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Chapter Text

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The world had dissolved into a symphony of screams and shattered stone. Dust, thick and acrid with the tang of dark magic and blood, coated Harriet ‘Harry’ Potter’s tongue. Every breath was a battle, every step a monumental effort of will against the crushing weight of exhaustion. The Battle of Hogwarts wasn’t a duel; it was a maelstrom, a chaotic, frantic storm of light and shadow that threatened to devour them all. She moved through it like a ghost, her spells flying on instinct, her mind a numb buzz of grief and desperation.

Then came the quiet horror of the Shrieking Shack, the serpentine gurgle of Snape’s last breath, and the silvery strands of memory he had given her.

In the Headmaster’s office, the silence was a stark contrast to the distant cacophony of war. With trembling hands, Harry poured the memories into the Pensive. She fell into the swirling silver, braced for whatever terrible truth Snape needed to share before he died. She saw Snape’s unwavering love for her mother, a bitter, painful devotion that had shaped his entire existence. She saw the grim conversations with Dumbledore, the careful, cruel machinations of a man playing a long and terrible game. The truth hit her first as a cold shock, then as a searing fire: she was a Horcrux. Dumbledore had raised her not as a child, but as a pig for slaughter.

It was a monstrous, calculated betrayal. Yet, as the memories continued to unfurl, a deeper, more personal agony awaited her.

She was standing in Dumbledore's office, but seeing it through another's eyes. Snape's. He stood near the wall, a silent shadow amidst the whirring silver instruments, having just been given his own terrible task. The memory was from the end of their sixth year, shortly after Harry had secured the true memory from Professor Slughorn. Opposite Dumbledore's grand desk sat Ron and Hermione. They looked grave, summoned to the Headmaster’s office late at night.

"Thank you for coming," Dumbledore began, his voice solemn. He gestured to the memory of Tom Riddle that Harry had so recently retrieved. "Harry has, with great courage, secured the final piece of the puzzle. I now know, without a doubt, what Lord Voldemort did to ensure his immortality."

He proceeded to explain the dark magic of Horcruxes, his voice low and serious. He told them Voldemort had made not one, but multiple, and that to defeat him, they must all be destroyed.

"This is a task that will fall to Harry," Dumbledore said, his gaze fixed upon them. "And it is a burden no one should have to bear alone. My time is short. After I am gone, she will need you more than ever. You will have to be the ones to help her find and destroy the remaining pieces of Voldemort's soul. You must see it through to the end."

Hermione sat straighter, her face set with grim determination. "Of course, Professor. We'll be with her. Always."

Ron nodded, his expression serious. "Whatever it takes."

Dumbledore’s eyes, heavy with a sorrow that Snape, and now Harry, recognized as a carefully constructed mask, seemed to sadden further. "I am afraid there is more. One final, terrible truth." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "When Lord Voldemort attacked Harry as a baby, his soul was unstable. It fractured, and a piece of it attached itself to the only living thing in the room."

The silence that followed was absolute. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with dawning horror. Ron just stared, his freckled face draining of all colour, looking as though he might be sick.

"So... she's a Horcrux?" Hermione whispered, the words trembling in the air. "But... there must be a way to remove it! A ritual, a counter-curse, something!" Her voice grew frantic, her mind racing through every obscure text she had ever read. "We can find it! We can save her!"

"There is no ritual, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle but firm, cutting through her desperate hope. "The soul fragment is bound to her own. It cannot be removed without... destroying the vessel."

The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Ron finally spoke, his voice a choked rasp. "Destroying the... you mean... killing her?"

Dumbledore’s gaze was unwavering. "The fragment of soul must be destroyed. And it must be done by Voldemort himself."

The two teenagers flinched as if struck.

“…and that is why, I’m afraid, Harry must not know,” Dumbledore continued, his voice a soft hammer blow of finality. “She must walk willingly to her death, believing it is for the greater good. It is the only way to ensure the final soul fragment is destroyed and Voldemort is made mortal. Her sacrifice is the key."

Hermione’s face was pale, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white mountains on a pale plain. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, a river of grief for a fate she was being asked to accept. But after a long, agonising moment, having just sworn to help Harry on her quest, she nodded. A single, sharp nod of acquiescence. Ron looked ill, his face a mottled green, his expression one of utter devastation. He didn’t protest. He simply stared at the floor, his jaw tight, his silence a deafening scream of consent.

They knew.

The silver-spun memory dissolved and the floor of the Headmaster's office seemed to lurch beneath her feet. A cold, sickening wave washed through her, leaving her gasping. It wasn’t grief. Grief was a familiar ache, a hollow space. This was something else entirely. It was the acid of poison, burning away everything she had ever held to be true. The memory didn’t fade — it fossilised. Etched into her like bone marrow. Her hands didn’t tremble with fear. They were steady now, gripped by something colder than rage: clarity.

A memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and cruel. It was the night she had left for the cave with Dumbledore. She remembered the look on their faces in the Gryffindor common room as she’d told them where she was going. Hermione had thrown her arms around her, her hug fierce. "Be careful, Harry," she'd whispered, her voice thick with what Harry had thought was fear for her safety. Ron had clapped her on the shoulder, his face grim. "Just… come back." Had they been looking at her then, seeing not their friend heading into danger, but a precious weapon being risked before it could be properly deployed? Was Hermione's plea for her to be careful a plea to protect the Horcrux inside her? Was Ron’s 'come back' not a wish for her survival, but a demand that the key to Voldemort's defeat be returned intact? The memory curdled in her throat. She would never know what parts of their friendship had been real. That was the worst part.

The decision to walk into the Forbidden Forest was no longer a heroic sacrifice. It was a controlled demolition, a final, bitter severance. Her heart was a shard of ice in her chest, pulsing with a cold, burning rage. Loyalty was a fool’s game, and she had been the biggest fool of all. She stood, pulling the silvery fabric of her Invisibility Cloak over her head, the familiar weight a cold comfort. She would leave without a word, without a single glance back at the life that had been a lie. Under the cloak's shroud, she moved silently from the office, a ghost haunted by betrayal. As she walked through the chaotic castle towards her fate, her fingers found the cool metal of the Golden Snitch in her pocket. Entering the forest, she brought the cold sphere to her mouth, closing her lips around it. The venomous thought: I open at the close, formed in her mind.

The Snitch clicked open. Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay the Resurrection Stone. She took it out, her resolve wavering. The betrayal of the living had hollowed her out, but she was not entirely alone. She wanted to see them. For comfort, for courage, to borrow their strength one last time before facing the end.

She turned the stone over in her palm three times.

They emerged from the gloom of the forest, not solid, but more than ghosts. Her father, his hair as untidy as her own. Her mother, her eyes so kind, so full of a love that was a balm to her shattered soul. Sirius, his handsome face young and carefree. And Remus, his expression weary but gentle.

“You’ve been so brave,” Lily whispered, her smile aching with a love that felt real and true.

“Nearly there,” James said, giving her an encouraging nod. “Very close. We are so proud of you.”

Proud. The word was a lifeline. Their comfort was a warm, steadying presence, specters of a loyalty that had never wavered. And in their pure, uncomplicated pride, the betrayal of the living felt even sharper. They saw a hero walking to her fate. They couldn't see the girl fleeing a world of liars. For the first time, even surrounded by her family, she felt utterly, terrifyingly alone.

“Does it hurt?” The question was a child’s, torn from a part of her she thought had already died.

Sirius’s ghostly form moved closer, his roguish grin a comfort. “Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

With a final, loving look at the family she had yearned for her entire life, she let the stone slip from her fingers and shrugged the Invisibility Cloak from her shoulders, letting both Hallows fall unheeded to the forest floor. As the precious items hit the dirt, the shimmering figures vanished. Letting go of them, of everything, was the hardest goodbye. She walked on, now fully visible and vulnerable. The cold of the forest deepened, a familiar, soul-deep chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Dementors. They slid between the trees, their presence leeching the warmth from the world, but the ice in her heart was colder still. The memory of her family's steadfast faces gave her strength. Her stag Patronus erupted from her wand, not with a cry of desperate hope, but with the silent, silver force of pure conviction, driving the dark creatures back into the shadows.

The clearing was just as she had expected. Death Eaters stood in a silent, waiting circle, their masked faces turned towards her, lit by a single, crackling fire. Giants shifted restlessly at the edge of the trees, and the hulking, bound form of Hagrid, was tied to a great spider-infested tree, his face a mask of anguish upon seeing her. And in the centre, his snake-like face alight with triumph, stood Voldemort.

His red eyes widened as Harry approached. A high, cold laugh echoed through the clearing.

“Harry Potter,” he hissed. “The Girl Who Lived… come to die.”

The Death Eaters stirred, a murmur of shock and cruel anticipation rippling through their ranks. Bellatrix Lestrange’s mad cackle cut through the air. Harry ignored them all. Her heart beat a steady, deliberate rhythm against her ribs. She looked at the Elder Wand in his hand, and felt a grim sense of finality.

