through the narrow windows of the Transfiguration classroom. The high, vaulted windows were frosted over, allowing only a pale, silvery light to seep in. The room smelled faintly of candle wax and parchment, and the rows of desks were arranged in a half-circle around Dumbledore’s imposing desk at the front, where an assortment of objects awaited transfiguration. The room was a study in contrasts, its dark wooden desks polished to a mirror shine and the air alive with the soft hum of Dumbledore’s magic. Abraxas entered with his usual practiced air of confidence, Charles and Travers close behind him, their chatter low and conspiratorial.

      The Gryffindors had already arrived, their red-and-gold ties adding a splash of warmth to the otherwise muted space. Augury Dagworth-Granger sat near the front, her quill poised in an air of readiness that Abraxas found both irritating and oddly compelling. Her fiery red curls were particularly maddening today and caught the candle light. She glanced back at him as he entered, her lips quirking in a smirk.

      “Careful, Malfoy,” she said, loud enough for the surrounding students to hear. “Wouldn’t want you to fall behind before the lesson even begins.”

      Abraxas raised a brow, his steps unhurried as he slid into a seat nearby. “I could transfigure circles around you, Dagworth. But by all means, keep trying to catch up.”

      Their usual sparring earned a round of snickers from both houses, the tension between Slytherin and Gryffindor a palpable thread in the room.

      Professor Dumbledore entered shortly after, his sweeping purple robes edged in gold, embroidered with faintly glimmering constellations, and a calm yet commanding presence. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he stood by the windows, his long auburn hair catching the faint light as he adjusted his spectacles and surveyed the incoming students with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

      “Good morning, everyone,” he began, his voice as smooth as a river stone. “Today, we will continue practicing the basic principles of Transfiguration. A small object into something larger—a goblet into a fruit bowl, perhaps. It requires focus, precision, and above all, patience.”

      He waved his wand, and a series of goblets appeared on each desk, shimmering faintly in the candlelight.

      Abraxas eyed the silver goblet before him, already calculating the wand movements he’d need. Charles and Travers exchanged mischievous glances, clearly plotting something that had little to do with fruit bowls. Across the aisle, Augury was already deep in concentration, her wand held with perfect form.

      The lesson began smoothly enough, the air filled with the murmurs of incantations and the occasional clink of metal. Abraxas managed a respectable transformation within the first fifteen minutes, his goblet now a shallow bowl that shimmered with the suggestion of golden fruit.

      But then, predictably, things took a turn.

      It started with Charles Nott, whose attempt at a Transfiguration spell resulted in a goblet that sprouted legs and began scuttling across the desk like a startled spider. Travers, not to be outdone, whispered an incantation that turned his goblet into a puff of bright pink smoke, causing nearby students to cough and wave their hands in front of their faces.

      Abraxas sighed, shaking his head at their antics, but even he wasn’t immune to the competitive atmosphere. Seeing Augury’s perfectly transformed fruit bowl gleaming on her desk, he couldn’t resist a quip.

      “Not bad, for someone who spent all breakfast bragging about her Potions skills,” he said, his tone light but laced with challenge.

      Augury didn’t miss a beat. “At least I didn’t turn mine into something that looks like it belongs in a Knockturn Alley.”

      The room erupted in laughter, and Abraxas felt a prickle of annoyance. Deciding to up the ante, he whispered a spell under his breath, adding an elegant floral design to his fruit bowl. The embellishment sparkled, drawing a few impressed murmurs from the surrounding students.

      But before the rivalry could escalate further, a loud bang echoed through the room.

      Everyone turned to see that Travers’s latest attempt had caused his goblet to explode, scattering fragments of metal and what appeared to be fruit pulp everywhere. Charles, laughing uncontrollably, tried to cast a cleaning spell, only to misfire and send a stream of soapy water cascading across several desks.

      Dumbledore, who had been observing from the back with an expression of mild amusement, finally stepped forward. With a flick of his wand, the chaos was instantly subdued, the room returning to pristine order.

      “Well,” he said, his tone as calm as ever, though his eyes twinkled with something sharper. “It seems we have a number of students who have taken it upon themselves to… reinterpret today’s lesson.”

      The class went silent, a collective tension settling over the students as Dumbledore gestured for several of them—Abraxas, Charles, Travers, Augury, and a few others—to come forward.

      “I believe a small discussion is in order,” Dumbledore continued, his voice gentle but firm. “And perhaps some extracurricular activity to help reinforce the value of focus and discipline.”

      Abraxas felt a flicker of both irritation and unease as he joined the group near Dumbledore’s desk. Augury stood beside him, her usual confidence dimmed slightly by the prospect of punishment. Tom Riddle, who had been watching from the back with his ever-present air of quiet detachment, gave Abraxas a faint, knowing smile.

      “You’ll want to choose your battles more carefully, Malfoy,” Tom murmured as the class began to file out, leaving the chosen few to face Dumbledore’s verdict. “Not everyone is as forgiving as our esteemed professor.”

      Abraxas didn’t respond, his mind already racing as Dumbledore began to outline their detentions. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on a small imperfection in the stone floor. Beside him, Augury Dagworth-Granger stood tall, her arms crossed and her chin tilted upward, as though daring Dumbledore to lecture her further. Silas looked equally defiant, though his smirk faltered under Dumbledore’s piercing gaze. Travers stared at his shoes, his usually sharp tongue nowhere to be found, while Charles was visibly sweating, his nervous energy a sharp contrast to the others.

      Dumbledore paced slowly in front of them, his long, sweeping robes trailing behind him like shadows in the dim light. “Let us review, shall we? In today’s Transfiguration lesson, I seem to recall issuing clear instructions. Yet, instead of focusing on the assignment—you saw fit to engage in... extracurricular pursuits.”

      Augury snorted softly, breaking the silence. Dumbledore’s gaze snapped to her, and she raised an eyebrow, unrepentant. “It was educational, Professor,” she said with a straight face. “We were pushing the boundaries of our potential.”

      The corner of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched, though he quickly masked it. “Ah, yes. Pushing boundaries. A noble pursuit—though one best achieved within the confines of the curriculum.”

      Silas chuckled quietly, but it died quickly under Dumbledore’s sharp glance.

      “As it stands,” Dumbledore continued, his tone growing firmer, “you’ve left me no choice but to assign detention. Each of you will report to the Trophy Room this evening at seven, where Mr. Filch will have tasks suited to your level of energy.”

      At this, Charles visibly gulped, while Travers let out a barely audible groan. Augury remained stoic, her expression betraying no emotion, though Abraxas could see the slight twitch of her fingers as she clenched her arms tighter.

      “Additionally,” Dumbledore added, turning his gaze to Abraxas and Augury in particular, “I would advise you both to reconsider the wisdom of your rivalry. Competitive spirit is admirable, but if it continues to disrupt your studies—or my classroom—I will not hesitate to take further action.”

      Abraxas bristled but said nothing, while Augury offered a sweet, insincere smile. “Of course, Professor. I’ll be the picture of decorum from now on.”

      Dumbledore gave her a long, searching look, as though he could see straight through her words. Finally, he nodded. “See that you are.”

      With a flick of his wand, the desks and transfigured animals returned to their original forms, the chaos of the classroom neatly erased. “You’re dismissed,” he said, his voice softer now. “Do try to stay out of trouble.”

      The group shuffled out, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. As they turned the corner, Augury let out a laugh, her composed façade slipping. “Well, that was fun,” she said, her eyes glinting mischievously. “I suppose we’ll have to make the most of our detentions.”

      Abraxas rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just try not to get us all expelled, Dagworth-Granger.”

      She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her grin widening. “No promises.”

     As the others filed out of the classroom, chattering and grumbling about their punishment, Tom lingered at his desk, meticulously straightening his already-neat parchment and quill. Dumbledore, sharp-eyed and ever-attentive, caught the deliberate delay. He stepped over to Tom with a faint smile, his long fingers brushing the edge of the desk.