Voldemort raised it.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green light rushed towards her, and for the first time, Harry didn't fight it. She welcomed the oblivion, she welcomed the solitude, her only loyal companion, a final meeting with the old friend who had walked just beside her, her entire life.

Harry awoke slowly, like a swimmer rising from an impossibly deep ocean. There was no pain, no memory of impact, only a gradual return to awareness to a place of absolute non-sensation. First came the white. A formless, featureless, and infinite void of it, so pure and bright it seemed to have a sound, a high, thin hum at the very edge of hearing. Then, the silence crashed in—a tangible absence of noise, an intense pressure against her eardrums.

Out of the oppressive nothingness, shapes began to coalesce. Lines etched themselves into the void, forming the familiar wrought-iron arches and vaulted glass ceiling of a train station. Emptiness solidifying into pristine tiled floors and benches so clean they gleamed. It was King’s Cross, but a version scrubbed clean of all colour, life and memory, a perfect, sterile echo of the real thing. No steam hissed from engines, no distant calls of vendors or rumbling of luggage trolleys broke the unearthly quiet. A sense of wrongness permeated the air. It was a place of arrival and departure, yet it was utterly, terrifyingly still.

And then, she was not alone.

A figure cloaked in shadows that seemed to drink the light, stood before her. A being whose presence was a physical weight, a paradox of primal dread and unending comfort, that bypassed thought and went straight to the soul.

“Harriet Potter,” the voice was not a sound but a sensation, a vibration that resonated in the marrow of her bones. “The one who greeted me as an old friend.”

Death.

“So this is it,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

“For most, yes. For you, Master of the Hallows, it is a crossroads,” Death replied.

“Master of the Hallows?” Harry echoed, the words tasting like ash.

“You have united my gifts,” Death’s voice resonated. “A feat that could only be accomplished by a Peverell descendant, for it was to your bloodline I gave my favour. Do not misunderstand,” the shadows around Death seemed to sharpen. “You are not my Master. I bend to no one. Do not believe the foolish tales of mortals who claim mastery. The Peverell brothers bowed to me, as all necromancers must. No one can master Death. But to master the Hallows is to be my Chosen. And with that favour comes options.”

A humourless laugh escaped Harry’s lips. “Some Chosen. I was just a pawn in a game I never even knew I was playing.”

“Mortals see only their own small part of the tapestry,” Death observed, its form shifting. “They fail to see the threads that bind them.”

Death gestured, and the white mist swirled. An image formed: a young boy with dark, hungry eyes, alone in a squalid orphanage. Tom Riddle. Then another: a small girl, unloved, locked in a cupboard under the stairs. Herself.

“Both orphans,” Death’s voice echoed. “Both marked by a world that did not want them. Both felt the sharp sting of loneliness. Both were outsiders, misunderstood and feared for their power. Both touched by the Peverell line, your blood singing with an ancient magic you barely comprehend. ”

The mist shifted again, showing Dumbledore, his face grave, leaving a baby on a doorstep, then turning his back on another boy’s pleas for understanding.

“He saw tools,” Death stated, not as an accusation, but as an irrefutable fact. “You were a shield to be discarded. The other, a sword to be broken upon his anvil. His design was flawed from its inception.”

The final image was of her own face, contorted in agony as she learned of her friends' betrayal. The raw wound in her soul pulsed with fresh hurt. That was the cut that had bled her dry of hope.

“What now?” she whispered.

“You have choices,” Death’s voice resonated. “The first: move on. Board a train and find the peace you have been denied.”

Peace. It sounded like a distant shore she could barely imagine. Surrender. The never ending exhaustion of her life, the crushing weight of a war she was forced to fight for those who betrayed her, made the idea of simply letting go incredibly appealing. To step onto that train, to dissolve into nothingness, to finally be free of the prophecy, the lies, the pain – it was a siren song, a profound and aching desire for oblivion. For a long, silent moment, she truly considered it, her eyes fixed on the distant, shimmering tracks, her body feeling as if it could simply melt into the infinite white.

“The second: return,” Death continued, the shadows swirling to show the chaos of battle. “You go back, the Girl-Who-Lived can finish the war, then live out the rest of your life. The soul fragment within you will be destroyed. However you must be aware that after seventeen years, your soul and the fragment within you are bound. To remove it now will leave a void, a scar even I could not mend.”

The thought was nauseating. To win a war for a world that had demanded her blood as payment? The victory would be ashes in her mouth. She looked at the image of the battle, at the faces of people who would celebrate her sacrifice, never knowing the lies she had died for. To be forever "The Girl-Who-Lived" to them, was a sentence worse than death. She craved normalcy, a quiet existence free from prophecies and unrealistic expectations. She couldn’t do it.

“The third option,” she said, her voice firm, cutting off Death’s explanation. “Tell me about that one.”

Death’s form seemed to still, the shadows coalescing as it focused on her. “I can send you back. To the beginning. Before the schism. But you would not go alone. This choice, if taken, will cement the soul bond between you and Tom Riddle. It will never be able to be removed again. It is both a gift and a curse for you both as the last of the Peverell line. Although it is an abomination to tear apart one's soul, I see potential in this union. Given a chance, together you could bring new life to the wizarding world, or you could destroy it. But remember, there cannot be death without life." The image of the young Tom Riddle reappeared, his face a mask of furious pride and desperate loneliness. “His soul is an abomination. I will make it whole again, save for your fragment. That piece will be the anchor, your shared bond. When you die together, it will drag you both through the veil, back to a time when he was but a boy. This, however, would be my only intervention. The rest is for you to shape.”

The offer was audacious and terrifying. It was also the only one that felt like a choice, instead of a sentence. “What happens to this time? To them?” she asked, gesturing to the ghostly image of the battle. “If we leave, what becomes of it?”

“Time is not a single thread to be cut, but a river that can be diverged,” Death’s voice resonated. “Should you take this path, you and the soul of Tom Riddle will be removed from this reality. This world will continue on its own course. The battle will be won or lost without you. A new timeline, your timeline, will be created from the moment you arrive in the past. They will be free of you, and you will be free of them.”

Free. The word was a balm. To be untethered from their expectations, their manipulations, their betrayals. It was everything. She looked from the image of the raging battle to the image of the lonely, dark-eyed boy. One was a lie she could no longer stomach. The other was an alliance with a monster, a horrifying plunge into a past she couldn't control. It wasn't a choice between good and bad. It was a choice between two different kinds of hell. And only one offered her a chance to hold the flint and steel herself.

“I’ll do it,” she said, her voice cold and clear. “I choose the third option.”

“A bold choice,” Death observed, a statement of fact, not praise. “But the bargain requires a specific trigger. To pull both your souls through the veil at once, you must die in concert. His final anchor, the serpent, must be severed. Then, you must allow him to strike you down. That shared moment of death is the key that will unlock the path.”

“So I have to go back and die again?” she stated, a bitter irony in her tone. “They called me the Girl-Who-Lived, but it seems I’m destined to be the Girl-Who-Keeps-Dying.”

“You must go back to enact the bargain you have just made,” Death confirmed. “Then, your new life will begin.”

The white station began to dissolve. Disorientation slammed into her as her consciousness returned to her body, cradled in colossal, familiar arms. Hagrid. The smell of pine and dog hair filled her nostrils, a grounding, painful scent of a life she was now only a visitor in. She could feel it, the piece of Voldemort’s soul, the strange, pulsing presence inside her, no longer a blight but a promise. An anchor. Her mind was a cold, sharp point of focus, not on the battle, but on the sequence of events she must now orchestrate.

The Great Hall was a scene of devastation. Voldemort’s voice echoed off the broken walls. “Harry Potter is dead!”

A cry of despair rose from the crowd, but Harry remained still, her eyes closed, simply waiting.

“Now is the time to declare yourself!” Voldemort cried.

Then, Neville’s voice, raw and defiant. The Sorting Hat. The Sword of Gryffindor. A flash of silver, and Nagini’s head flew from her body. The final Horcrux was gone.

Now.

She rolled out of Hagrid’s arms, landing silently on the stone floor. A collective gasp swept the hall. Her gaze swept across the stunned faces of the defenders, past the Weasleys, past the teachers, until it locked onto them. Ron and Hermione. Their faces were masks of shocked, tearful relief, but all she saw was their guilt. She didn’t feel rage anymore—just the sharp detachment of someone watching a house burn that had already collapsed inside her. She broke the contact, turning her attention to the reason she had returned. Voldemort’s face was a picture of disbelief.

“I’d say there’s been a slight miscalculation,” Harry said, her voice ringing with a cold power she had never possessed before.

Her magic, once a desperate shield, was now a scalpel. She moved with a chilling economy he had never seen, her spells no longer the frantic parries of a girl trying to survive, but cold, precise attacks aimed to wound his pride as much as his body. She didn't try to disarm him. She tore up the ground at his feet, shattered the stone beside his head, her green eyes holding his with a terrifying lack of fear. She wasn’t fighting him. She was herding him. Goading the beast towards the killing blow she so desperately craved.

Voldemort, his rage making him reckless, screamed the familiar curse one last time. “Avada Kedavra!”