      “Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore began, his tone casual yet probing. “A moment of your time, if you please?”

      Tom tilted his head, his expression impassive save for the faintest flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. “Of course, Professor,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of the petulance or anxiety typical of first-years. Instead, it carried a weight of calculation that Dumbledore noted with interest.

      Abraxas, who had been halfway through the door, paused. His curiosity was piqued—not just by Dumbledore’s request but by the air of mystery that always seemed to cling to Tom like a shadow. Slipping out of sight, he ducked into a nearby broom cupboard, leaving the door cracked just enough to catch the exchange.

      Dumbledore gestured for Tom to follow him to the far corner of the classroom, where the faint light from the frosted windows cast long, angled shadows. Abraxas pressed his ear to the crack, straining to hear.

      “Tell me, Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore began, his tone conversational but probing. “What do you make of today’s class? It seems you’re quite adept at keeping yourself composed amidst chaos.”

      Tom’s reply was slow and measured. “I’ve found that chaos often reveals more about people than order does, Professor. It’s... educational.”

      Dumbledore’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a subtle narrowing of his eyes. “A keen observation. And yet, I wonder—what did you learn today?”

      There was a pause, long enough for Abraxas to hold his breath in the dark. When Tom spoke, his voice was quiet but carried a deliberate weight. “I learned that even the brightest minds can waste their potential... squabbling over trifles.”

      Abraxas stiffened, realizing the veiled jab could easily apply to him and Augury.

      Dumbledore tilted his head, studying the boy with an intensity that would have unsettled most. “And what of ambition, Mr. Riddle? It seems to me that you understand its power better than most your age.”

      Tom’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it held no warmth. “Ambition, Professor, is the path to greatness. Isn’t that what you want for your students? To see them excel?”

      Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something behind his gaze—concern, perhaps, or a tinge of sadness. “Greatness can take many forms, Mr. Riddle. The question is, at what cost?”

     Tom’s expression darkened, his composure slipping just enough for a spark of something raw to surface—anger? Frustration? It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “Cost is relative, Professor. Some things are worth any price.”

     Dumbledore’s voice softened, though it lost none of its gravity. “I would caution you, Tom, to remember that the choices we make define us far more than the power we hold. There is strength in kindness, in love. It is not weakness to value such things.”

      For a moment, the room was heavy with silence. Tom’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before his mask of calm returned. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor,” he said with a politeness that felt almost mocking.

      Dumbledore straightened, his robes rustling faintly. “See that you do. And remember, my door is always open.”

      Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment, then turned and exited the classroom without another word. Abraxas held his breath as Tom’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into the distance.

      When the silence returned, Abraxas hesitated, uncertain whether to retreat or risk being caught. Before he could decide, Dumbledore’s voice rang out, gentle but firm.

      “You can come out now, Mr. Malfoy.”

      Abraxas froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Reluctantly, he pushed the cupboard door open and stepped out, schooling his expression into one of innocence.

      “I—uh—I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he stammered, though the heat rising to his cheeks betrayed him.

      Dumbledore regarded him with a knowing smile. “Of course not,” he said lightly. “But since you’re here, perhaps you’d care to share what you found so intriguing?”

      Abraxas shifted uncomfortably under the professor’s gaze. “I was just curious,” he admitted. “About Riddle. He’s... different.”

      Dumbledore’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful look. “Indeed, he is. But curiosity, Mr. Malfoy, is a double-edged sword. Wield it wisely.”

      Abraxas nodded, unsure what else to say. As Dumbledore dismissed him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the professor’s words were meant as much for himself as they were for Tom.

Chapter Text

      The castle had long since settled into the quiet hum of evening when Abraxas found himself descending the cold stone steps toward the entrance hall, the distant toll of the great clock tower marking the late hour. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the heavy black fabric doing little to keep out the crisp autumn chill that whispered through the drafty corridors. Shadows flickered and danced along the walls as the torches burned low, stretching the silhouettes of the students ahead of him into ghostly shapes.