The green light sped towards her. Like the last time, she didn't dodge. She stood her ground, her gaze locked with his, and with a sense of grim, absolute purpose, she let a victorious smile cross her face as she let it strike.

It was not a sacrifice. It was a shared erasure. A trigger.

The world did not go black. It shattered. A blinding, overwhelming sensation of being ripped apart, atom by atom, her soul screaming as it was dragged through the fabric of time and space, inextricably bound to the very being she was meant to destroy.

Then, darkness.

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Chapter Text

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The darkness of oblivion splintered into a million shards of agonising light. He awoke with a gasp, a raw, desperate sound that was shockingly thin and reedy. For a moment, a single, chilling thought solidified in the chaos of his returning consciousness: This was it, then. Hell. Not fire and brimstone, as lesser minds imagined, but a far more personal, more exquisite damnation.

The very air was an assault. He could feel the grit of coal dust as he inhaled, a greasy film that coated his tongue. It was a thick, cloying cocktail of scents: boiled cabbage and harsh disinfectant, underpinned by the sour smell of unwashed bodies and the faint, sweet odour of rot. The reek of his past squalor was a physical presence, a constant, grating hum beneath the grand dissonance of his resurrected horrors. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out a cacophony of misery—the distant ship’s horn from the Thames, the rumble of a lorry, the whimpers and hacking cough of another child through the paper-thin walls, all somehow mingling with the phantom screams of his victims.

Wool’s Orphanage. The name surfaced from the depths of his memory, slick with a loathing that was ancient and profound. As he sat up, his eyes caught a crack in the plaster on the opposite wall, shaped vaguely like a serpent. A flicker of a memory, one he hadn’t accessed in over sixty years, surfaced: the boy, Tom, tracing that same crack with his finger, imagining it was the entrance to a secret, magical place. The fragile, pathetic hope of it was so disgusting that the Dark Lord persona recoiled, crushing the memory with a wave of cold fury. He tried to push himself up with commanding grace, but his malnourished child's muscles protested. His limbs, expecting decades of honed strength, felt like brittle twigs, stumbling and his knee hit the floor with a pathetic thud. A hot flush of impotent fury, so unlike his usual cold rage, flooded him.

Across the room, Ariela’s world returned with a sickening lurch. The smell hit her first—that same stale, hopeless scent of the cupboard under the stairs. The feeling of being small, of being weak, was a claustrophobic nightmare. She looked at her hands, the hands of a stranger, small and delicate, and a wave of pure horror crashed over her. She tried to stand, her teenaged mind sending commands her new limbs couldn't properly execute, and she stumbled, catching herself on the grimy window frame. Her new limbs felt alien, too short, too weak. She looked at her reflection in the grimy window – a stranger's delicate face, but the raw terror in her eyes was all hers, a stark contrast to the hardened facade she'd built. She instinctively reached for glasses that weren't there, her vision shockingly clear, and for a wand that was absent from her pocket. The loss of her physical autonomy was a visceral terror.

Then the memories came, not just hers, but a roaring, seventy-year deluge of his. It wasn’t a coherent recollection; it was a sensory storm of shrapnel. The slick, cold feel of yew wood. The searing, soul-tearing agony of creating his first Horcrux, felt not as a memory, but as a fresh wound. The scent of burning flesh mingling with the cloying perfume of Nagini’s scales. The maddeningly triumphant smirk on her own face as she died.

His soul, once a tattered, ravaged thing, was now overwhelmingly, horrifyingly whole. The mending was not a gentle healing but a violent, brutal collision that made him gasp and double over, a sharp, physical agony that had nothing to do with his new body. With it came not just memory, but emotions. Decades of suppressed humanity—fear, loneliness, and a shame so profound it felt like a physical acid burning through his veins—crashed down upon him. It was a mortifying shame of his own catastrophic miscalculations, of being thwarted by a sentimental old fool and a mere girl. This forced wholeness was sickening, and he lashed out.

"This feeling is an abomination! A weakness!" His voice was a reedy squeak, but a ripple of raw, uncontrolled magic radiated from him.

Ari clutched her scar, a sharp gasp of pain escaping her lips. The throb was immediate, vicious, a familiar agony she hadn't felt in years. "Stop it!" she cried out, her voice trembling. "You're making it worse!"

Voldemort froze. He turned his head, his movements unnervingly precise for a child, and his eyes, the eyes of Tom Riddle, not yet red narrowed with a chilling, calculating gleam. A flicker of magic in the corner of the room, both alien and intimately familiar. He felt her not just as a presence, but as a low thrum against his own magical core, a missing chord that had suddenly begun to resonate deep within him. It was a violation. It was a homecoming. It was the magic of the Potter chit, but it was also… his. The dark, possessive thrum of his own soul, a single, discordant note in the symphony of his restored being. He turned his head, his movements unnervingly precise for a child. A girl stood in the shadows near the grimy window. She had one hand pressed to her temple, her expression taut as if fighting off a sudden, piercing headache. As his own mind buckled under the weight of his returning memories, he felt a flicker of it rebound back at him from her, a faint echo of his own agony. The anchor wasn't just in her; it was a circuit, and her presence completed it, sending a faint echo of his own agonizing rebirth right back at him.

He stared at her, the pieces clicking into place. The shared visions, her ability to speak the serpent's tongue. For years, he had relentlessly pursued one of the very pieces that guaranteed his immortality. She was never just the Potter chit; she was a vessel for his soul. She was his, had belonged to him all along. But this wholeness… it was disorienting. He hadn't possessed a complete soul since he was sixteen, before he’d torn it to create his first Horcrux. That act had fundamentally changed him, solidified his path. Now, with that damage undone, a flicker of uncertainty, an echo of the boy he had been, stirred beneath the surface of the monster he had become. It was a weakness he would have to crush, but its presence was undeniable.

"So," he hissed, the sound thin but potent with dawning understanding. "You feel it. My wrath. My torment." He took a shaky step towards her, a predator testing its new cage. "I cannot believe I didn’t see it earlier. You are inextricably bound to me. You're my Horcrux." The horrifying thought was followed by a flicker of dark satisfaction. At least if he was in pain, so was she.

"Don't call me that," she shot back, her own anger a flimsy shield against the pain. "And don't look so pleased with yourself. You're trapped in this... this hellhole, just like I am." The lightning bolt scar was a stark, silver slash on her brow, and her eyes… those damnable, Avada Kedavra green eyes were fixed on him, not with fear, but stabbing into him like cold shards of ice.

The instinctive, murderous rage that had defined him for decades didn’t come. It would have been trivially easy, even without a wand, to reach out and snap her neck but the thread of connection, that possessive thrum, stayed his hand.

They stood in silence for a long moment, two ancient enemies in the bodies of children, locked in a grimy room, bound by a shared soul and a shared, horrifying predicament. The sounds of the orphanage—a distant bell, the clatter of pans from the kitchen—were an oppressive reminder of their powerlessness.

Lights from a passing car illuminated the window, forcing the shadows that had enveloped her to flee. It was then he saw it, the messy black hair was gone, replaced with long, straight locks of moonlight silver-blonde. Her features, once plain, were now delicate and defined, her skin like porcelain. It was as if the sharp edges of Harriet Potter had been sanded away, leaving a softer, more ethereal creature in her place. His mind, ever the collector, catalogued the changes with a cold, detached precision.

“What is this? What have you done?” he demanded, his voice tight.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, her tone pragmatic, almost bored. “Well, not entirely. You could say I accepted a better offer... We died. And Death decided to intervene.” A mocking light entered her eyes. “You never could beat me, you know. Even with your precious Elder Wand. Funny thing about that, it never answered to Snape as it already belonged to me.”

He ignored the jibe, the puzzle of the Elder Wand a secondary concern. "Death," he breathed, the name tasting of sacrilege and opportunity. "Why?"

"Death spoke of balance," she shrugged. "Of Dumbledore failing both of us. Maybe it got bored. Does it matter?" She stared at him, the pieces clicking into place in her own mind. "It left the piece of you inside me. It was the anchor to draw you back in time with me. We’re tied together, you and I."

"This changes nothing," he hissed, the lie feeling thin even to himself. "You are still my enemy."

"Am I?" she countered, a strange, humourless smile on her lips. "I'm the only thing keeping you tethered to this reality. I'm the reason you're not a screaming shade in the abyss. In this life, I'm not your enemy. I'm your lifeline."

She lifted a delicate hand, a gesture of casual power he found infuriating. Shimmering golden numerals materialized in the dim air between them, bathing their faces in a soft glow. 9:00 PM - 31 December 1937. For the briefest of moments, as the magical light faded, he saw her composure slipping. Her jaw tightened, and a flicker of pain, deep familiar grief—the ghost of the girl she had been—passed through her eyes before she stamped it out, burying it once more beneath a layer of ice. She was building this persona, he realised, brick by painful brick.

“Happy birthday, Tom,” she said, her voice now a ghost of a smirk. “You’re eleven all over again.”