      Travers and Charles Nott walked just ahead, their voices hushed in complaint, muttering about how absurd it was that they had detention for something as harmless as a classroom spectacle. Silas Avery trailed slightly behind, his arms crossed, scowling like he'd rather be anywhere else.

      Waiting at the foot of the staircase, leaning against the stone wall with a smug grin, was Augury Dagworth-Granger.

      “Merlin’s beard, finally. I was beginning to think you Slytherins got lost,” she said airily, flipping her thick auburn curls over one shoulder as they approached.

      Abraxas scoffed. “You’re standing right outside the dungeons, Dagworth-Granger. If anything, you’re the one lost.”

      “Oh? And yet, here I am, ready for detention, while you lot look as if you just rolled out of bed,” she retorted, giving them all a once-over.

      Silas rolled his eyes, but before he could quip back, another voice cut through the conversation.

      “I’d rather be anywhere else than stuck with a bunch of stuck-up snakes.”

      Abraxas turned to see the red-haired Gryffindor boy from earlier—Evander O’Connell—sauntering toward them, his arms folded across his chest. His uniform was slightly disheveled, his tie loose around his neck, and his freckled face was pulled into a look of deep annoyance.

      “Wonderful,” Abraxas muttered under his breath. “A proper little Gryffindor reunion.”

      Evander shot him a glare. “Try not to cry too much when the forest eats you alive, Malfoy.”

      “Better the forest than the company,” Silas drawled.

      Augury grinned, clearly enjoying the tension. “Well, this is going to be fun.”

      The entrance doors creaked open then, a rush of crisp night air sweeping into the hall. Ogg stood silhouetted in the doorway, the lantern in his thick-fingered grip casting an eerie glow over his craggy face. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the gathered group.

      “About time,” he grunted. “Come on, then. We got a job to do.”

      With that, he turned and stomped outside, leaving the students no choice but to follow.

      The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. The grounds stretched out before them in rolling shadows, moonlight glinting off the Black Lake like shards of broken glass. The towering outline of the Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its ancient trees shifting and groaning with the wind. Somewhere deep inside, an owl hooted, the sound haunting against the near silence.

      Ogg led them forward with heavy, purposeful strides, the lantern swinging in his grasp.

      Abraxas walked beside Travers and Charles, his gaze flicking toward the darkened treetops. He had been in the Forbidden Forest once before, during a Malfoy-hosted hunting trip when he was much younger. But never at night. Never under these conditions.

      “I can’t believe they’re sending first-years into the forest,” Charles muttered under his breath, mirroring Abraxas’ own thoughts.

      “Dumbledore’s gone soft in the head,” Silas added. “This is manual labor. What are we, house-elves?”

      “Trust me, you are nothing like house-elves,” Augury interjected sweetly. “They’re actually useful.”

      “Was that supposed to be an insult, Dagworth-Granger? Because it lacked both creativity and bite,” Abraxas said, smirking.

      She rolled her eyes but didn’t rise to the bait, instead glancing toward Ogg. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

      “Unicorn foal’s gone missing,” Ogg answered without turning. “Usually, it wouldn’t be a problem, but summat spooked the herd. The older ones bolted back, but the little one didn’t follow.”

      Evander O’Connell made a face. “Wait—you’re telling me we’re looking for a baby unicorn?”

      “Why? Afraid of something actually magical, O’Connell?” Abraxas sneered.

      “Afraid?” Evander scoffed. “Please, Malfoy, I just don’t see how this is our problem. Maybe the unicorn’s fine. Maybe it just wanted to get away from its mum for a bit.”

      “Or maybe it was eaten by something bigger,” Silas said darkly.

      The group fell silent at that. Even Augury’s smirk wavered.

      They reached the tree line, where the twisted roots of ancient oaks jutted from the ground like skeletal fingers. The forest loomed before them, its depths swallowing the moonlight, the canopy a thick web of interwoven branches that barely allowed a sliver of sky to peek through. The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves in a way that sounded almost like voices.