The name—Tom—struck him with the force of a physical blow, a brand of his filthy Muggle heritage. His muscles tensed, a low hiss escaping his lips, a sound of pure revulsion. It was a calculated insult, a deliberate attempt to reduce him to the pathetic orphan he so despised. A hot, violent rage surged through him, and across the room, Harry flinched, her hand flying to her scar. The feedback was instantaneous, a shared circuit of his rage and her pain. He saw it, and a thrill, cold and terrible, shot through him. He could hurt her with a thought. He could make her feel every ounce of his fury.

And yet underneath the rage was a confusing tremor. Tom Riddle had made the choices that led to Lord Voldemort’s downfall. With a whole soul, would he make the same choices that led him to ruin? The question was a heresy he immediately suppressed. He was Lord Voldemort. He would not be unmade.

He opened his mouth to deliver a scathing, soul-flaying retort, to put her back in her place, but before he could voice the cold, possessive thoughts coalescing in his mind, the quiet click of the door latch turning broke the tense silence. The door swung inward with a soft creak, revealing a man who stood framed in the dim light of the hallway. He was tall, dressed in dark, impeccably tailored robes that seemed to absorb what little light there was. His features were sharp and handsome, but it was his eyes that held Voldemort’s attention. They were a startling, keen blue, and they surveyed the room with an unsettling power as he stepped inside, closing the door silently behind him.

The man’s gaze fell upon him, then shifted to the girl. He radiated an aura of primal magic, Voldemort, even with his restored soul, felt a shiver of something that was almost apprehension. This was not some Ministry flunky or doddering wixen. The magic rolling off this man was ancient, primal, and utterly self-assured. For the first time in decades, Voldemort felt the unfamiliar and loathsome sensation of being in the presence of a predator equal to himself. He tempered the fury he felt at the intrusion, at the loss of control with a sharp spike of analytical curiosity. This man could be a resource, or he was an obstacle. He would need to determine which, and quickly.

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The magic of Peverell Castle was a living thing, a song of ancient power that hummed in the very stones of the fortress. Marcos Antioch Peverell stood alone, a glass of firewhisky in hand, gazing out over the tumultuous Scottish sea from beyond the panoramic window, the dark, churning expanse mirroring the unsettled feeling in his gut. A wave of distaste washed over him. Britain. He disliked this cold, grey land, so unlike the vibrant warmth and rich colours of his beloved Spain. He yearned to return to his own home, but the rising shadow of Grindelwald kept him here. Powerful he might be, but even he could not stand alone against an army. He had a duty to survive and it tied him to this uncertain future.

Suddenly, he felt a discordant note shatter the familiar harmony, bringing him to his knees. It wasn't a physical sound, but a soul-deep psychic tremor, a profound chill that pierced his very bones, a tearing agony in the fabric of existence itself, in the fabric of the veil that separated the living from the dead. As a Necromancer, a servant of Death bound by blood and oath, he was uniquely attuned to such disturbances. But this was no mere echo of a passing spirit or the restless stirring of an old ghost. This was a cataclysm. A raw, gaping wound in reality.

It was a call from his Master.

Closing his keen, light-blue eyes, he let his senses expand, following the shuddering vibration to its source. It was faint, distant, but achingly familiar. He had felt a similar, though far weaker, echo years ago when his cousin Gabriel had been struck down. This, however, was a thousand times more potent and originated from the heart of Muggle London, a place he hadn't set foot in for years.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Marcos stepped towards the darkest corner of his study, where the shadows lay thick and still. He allowed the darkness to envelop him, the familiar cool whisper of shadow-magic dissolving his physical form. It was not Apparition; it was older, more primal. A secret of the Peverell line, a way of walking between the folds of the world.

He reformed in a grimy, narrow alleyway, stench of coal smoke and damp brick replacing the clean, salt-laced air of his home. The magical disturbance was a deafening roar here, a beacon of raw, untamed power emanating from a grim, soot-stained building across the street: Wool’s Orphanage.

Marcos moved with an unnatural grace, a silent shadow flowing through the bustling London streets. No one gave him a second glance; their mundane minds simply slid over his presence, unable to register what they could not comprehend. He entered the orphanage, the air thick with the cloying smells of poverty and neglect. The magic was strongest on the upper floor, a pulsating vortex of conflicting energies. He ascended the stairs, his footsteps making no sound on the worn floorboards.

He stopped outside a closed door, the source of the metaphysical tear. Inside, he could sense two distinct magical signatures, both blazing with a power that resonated deep within his own blood. It was the echo of the three brothers, a convergence that hadn't been felt in centuries. One signature was wild and sharp, unmistakably the line of Ignotus, tinged with the scent of lilies and something akin to lightning. But beneath it was a foundational power that made his breath catch—a painfully familiar echo of Gabriel's magic, a phantom of the cousin he had lost. This was more than a call from his Master; it felt like a ghost of his own blood crying out from the abyss. The other signature was a cold, coiling serpent of immense power, the legacy of Cadmus, now underpinned by a terrifying, newfound feeling of wholeness. And woven between them, a familiar thread of raw, untapped necromantic potential—the mark of his own ancestor, Antioch—vibrated like a plucked string.

He listened, his head tilted. Their voices were low, tense, a standoff between two ancient enemies inexplicably sharing a room. He heard the girl’s mocking words, the reference to the Elder Wand, the chilling mention of Death’s bargain. He heard the boy’s rage, the venomous hiss of a name he had long since shed.

This was more than a simple disturbance. This was an intervention of the highest order. Death itself had reset the board. Bracing himself to face the powerful, wixen responsible for such a tear in reality, Marcos pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The sight that greeted him was jarringly incongruous with the power he had sensed. Before him stood not seasoned wixen, but two small children, barely eleven years old. The sheer magnitude of their magical signatures emanating from such tiny forms was a paradox that momentarily stunned him. He quickly masked his shock, his gaze sweeping over them. The boy eyed him with the cautious, calculating gaze of a dark wizard, a chilling intellect burning behind his dark eyes. The girl, however, looked at him with a flicker of something else. Recognition? Hope? She was unmistakably a Peverell. She had the look of Gabriel's side of the family, a spectral beauty that was both delicate and unnervingly potent.

"Who are you?" the boy demanded, his voice a low hiss, his small body radiating an aura of barely contained violence.

Marcos ignored him for a moment, his gaze fixed on the girl. "You have been brought here," he said, his voice a calm baritone that seemed to absorb the tension in the room.

The girl nodded, her green eyes wide. "He called himself Death."

"He is my Master," Marcos replied simply, his gaze sweeping between the two of them. "And I am here to help. The ripples of your arrival have been felt. They will draw unwanted attention if you remain here. What are your names?"

"I'm Harry Potter," the girl said, her voice clear. She then gestured with a sardonic flick of her wrist towards the boy. "And this is Tom Riddle. He's the one who lives here."

At the use of his name, the boy's scowl deepened, his jaw tightening as a flash of pure fury ignited in his dark eyes.

Nodding, Marcos turned towards the door. "Wait here. Do not move from this room." His voice held a quiet authority that permitted no argument. He stepped out, closing the door behind him and moved silently down the hallway towards the administrative offices he had passed when entering the building. He found the matron, Mrs. Cole, in a small, cluttered office, hunched over a ledger. She looked up, startled, as he entered.

"Who are you? Visiting hours are over."

Marcos met her gaze, his own light blue eyes holding hers effortlessly. "I have some unfortunate news, Mrs. Cole. Tom Riddle is unwell, you will check on him in 30 minutes, only to find him dead. A tragedy." His voice was calm, persuasive, laced with a subtle compulsion that seeped into her mind like water into sand.

Mrs. Cole blinked, her expression shifting from fear to a flicker of relief. "Good riddance," she muttered, her voice low and venomous. "Devil's spawn, that one. Always knew something was wrong with him."

Marcos's expression hardened, a flicker of disgust, cold and sharp, flashing in his eyes. He had witnessed centuries of human folly, but the casual cruelty of the mundane towards the magical—especially a child, regardless of who he was—was a uniquely distasteful thing. He met her gaze again, his own eyes turning icy.

"You will not remember this conversation," he said, his voice a low, compelling whisper that slithered directly into her mind, overriding her own thoughts. "But you will remember to do as I have said. And you will feel an immense, gnawing self-loathing for how you treated him. It will be a constant companion for the rest of your miserable days."

He did not dignify her with another look, simply turning on his heel and leaving her to the task his magic had set for her. The official story, and a new, crushing guilt, were now her only thoughts.

He returned to the children's room as silently as he had left it. "The matron will check on the boy in half an hour, only to find him dead. A doctor will be called," Marcos explained. "But as we know, belief is not enough. They will need proof."

He approached Voldemort, who watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. With a movement too swift for the boy to counter, Marcos plucked a single dark hair from his head. The boy flinched back with a hiss, a flash of pure animal fury in his eyes at the uninvited physical contact. Ignoring the reaction, Marcos turned to the lumpy bed. He reached into an inner pocket of his dark robes and withdrew a small, limp form—a dead mouse. He placed both the hair and the mouse upon the thin, grey blanket.

"Watch," he commanded softly.

He leaned over the bed, placing a single finger on the mouse. He murmured a single word, a sibilant whisper that seemed to steal the warmth from the air. The room's temperature suddenly plummeted, oppressive cold, and the air grew thick with the scent of freshly turned soil and ozone. The shadows in the room writhed, drawn towards his hand. The mouse's small body began to stretch and contort unnaturally, melting into the hair beside it. Bones cracked and reformed, pale skin flowed out from the mutating mass, its form swelling and elongating until, in a matter of seconds, a perfect, lifeless replica of Tom Riddle lay on the bed. The golem was flawless to a mundane eye, though any wizard worth his salt would feel the wrongness of the magic clinging to it.

With an air of detached efficiency, Marcos arranged the golem’s limbs in a peaceful repose and pulled the thin blanket up to its chest. He turned back to the two children.

Harry looked horrified. She watched, her stomach churning, as Marcos reshaped the dead mouse into a flawless replica of the boy beside her. It was grotesque, a perversion of nature that the old Harry would have fought against instinctively. But beneath the horror was a morbid fascination overriding her initial disgust. This was not dark magic born of rage or fear, like the curses she knew. This was control. Absolute, dispassionate authority over the threshold she had just been forced to cross. It was elegant, precise, and terrifyingly efficient. And it resonated with the chilling new power humming in her own blood.

The boy's dark eyes, however, held a new gleam. He watched, not with a child’s horror, but with the keen, analytical eye of a master craftsman observing a superior technique. His own attempts at manipulating death had been brutal, messy affairs—the crude reanimation of corpses, his fumbling creation of Inferi that were little more than mindless, rotting puppets. That was a butcher's work. This, however, was artistry. This was elegant, precise necromancy. It was a clean, absolute command over the thresholds of life and death, a manipulation of form and essence that was as intellectually stimulating as it was powerful. This was true mastery, not a vulgar cheat.

"A temporary measure," Marcos stated, his voice calm as he brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his sleeve. He acknowledged their shocked expressions with a slight inclination of his head. "It will last long enough to fool a Muggle doctor. By the time the magic fades, Tom Riddle will have been buried, and you will be long gone from this place." He met their eyes, his own gaze steady and assessing. "My name is Marcos Peverell. As I said, I am a servant of Death, and he has sent me to you." He held out his hands. "It would seem we have much to discuss, and this is no place for it."

Harry, after a moment's hesitation, took a step forward. Voldemort remained where he was, his eyes narrowed, but the display of casual, potent necromancy had clearly altered his calculations. This was power he understood and respected. With a final, disdainful glance at the squalid room, the boy-who-was-Voldemort gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

Marcos placed a hand on each of their small shoulders. The world dissolved around them, not into the wrenching chaos of Apparition, but into a smooth, silent river of darkness. They were whisked away from the filth of the orphanage, bound for the ancient, windswept fortress that would become their sanctuary and their training ground: Peverell Castle.

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Chapter Text

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The journey was not like the violent, gut-wrenching squeeze of Apparition. It was a smooth, silent glide through an absolute and starless night. Harry felt a sense of profound dislocation, as if she were a mere thought traveling through the mind of a god. The oppressive stink of the orphanage vanished, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of salt and rain-soaked stone. When reality solidified around them, it did so with a gentle rush of sound and sensation.

They stood on a windswept cliff top overlooking a grey, churning sea. The small, rugged island was defined by its dark, rocky shores, pounded by white-capped waves, air was thick with the scent of brine and the constant roar of the ocean a primal, relentless symphony. At its highest point rested a stark, formidable keep, built of dark, sea-stained granite. Its silhouette was defiant and almost menacing against the turbulent grey sky.

Marcos gestured towards a narrow path of dark stone that wound its way up from their landing point towards the keep itself. A full moon broke through the turbulent grey clouds, bathing the island in a stark, ethereal light and allowing them to see the castle clearly. As he led them forward, the scale of the fortress became apparent, its walls seeming to rise endlessly into the night sky. The wind howled around them, but the path was shielded by subtle, invisible wards that lessened the gale's bite. Reaching the summit, they stood before a massive oak door, reinforced with black iron. “Welcome to Stonehaven Isle,” Marcos said, his voice carrying over the wind. “And welcome to Peverell Castle—the ancestral home of our line.” The door swung open at his approach, revealing a sheltered, cobbled central courtyard.

The space was protected from the worst of the sea winds, and within its formidable outer walls, a vibrant, if somewhat wild, garden flourished. Hardy, salt-resistant flowering shrubs bloomed in defiant splashes of colour—deep blues, purples, and resilient yellows. Tough grasses softened the edges of the flagstones, and a gnarled, ancient rowan tree stood sentinel in one corner, its berries a bright, cheerful red. A small, stone-lined pond’s surface was ruffled by the gentler breezes, and a patch of surprisingly green lawn completed this enclosed, secure space.

Stepping inside the main keep was like entering another world entirely. The immensely thick stone walls provided a profound sense of security and warmth that was so alien it was almost uncomfortable. Her entire life had been a series of temporary shelters—a cupboard, a school she was forced to leave every year, a tent in a frozen forest. This solid, unconditional safety felt like a language she didn't speak. She found herself clenching her hands, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. How could safety be so absolute? It felt like a trap, a gilded cage she hadn't yet identified.

Beautiful flagstone floors were polished to a high sheen and accented with enchanted, self-warming Art Deco rugs in rich jewel tones. Floating, softly glowing orbs of light illuminated the great hall, casting a warm and inviting glow that complemented the dramatic, ever-changing light flooding in from panoramic windows. These magically reinforced windows, dressed in sumptuous, deep velvet curtains, offered breathtaking, wild views of the surrounding sea. The air within was clean, smelling faintly of citrus polish and aged wood, a stark contrast to the grime they'd just left.

The main parlor featured a grand, roaring fire in its deep hearth. The old, sturdy oak and iron furnishings had been replaced with elegant, custom-made pieces. Richly upholstered armchairs and a sleek, polished mahogany dining table stood as centrepieces. The walls were adorned not with tapestries, but with a collection of elegant, moving magical portraits and captivating, shimmering sea- and skyscapes that subtly shifted with the time of day. A powerful, primal magic still thrummed through the stones, a sense of ancient blood magic now interwoven with sophisticated, modern enchantments.

Marcos led them into a large study, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with ancient-looking tomes. He gestured for them to sit in two high-backed armchairs before the fire as he took his place opposite them. Her shoulders, so used to being hunched in readiness for a blow or a curse, felt stiff and unnatural as she tried to relax in the plush armchair Marcos offered. She kept her back straight, a constant, unconscious effort to maintain the posture of readiness, even as her body craved to sink into the luxurious cushions.

“Now,” he began, his keen, light-blue eyes fixed on Harry. “Tell me everything. I must understand the full scope of Death’s intervention.”

Harry took a deep breath, the profound silence of the study a stark contrast to the screams and explosions of the time she had just left behind. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was flat and even, devoid of self-pity, as if she were dissecting a battle plan rather than recounting a lifetime of trauma. It was a chilling pragmatism, one born of survival. She unraveled the tapestry of her life, of being Harriet Potter, ‘The Girl Who Lived’, a title she loathed. She recounted the prophecy that had marked her from birth, her parents’ murder, and her delivery to the abusive Dursleys. She explained her decade of misery before discovering the wizarding world. The memories of the cupboard under the stairs, the sting of Vernon's belt, the constant gnawing hunger – they were raw, visceral, and made the opulence around her feel like a cruel joke.

She summarized the endless cycle of her Hogwarts years: facing him—she nodded her head towards the scowling boy—in some form year after year, the constant danger, the weight of expectations. She spoke of the second war, beginning in earnest with Cedric Diggory’s death, the Ministry’s denial, and the hunt for the Horcruxes, a desperate, stumbling chase across a war-torn country.

As she spoke of the Horcrux hunt Voldermort’s stony expression was a carefully constructed mask hiding a maelstrom of cold fury and analytical thought. He wasn't hearing a story of heroism; he was receiving a full accounting of his own strategic failures. Every destroyed anchor was a fresh sting of humiliation. He had considered his soul fragments to be fortresses, only to learn they had been undone by the bumbling efforts of children and the fickle nature of forgotten magic. He mentally catalogued each error, each vulnerability she unknowingly exposed. Her story was not a confession; it was an after-action report, and he was committing every detail to memory. This would not happen again. A muscle in his jaw twitched, almost imperceptibly, and his dark eyes, usually so still, held a burning intensity that spoke of suppressed rage.

Harry continued oblivious to the maelstrom in Voldermorts head, detailing the lies, promises and coercion of the locket and the misery of the tent, she slumped back in the grand armchair, running a hand through her unfamiliar hair in a gesture of pure exhaustion. The vestiges of Harry Potter, the hero, were eroding with every bitter word, leaving behind a stark, pragmatic survivor.

Marcos, observing both children with a detached keenness, noted the subtle signs of a predator re-evaluating its hunting strategy, even as a faint tremor ran through the boy's small hand, and girls the unconscious, weary slump. It was the posture of a soldier, not an heiress. So much to unlearn, to rebuild if they were going to succeed in this new life.