      Ogg paused, lifting the lantern higher.

      “Stay close. Don’t wander. And keep your wands ready,” he warned, his tone grim. “Things in this forest don’t take kindly to fools.”

      With that, he stepped forward, crossing into the threshold of trees.

      For a brief moment, no one moved.

      Then Augury, never one to hesitate, strode forward with an air of confidence. “Well? Let’s get this over with.”

      With a shared glance, Abraxas and the others followed, stepping into the shadows of the Forbidden Forest.

      The air within the forest was different—thicker, cooler. The scent of pine and damp moss wrapped around them, mingling with something older, something that smelled like untouched earth and distant rain.

      They moved in a slow, careful line behind Ogg, the only sound their shuffling footsteps and the occasional snap of twigs beneath their boots. The deeper they went, the darker it became. The trees stood ancient and gnarled, their bark rough with age, roots twisting over the ground in uneven tangles.

      Somewhere in the distance, a low, echoing hoot of an owl sent a shiver down Abraxas’ spine. The shadows between the trunks stretched long and deep, shifting with the flickering lantern light.

      “I think I see why they call it forbidden,” Travers muttered.

      Evander O’Connell snorted. “What gave it away? The eerie silence or the fact that we’re probably being watched?”

      At that moment, something rustled in the undergrowth.

      Everyone froze.

      Augury’s hand darted to her wand, her sharp eyes narrowing toward the sound. Abraxas tensed beside her, every nerve in his body on edge. The rustling grew louder, twigs snapping under the weight of something unseen.

      Then—

      A flicker of gold.

      Between the shadows of the trees, a soft, warm glow pulsed against the darkness.

      “There,” Augury whispered.

      Standing just beyond the nearest thicket, barely visible through the tangle of leaves, was the unicorn foal. Its pearlescent coat shimmered faintly, though it was marred by dirt, its small frame trembling. Its large, dark eyes were wide with fear.

      But something was wrong.

      The foal wasn’t alone.

      From the shadows beyond it, a pair of glowing yellow eyes blinked open.

      Low and guttural, a growl rumbled through the forest.

      Something else was watching.

      And it was hungry.

      The moment hung suspended in the thick, oppressive silence of the Forbidden Forest. The unicorn foal stood frozen in the undergrowth, its golden coat dappled with shadows and moonlight. Its wide, dark eyes flickered between the students and the figure lurking just beyond the trees, its small chest rising and falling in rapid, frightened bursts.

      Charles Nott squinted at the foal and whispered, “Why’s it gold? I thought unicorns were silver or white… or whatever.”

      Augury scoffed, shifting her weight. “How would you know, Nott? You’ve never even seen one before right now.”

      “Neither have you,” Charles shot back.

      Ogg, still as a stone, barely turned his head as he muttered, “Young ones are always gold. They turn silver as they grow, but their hooves keep a bit o’ the gold even when they’re full-grown.”

      The foal whined softly, pawing at the earth with one of its delicate golden hooves.

      Then—

      A guttural snarl shattered the fragile silence.

      The glowing yellow eyes in the darkness blinked once, then lunged.

      The beast crashed through the undergrowth with a terrifying speed, sending leaves and twigs flying. The lantern light caught the flash of matted fur, twisted limbs, and glistening fangs as the creature burst into view—a werewolf.

       A scream tore through the night, though Abraxas wasn’t sure whose it was—maybe all of them at once. The foal let out a high-pitched, panicked cry, rearing back, its tiny horn catching the moonlight for a brief moment.

      “MOVE!” Ogg roared.

      The students scattered. Abraxas barely had time to react before Charles yanked him backward, just as the werewolf’s massive form landed where they had just been standing. Dirt exploded into the air, claws raking through the earth.

      Augury was the first to draw her wand, her face twisted in determination. “STUPEFY!”

      A red jet of light burst from her wand and struck the werewolf square in the chest. The creature staggered but did not fall. It shook its head violently, saliva dripping from its elongated snout as it turned toward her, its lips peeling back in a snarl.