Finally, she arrived at the end. The Battle of Hogwarts, a frantic, bloody conflict that had consumed the last of her hope. She described finding Snape dying in the Shrieking Shack, and the memories he had given her. It was here her voice grew colder, the narrative sharpening to a razor’s edge. She detailed her viewing of the memories and finding out that Dumbledore knew all along that she was Voldemort’s Horcrux. She carefully omitted the part about Ron and Hermione, the betrayal too raw, too personal to share. Some heartbreaks were meant to be borne alone, a silent, festering wound that fueled her new resolve.

She recounted her meeting with Death in the white expanse of King’s Cross. She explained the stark clarity of her three choices: to move on, to return to the life of lies, or the third option. “Death offered a reset,” she explained, her gaze flicking to the boy, whose stony expression had not changed, though a new intensity burned in his eyes. “To send us both back. To restore your soul, save for the piece inside me, which would act as an anchor to drag us both through time.” Her voice became hollow. “I chose the third path, I let him kill me. I let our deaths trigger the bargain.”

As she finished her tale, a sense of dislocation took over. Who was she now. This new, younger body, its unfamiliar face and hair. “I don’t know who or what I am now. I only know I am not Harriet Potter anymore.”

The room was silent save for the crackling fire. Marcos leaned forward, his calm composure finally showing a crack. His gaze snapped to the boy, his eyes narrowed, truly seeing the child for the first time—not as a boy, but as the nascent form of the monster she described. "A Dark Lord," Marcos breathed, the words barely a whisper. The immense, off-the-charts power he had sensed from the orphanage, so jarring in a child's body, now made a terrifying kind of sense. This wasn't just a powerful boy; it was an aged, ambitious will crammed into a young vessel. His attention then sharpened on the most grotesque detail. "And Horcruxes? Plural?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "You did this to yourself more than once?"

The boy, who had listened to the entire tale with a chilling stillness, stiffened. “As many times as was necessary to conquer death,” he hissed, his voice thin but potent.

Marcos let out a breath, a sound of pure, clinical disgust. “Conquer it? You mutilated it. No wonder you were driven mad. Tearing one’s soul is not a path to power; it is a path to oblivion. It would have shattered your mind as surely as it shattered your spirit. You weren’t a god; you were a ghost screaming in the tatters of your own sanity.”

His gaze then softened, shifting to Harry with a new, horrified understanding. “And you carried this fragment for seventeen years? Do you... still carry it?” Harry just nodded, the single movement conveying a world of exhaustion. It was still there, a cold, familiar weight, a constant reminder of their grotesque bond.

Marcos leaned back, processing the sheer scale of the perversion she described. Finally, his eyes settled on her again. “You claim Death named you its ‘Chosen’, the ‘Master of the Hallows’. A title of immense opportunities, if true.” His voice wasn't accusatory, but a quiet challenge, a request for proof in the face of such an unbelievable story.

For the first time since she started speaking, a flicker of her old fire returned to Harry's eyes. Without a word, she closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of the crackling fire and the two intense wizards watching her. She reached out with her magic, not with a word, but with a feeling—a deep, resonant call of ownership, of belonging. She called for her gifts. The response was immediate. The simple grey travelling cloak she wore shimmered, the threads seeming to liquefy into liquid moonlight before coalescing again, settling on her shoulders with a familiar, weightless perfection. A soft clatter on the stone floor made her eyes snap open. There, at her feet, lay the Resurrection Stone, black and bound back in the Peverell ring, having materialized from the deepest shadows of the study.

Then, with a sound like a faint thunderclap that vibrated in their bones, the air before her tore open. But this time, it was a struggle. The Elder Wand, all fifteen inches of gnarled elder wood, fought her call. Instead of simply coming to her it tore through the veil of reality with a furious, unwilling wrench, its potent magic a palpable thrum of resistance, a scream against its forced departure from its previous allegiance. It shimmered, poised in the air, but it seemed to fight its own presence, vibrating with an angry reluctance.

Voldemort flinched, the stillness shattered. His eyes, burning with raw undiluted avarice, darted from the Cloak on her shoulders, to the Ring at her feet, and finally to the Wand that spun before her. He felt a phantom ache in his soul, the horrific memories of the tearing and pain he had endured. He had sacrificed his sanity, his very humanity for a crude, brutal form of immortality. He had murdered, schemed, and burned the world to conquer Death. And here, presented before him, were its true artifacts—its keys—answering the silent call of a girl who hadn't earned them, who couldn't possibly comprehend their significance. It wasn't just the wand. It was all of it. The ultimate mastery he had sought, achieved not through will and sacrifice, but through luck and a shared lineage. The injustice was a physical sickness, a coiling serpent of rage in his gut so potent it threatened to overwhelm his newfound composure.

The wand floated forward, coming to a halt before Harry. It did not offer itself to her hand. Instead, it pulsed with a cold, hungry power that leeched the warmth from the room. The force of its resistance to her summons was a stark confirmation: this was not a tool to be wielded, but a volatile entity that would forever demand a price. It was one of the many reasons she knew she could not keep it, could not truly use it. Harry felt a whisper then, of its consciousness brush against her own—and it was intoxicating. It didn't just promise power; it showed her visions. Dumbledore, kneeling, his eyes wide with shocked understanding of his own flawed plans. Ron and Hermione, their faces etched with the agony of her unforgiving scorn. It showed her a world where no one could ever betray her again, because they would be too terrified to dare. A world of absolute safety, bought with absolute power. It was seductive, and it was horrifying.

“No,” Marcos said, his voice sharp and low. He rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on the wand. “That is not a tool. It is a curse that tried to destroy my family. A beacon that has drawn power-hungry fools to their deaths for centuries. It reeks of blood and betrayal.”

“It is power,” Voldemort countered, his voice a furious hiss. He too had risen, his small form radiating an intense, covetous energy. “Power we will need. To leave it unclaimed is idiocy. It is hers. She should take it!”

“And become its next victim?” Harry shot back, her voice firm. She had seen firsthand the trail of destruction the wand had left in its wake. Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Voldemort himself—it had brought them all to ruin. “It doesn’t serve a master. It serves itself. It will bring nothing but war to our door.”

“We are already at war!” Voldemort snarled, taking a step forward. “A war for our very existence! You would throw away the greatest weapon ever created out of some misplaced sentimentality?”

“It is not sentimentality, it is pragmatism,” Marcos stated, stepping subtly between them, his calming presence a stark contrast to their fire. He addressed Harry, his voice even. “It cannot be destroyed. But it need not remain here. It can be returned.”

Harry looked from the treacherous wand to Voldemort’s furious face, and then to Marcos’s steady gaze. The choice was clear. She knew the catastrophic cost of this wand, recognized it as an unacceptable liability.

“Send it back,” she said, her voice ringing with finality.

Voldemort looked as if she had physically struck him, his face contorted with disbelief and rage, but he remained silent, seething, the memory of the wand's betrayal of him still fresh in his mind.

Nodding, Marcos gestured for Harry to join him. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she placed her hand on his. Together, they focused their will, Harry felt a sharp pang of loss, a phantom ache for the absolute security the wand had offered. It was the siren song of ultimate control, and turning away from it was a conscious, painful act of will. It was the first choice she had made in this new life, a choice to reject the very kind of power that had ruined her past life. With a silent implosion and a rush of cold air, the Elder Wand vanished, the space it had occupied now utterly empty. The oppressive atmosphere in the study lifted instantly.

Harry let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her gaze fell to the Peverell ring at her feet. She picked it up, the stone cold against her skin. She walked over to Voldemort, who was still rigid with fury, and held it out to him.

“Here,” she said quietly. “A gift from Cadmus to his descendant.”

He stared at the ring in her palm, his lip curling in disdain. “What use have I for shades? The dead are dead. Their counsel is for the weak.”

His rejection was cold, absolute. Harry pulled her hand back, a flicker of her old frustration rising before she quelled it. She turned and walked to Marcos, holding out the ring to him instead. “Then it should remain with the head of the house,” she said. “A family heirloom.”

Marcos looked at the ring, then at her. He saw the gesture for what it was—an offering of trust, an acknowledgement of kin after the boy's cold refusal. But he also saw the strategic wisdom in it. By placing it in his care, she was removing a piece from the board, preventing it from becoming a source of future conflict between them. It was a gesture of both family and shrewd politics. He accepted it, his long fingers closing around the ancient artifact. “I will keep it safe,” he said, his voice imbued with a new warmth. “For the family.”

With the Hallows dealt with, a sense of grim purpose settled. Marcos took a deep, steadying breath. "What you have described is a world best left behind. The people in it are nothing but ghosts and echoes now." His voice was firm, drawing a line under their shared past. "From this moment, we focus only on what is to come. On creating your new lives."

His gaze softened as he looked at Harry, a new purpose in his eyes. “We will start with you. It is no coincidence, I think, that you have been given this form. You resemble my cousin, Gabriel,” he said softly. “His daughter was to be named Ariela. He and his wife, Elladora, were lost, stuck from life by Grindelwald’s forces. It is believed that the babe was lost with them.”