      “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered, stumbling back.

      Silas and Travers lifted their wands next.

      “Impedimenta!” Travers bellowed.

      “Flipendo!” Silas added.

      The combined spells hit the werewolf in quick succession, causing it to stumble, claws digging into the dirt as it fought against the invisible force pressing against it.

      Charles grabbed Abraxas’ arm, his face pale but fierce. “We need to get that thing away from the foal!”

      Abraxas’ mind raced. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, but he forced himself to focus. The foal was frozen with fear, its legs trembling too much to run. If they didn’t move fast, it would be torn apart.

      He turned to Ogg. “Do something!”

      The half-giant was already moving, his massive hand reaching for the crossbow slung over his back. “Get the foal to safety! I’ll keep this beast busy!”

      The werewolf, shaking off the spells, let out an ear-splitting howl and lunged again—this time, straight for Augury.

      “Protego!” she shouted. A shimmering shield erupted in front of her, just in time to catch the beast’s swipe. The impact sent sparks flying as the shield absorbed the blow, but the sheer force sent Augury sprawling backward into the dirt.

      Abraxas didn’t hesitate. He pointed his wand at the foal.

      “Wingardium Leviosa!”

      The small unicorn lifted slightly off the ground, its hooves kicking in fright.

      “Come on, come on,” he muttered, carefully guiding the floating creature toward the trees, away from the snarling monster.

      Silas and Travers flanked him, wands at the ready. Evander O’Connell—who had been momentarily frozen in terror—finally snapped into action, throwing out a desperate “Lumos Maxima!”

      A blinding flash of white light erupted from his wand, momentarily stunning the werewolf. The creature howled, shaking its head violently as if to clear its vision.

      “Now’s our chance!” Charles yelled. “RUN!”

      Abraxas turned, still guiding the floating foal, and sprinted. He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop to see if the others were keeping up. He just ran, deeper into the woods, weaving through the trees with all the speed he could muster.

      Behind him, he could hear Ogg bellowing, could hear the werewolf’s snarls, the clash of spells, the rapid footsteps of his classmates.

      Branches whipped past, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his arms ached from keeping the foal steady in the air.

      The sound of battle faded behind them.

      And then—silence.

      He stopped, chest heaving, glancing around.

      The foal landed softly on the ground beside him, its small frame trembling.

      Silas, Travers, and Charles caught up a moment later, panting.

      “…Did we lose it?” Travers gasped.

      Augury stumbled out of the undergrowth, dirt smeared across her cheek, her robes torn at the sleeve.

      She looked at Abraxas, then the foal, then back at Abraxas.

      Then, to his complete surprise, she grinned. “Well. That was fun.”

      The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, their rapid breaths mingling with the distant hoots of owls and the rustling of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. Their moment of relief, the thrill of their near escape, was broken by the sound of something moving—many somethings.

      Silas tensed, wand at the ready. “Oh, what now?”

      Abraxas turned toward the shadows shifting between the trees. At first, it was only glimmers of movement—like the soft flicker of starlight through the dense canopy. Then, as they stepped into the moonlight, the first unicorn appeared.

      It was breathtaking.

      Larger than the foal, but still impossibly elegant, its silver-white coat shimmered ethereally, reflecting the glow of the stars above. Its mane was like fine, silken threads spun from pure light, cascading down its slender neck in waves. Dark, intelligent eyes took them in with something unreadable—neither fear nor hostility, but a quiet understanding.

      Then another unicorn stepped forward, and another.

      A whole herd emerged, stepping through the mist-laden trees with a ghostly grace. Some were silvery white, their forms almost blending into the moonlight, while others still carried hints of their youthful golden hues, their manes and tails whispering against the night air.

      Augury exhaled, barely above a whisper. “They’re… beautiful.”

      Even Charles, usually the first to have some snide remark, was struck silent.

      The foal let out a soft, high-pitched whinny, and immediately, one of the larger unicorns stepped forward—its coat silver with a faint golden sheen to its hooves. Its dark eyes flickered from the children to the trembling foal.