He rose and retrieved a small, ornate silver box from the mantelpiece. From it, he took a ceremonial dagger with a black, obsidian blade and a small, blank square of parchment. “A simple magical heritage spell,” he explained. “It will only show magical lineage. A drop of blood from each of you.”

He approached Ari first. She held out her hand without hesitation. Marcos made a small, painless incision on her fingertip, squeezing a single drop of crimson blood onto the parchment. The blood swirled, then resolved itself into elegant, flowing script.

Ariela Amalthea Peverell
Born: 1 May 1927
Father: Gabriel Ignotus Peverell
Mother: Elladora Cassiopeia Peverell (née Black)

Ari stared at the parchment, the name a strange echo of a life she hadn’t lived, yet one that was now irrevocably hers. Harry Potter was a ghost, a memory best left in her past. She was now Ariela.

Marcos then turned to the boy, who watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. He endured the prick of the dagger with a flinch of annoyance, his drop of blood hitting the parchment with an almost audible hiss.

Tom Marvolo Riddle
Born: 31 December 1926
Father: [Blank]
Mother: Merope Gaunt

The boy’s lip curled in disgust at the sight of the blank space where his father’s name should be—a clear, damning indicator of non-magical blood. It was a visceral reaction of pure loathing.

“So,” Marcos said, returning to his seat. “We have our foundation. Ariela Peverell, whose family was thought lost, has returned to claim her birthright. But Tom Riddle, now that he is ‘dead', must cease to exist.”

Voldemort who spoke then, his voice cold and precise, laced with the foresight of a Dark Lord. “The Riddles must be eliminated. Every trace of them. No one can ever know of my Muggle paternity.” His gaze flickered to Marcos. “And the Gaunts. Morfin is still alive in Azkaban I believe. He is a link that must also be severed. It would be inefficient to leave him as a loose end.”

The casual, ruthless pragmatism of the statement sent a chill down Ari’s spine, and she felt herself recoil, a barely perceptible tightening in her shoulders. But as she saw the raw, self-hating fury in Voldemort’s eyes—the same fury she had seen fester and grow into a war that had destroyed her world, and an idea took root.

“A sound strategy,” Marcos agreed, his expression unreadable. He looked at Marvolo, a new level of respect in his eyes. He then offered a solution. “Your identity can be reshaped. Since I am currently unmarried,” he paused, his gaze thoughtful, “we will create a narrative that Merope Gaunt and I had a brief, clandestine marriage, a hurried betrothal to strengthen the Peverell and Slytherin lines.…”

“No,” Ariela interrupted, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the room. Both males turned to look at her, surprised by the sudden interjection. “That won’t be enough. A story of a clandestine marriage is weak. It can be questioned, investigated. His parentage will always be a vulnerability.” She looked directly at Voldemort, her green eyes piercing. “Your greatest weakness in my time, the one that Dumbledore used against you, the one that fuelled your rage, was not your power. It was your name. Your shame over your Muggle father. It was a poison that you let fester until it consumed you.”

Marvolo’s face contorted into a mask of pure fury at her words, at the audacity of her to voice his deepest shame. A wave of his anger washed over her, and she flinched as her scar throbbed, but she did not look away.

“If you are to lead in this world,” she continued, her voice gaining strength, “if you are to build the new order you spoke of, you cannot have such a flaw in your foundation. You must be untouchable. You must be a pure-blood.” She then turned her gaze to Marcos. “A blood adoption. It’s the only way. You must adopt him not just in name, but in blood. Make him your son. Make him a Peverell.”

The suggestion hung in the air, audacious and brilliant. Marcos stared at her, his initial surprise shifting to respect. He had seen a soldier, a survivor. Now he saw a strategist. He had planned to offer a political solution; she had provided a magical one that was infinitely more powerful and permanent.

The boy’s dark eyes gleamed with a sudden, intense light. He was seething that she had seen his weakness so clearly, but he could not deny the logic of her plan. To be reborn, not just in time, but in blood. To have the name Peverell along with Slytherin, a name far more ancient and powerful than Malfoy or Black. To erase the stain of the Riddle name forever. It was a prize beyond imagining.

“Marvolo,” he said, his voice a low, decisive whisper, claiming the name for himself. “For my mother’s line. And Cadmus for my first Peverell ancestor who mastered Death.” He looked at Marcos, his gaze a challenge. “I will be Marvolo Cadmus Peverell,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Marcos, recognizing the unyielding will in the boy’s eyes, gave a single, decisive nod. "So it shall be."

With their new names and futures decided, a different tension entered the room. Marvolo’s gaze lingered on Marcos. “You are the head of the Peverell family, are you not?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual. “You are the eldest living Peverell. Why have you not claimed the Peverell Lordship for yourself?”

Marcos met his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. “My life is in Spain, Marvolo,” he replied, his voice calm. "I am the Duque of Valdemoraz," he stated, a quiet authority in his voice. "A British lordship holds little use for one who is already a Duke in a land of ancient magic and sun." “I have no interest in English Wixen politics. Once the threat of Grindelwald has passed, I will return to my home. It is only right that Ariela is able to claim the Peverell Lordship when she comes of age, should she choose to. As for the House of Peverell, I remain its head, lordship or no.”

Marcos’s gaze then shifted to Ari, his expression analytical, recalling the way she had slumped in the grand armchair. “Ariela,” he began, his voice losing its gentle tone and taking on a more instructive edge. “There is another matter. Your heritage is now secured by blood and magic, but that is only the beginning. To take your place as Heiress Peverell, you must not only have the name, but the bearing.”

Ari looked at him, confused.

“Your upbringing,” Marcos clarified, his gaze unflinching, a hint of his earlier observation returning. “It is evident you were not raised in a household of our station. Your posture, your mannerisms, they are unrefined.”

Marvolo made a soft noise of agreement, a disdainful sniff that was more eloquent than words. "She comports herself like a muggle," he stated coolly, not bothering to look at her. "It is glaringly obvious."

The casual dismissal stung, but Ari couldn’t deny the truth in it. She’d never had to consider how she sat, or which fork to use, or how to address a Lord of an Ancient House. Such things had been an entirely different world from the cupboard under the stairs or the Gryffindor common room.

“The political landscape you are about to enter is a battlefield of its own,” Marcos continued. “One where a misplaced word or a gesture of disrespect can be as fatal as any curse. Your education in pureblood customs, traditions, and etiquette will begin immediately. It is as vital to your survival as any magical training.”

Ari looked from Marcos’s steady gaze to Marvolo’s condescending smirk and felt a familiar surge of defiant fire. She had been talked about and talked at for long enough. She took a deep breath, pushing down the last vestiges of the broken girl from the King's Cross station, and met their eyes with a cold, hard resolve.

"Before we go any further," she began, her voice quiet but ringing with an authority that made both of them pause. "We need to set some ground rules."

She turned to Marvolo first. "I made a choice. I brought us here to give us both a new life, a better one. I will not stand in the way of you securing your future. The plan for the Riddles... it's necessary. I accept that." The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. "But if we are to have any chance at a future that isn't a repeat of the past, things have to change between us. This," she gestured between the two of them, "cannot be a war. No more murder attempts. No more trying to take over my mind. And no more torture. No more Crucios."

Marvolo’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering them. But before he could speak, Ari pressed on, her gaze unwavering. "We are bound together, whether we like it or not. I have no interest in being your enemy, but I will not be your victim either."

A tense silence filled the room. Marvolo studied her, his head tilted in that unnervingly serpentine way. "The circumstances of our previous encounters were... unique," he finally said, his voice a low, silken whisper. "My sanity was compromised by the mutilation of my soul. I was less than whole." It was the closest he would ever come to an admission of fault, let alone an apology. "I have no desire to relive those failures. As long as you do not actively work against me, I am willing to consider this a partnership."

"An alliance," Ari corrected, her voice firm. "Partnership implies a level of trust we have not earned."

"An alliance, then," he conceded, a flicker of something almost like respect in his cold eyes.

Ari then turned her attention to Marcos. "And you. I appreciate what you are doing for us. But we are not children, no matter what these bodies look like. Although my soul is only seventeen, I have spent the last year fighting a war. His," she gestured to Marvolo, "well aside from being taped back together, is in its seventies. We would both appreciate it if you would treat us as such."

Marcos leaned back in his chair, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. It transformed his handsome features, erasing some of the weariness from his eyes. "I assure you, Ariela, I have no interest in raising children. I will offer guidance, protection, and knowledge. The rest is up to you." His smile faded, replaced by a look of stern purpose. "But on that note, do not forget why Death sent you to me. You both have the potential for necromancy, a power that has all but vanished from this world. I expect you both to dedicate yourselves to mastering the craft. Such a gift cannot be squandered."

Their new reality was beginning to take shape. They were no longer Harry and Voldemort, two sides of a prophesied war. They were Ari and Marvolo Peverell, heirs to an ancient and shadowed legacy, their futures intertwined by a bond of soul and a shared, terrifying purpose. The air in the study crackled with unspoken agreements and dark potential.