      Then, in a movement so gentle it hardly seemed real, the mare lowered her head, brushing her muzzle against the foal’s neck. A soft, musical hum filled the air—soothing, warm.

      The foal pressed close to its mother, burying its small face in her silken mane.

      Something inside Abraxas twisted, something unfamiliar. A warmth that was at odds with the cold dread that had lived in his chest ever since he first set foot in this forest. The sight of the reunion—the sheer love in that simple, instinctive gesture—was unlike anything he had ever known.

      For a moment, the world felt different.

      Then—

      A heavy, staggering footstep broke the spell.

      Ogg came trudging through the undergrowth, his large frame heaving as he pushed through the trees. His tunic was torn, his arms clawed up with deep scratches, and his face had a thin sheen of sweat. He clutched his crossbow in one massive hand, the bolts still quivering slightly from recent use.

      But it wasn’t his blood covering his sleeve.

      Abraxas swallowed. “Ogg?”

      The half-giant wiped at his brow with the back of his hand, wincing slightly. “Nasty piece o’ work, that one,” he grunted, nodding back in the direction they had come from. “Got ‘im good though—he won’t be comin’ back this way tonight, that’s for sure.”

      “You fought the werewolf alone?” Travers asked, wide-eyed.

      Ogg snorted. “Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” He let out a breath, then straightened, his gaze shifting to the unicorns. A smile broke through the exhaustion on his face. “Ah, look at that… they came for the little one, just like I knew they would.”

      The herd barely acknowledged Ogg’s arrival, their attention entirely on the foal and its mother.

      The mare lifted her head, looking at Ogg, and then—gracefully, regally—she inclined it in the smallest nod.

      Ogg nodded back, his voice softer now. “Aye, yer welcome.”

      The herd lingered for a moment longer, and then, as silently as they had arrived, they turned, disappearing back into the trees. The foal trotted alongside its mother, casting one last glance back at the strange group of humans that had saved it.

      Then they were gone, swallowed by the shadows of the Forbidden Forest.

      A long silence followed.

      “Well,” Charles finally said, dragging a hand through his hair. “That was… a lot.”

      Augury turned to Abraxas, her eyes still alight from the wonder of what they had just witnessed. “That was incredible.”

      Abraxas, still staring at the place where the unicorns had vanished, only nodded. He didn’t have words for what he felt.

      Ogg let out a grunt. “Come on then, back ter the castle with yeh. We’ve had enough adventure fer one night.”

      As they trudged back, their clothes torn, their limbs aching, and their nerves still rattled, Abraxas found himself glancing back toward the trees one last time.

      The unicorns were gone, but the night still felt full of magic.

Chapter Text

 

 

Hey Ya'll...

I know I said I was gonna work on more fanfictions but honestly, I've been neglecting working on my original novel and series for quite some time. So here is the official announcement of my fantasy book and hopefully series:

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Lost Omen - Book One in

The Temporal Archives

 

When Augury Evans, outcast and haunted all her life by visions no one else can see, crosses paths with the enigmatic dhampir Alucard Tepes, she is thrust into a hidden world where monsters walk in moonlight and gods watch from the shadows.

Drawn deep beneath the crumbling surface world to The Shade—the vampire city of endless night—Augury discovers she is more than human, more than the lies spun to keep her small. Whispers of prophecy cling to her, but the truth is far darker...

As vampires, gods, and Fae vie to control her fate, Alucard’s loyalty wavers, tangled between guilt and desire. And beside her stands Dante Valentin—demon hunter, secret son of Hell’s high blood, and the only one who sees Augury for the woman she is, not the weapon she could become.

Betrayals will bleed. Love will be tested. And when darkness rises, Augury must choose: to be a pawn, or to seize her own destiny and remake the night itself.

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Please go check it out, I know it's not Harry Potter...but there IS magic, gods, vampires, demons, and love triangles, much more so I hope ya'll give it a shot! Let me know and comment over there if you do! I won't abandon this story and more is soon to come!