Marcos clapped his hands once, a sharp, decisive sound that echoed in the quiet study. With twin pops, two small, wizened figures appeared. One was a female house elf with large, empathetic eyes and a neatly tied scarf; the other was a male, slightly taller and more stern-looking, wearing a clean, simple tunic. “Ariela, Marvolo,” Marcos announced, gesturing to each elf in turn. “These are Styx and Lethe. Lethe will be your personal aide, Ariela. Styx, you are assigned to Marvolo. They will assist you with your daily needs and see to your comfort here at Stonehaven. They are bound to our family and will obey your commands as they would mine.”

Lethe curtsied low, her big eyes looking up at Ari with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. Ari felt a jolt of discomfort. She wasn't used to being served, and the creature's deference felt unearned and strange. She offered a small, hesitant smile in return. Styx, however, gave a stiff, formal bow, his gaze sweeping over Marvolo with an unreadable expression. Marvolo did not smile. He simply gave a slow, deliberate blink, an almost reptilian acknowledgement of service. He was already a lord, and Styx was merely a part of his new estate.

“Lethe, if you please, show Ariela to her chambers,” Marcos instructed. “And Styx, escort Marvolo to his. They are both doubtless exhausted.”

Lethe beamed, her scarf bobbing. “This way, Mistress Ariela! Lethe has made your rooms ready, so she has!”

Ari nodded, a strange mix of apprehension and relief washing over her. She followed the small elf out of the study, leaving Marvolo and Styx behind. Lethe led her through hushed corridors, where soft, enchanted lights glowed from sconces carved into the stone. They ascended a wide, curving staircase, the polished steps warm beneath her feet.

Lethe threw open a heavy, wooden door, revealing a room that took Ari’s breath away. It was vast, yet cozy, with panoramic windows offering a breathtaking view of the churning sea under the moonlight. A four-poster bed, draped in rich blue velvet, dominated one wall, and a large, roaring fireplace cast a warm glow across the elegant furnishings. There was a private sitting area, a writing desk, and a door that Lethe indicated led to a private bathroom.

“Lethe has laid out fresh sleeping robes, Mistress Ariela,” the elf chirped, pointing to a pile of soft fabric on the bed. “And a bath is drawn if you wish it. Just ring the bell for anything you need.”

Ari, still absorbing the opulence, managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Lethe. It’s… wonderful.”

Meanwhile, Marvolo nodded his acceptance to Marcos and following after Ari, let Styx him to his own set of chambers, two doors down from Ari’s. His room was equally grand, but with a more austere, masculine feel. Dark, polished wood and deep greys dominated the decor. Marvolo surveyed the space with a critical eye, already mentally cataloging its potential uses. The large, leaded windows offered a similar sweeping view of the wild, moonlit sea.

“Styx will be discreet, Master Marvolo,” the elf stated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “My duties are to your comfort and your privacy. Anything you require, you need only state it.”

Marvolo simply nodded, his mind already spinning with the implications of his new identity and the political power he would so easily wield. He dismissed Styx with a curt gesture, then walked to the window, gazing out at the endless expanse of the ocean. He was no longer Tom Riddle, a half-blood orphan. He was Marvolo Cadmus Peverell, and the world would soon learn his name.

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Meanwhile, Elsewhere...

Potter Manor, England

Charlus Potter, home for the Yule break halfway through his second year at Hogwarts, was enjoying a rare moment of quiet. He was in his room, meticulously polishing his new broomstick, the moonlight streaming through the large bay window of his ancestral home. His Hogwarts trunk lay open at the foot of his bed, its contents a familiar jumble of textbooks, half-finished essays, and quidditch gear. Tucked away in a false bottom, a secret passed down from his father, lay the family’s most treasured heirloom: a silvery, ethereal cloak that felt like woven water to the touch. He’d only used it for a few minor pranks at school, but its presence was a constant, reassuring weight.

Suddenly, a wisp of grey smoke curled up from the corner of the trunk. Charlus frowned, sniffing the air for the smell of something burning. He saw another curl of smoke, thicker this time, rising from the false bottom. Alarmed, he dropped his polishing cloth and scrambled to the trunk, prying open the hidden compartment.

He stared in disbelief. The Invisibility Cloak, his family’s legacy for generations, was dissolving. The shimmering fabric was unraveling into thick, oily smoke that coiled in the air for a moment before vanishing into nothingness. He lunged for it, his fingers grasping at empty air as the last silvery thread evaporated, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and a profound, inexplicable sense of loss.

Azkaban Fortress, The North Sea

In the deepest, most secure level of Azkaban, a grimy, forgotten locker held the personal effects of inmate #345, Morfin Gaunt. The contents were meager: a tattered set of robes, an old wand, and a single, ugly ring made of what looked like tarnished gold, bearing a crudely etched stone. It lay inside a rust-flecked metal box.

No human eye saw the change. In the crushing, soul-leeching silence of the prison, a thin tendril of black smoke seeped from the corner of the box. The air grew impossibly cold, and the very stone of the floor seemed to groan. Inside the box, the black stone of the Peverell ring began to smolder. It did not burn, but rather un-made itself, the stone and its gold setting dissolving into a plume of dense, shadow-black smoke. The smoke swirled once, like a sigh of relief, and then dissipated, leaving the box, and Morfin Gaunt’s legacy, utterly empty.

Nurmengard Castle, Austria

The grand hall of Nurmengard was packed to the rafters with Gellert Grindelwald’s most fervent followers welcoming in the new year. They were a sea of upturned, adoring faces, bathed in the harsh, magical light that illuminated the central dais. At its center stood Grindelwald himself, a figure of charismatic fury, his mismatched eyes blazing with power. Before him, a kneeling man trembled, a failed subordinate who had dared to question his strategy.

“Doubt,” Grindelwald’s voice boomed, magically amplified to fill the cavernous space, “is the seed of betrayal. It is a weed that must be torn out by the root, lest it choke the life from our glorious cause!”

He raised his wand—the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the symbol of his invincibility. It hummed with power, eager to obey. A sickly green light began to gather at its tip, the unmistakable precursor to the killing curse. The crowd held its breath, caught in the terrifying spectacle of their leader’s absolute power.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he snarled, pointing the wand at the man’s heart. “Avada—”

He never finished the word.

The wand in his hand suddenly went limp, the gathering green light extinguishing with a pathetic fizz. Grindelwald stared at it in shock. The ancient, gnarled wood was visibly decomposing, turning into a stream of thick, white smoke that poured from his hand like sand from an hourglass. His followers gasped, a wave of confusion and horror rippling through the hall.

He clenched his fist, trying to stop the impossible, but the smoke merely flowed through his fingers. Within seconds, the most powerful wand in existence had dissolved into nothing. Gellert Grindelwald stood on the dais, his arm outstretched, his hand completely, humiliatingly empty. The silence in the hall was absolute, broken only by the whimpering of the man he had failed to kill. The symbol of his power was gone, and in its place, a seed of doubt had just been planted in a thousand minds.

His eyes, usually blazing with fanaticism, narrowed in suspicion, this was no accident. Someone, or something, was interfering with destiny and he would find out who.

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Chapter Text

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On the first morning, Ari stood before the large, ornate mirror in her new bathroom, her hands braced on the cool marble sink. She stared at the stranger looking back at her. This wasn’t like Marvolo, who was simply a younger version of a face he had once known. This face was entirely new. Delicate, ethereal, with high cheekbones and a porcelain complexion that seemed to glow with an inner light. The hair was the most jarring part—long, straight, and the colour of moonlight, a stark silver-blonde that felt utterly alien.

She leaned closer, searching for any trace of the girl she had been. And there, amidst the sea of foreign features, were the two constants of her existence. Her eyes, the same startling, Avada Kedavra green as her mother's, stared back, haunted and old. And above them, a faint, silvery slash on her brow—the lightning bolt scar that had defined her from birth. They were the only remnants of Harriet Potter.

The heartbreak of her old life, the raw, bleeding wound of betrayal, washed over her with a sudden, suffocating intensity. Ron. Hermione. Dumbledore. Their faces swam in her vision, their betrayal a poison that had burned away everything she once was. She couldn't go back. She couldn't be that person anymore. That person was a fool, a pawn, a lamb raised for slaughter.

Tears she didn't know she had left to cry welled in her eyes. She thought of her parents, of Sirius, their smiling, proud faces in the forest. I'm sorry, she thought, the words a silent, aching apology directed at their memory. I'm so sorry. I have to work with him. With your murderer. It's the only way. I have to live. It was a desperate, selfish choice, and the guilt was a heavy stone in her chest. But it was a choice she had to make.

With a final, shuddering breath, she met the gaze of the stranger in the mirror. She made a decision. Harriet Potter died at the Battle of Hogwarts. She was a ghost, a memory to be locked away. From this moment on, there was only Ariela Peverell.

She squared her shoulders, the simple act feeling monumental. The grief was still there, a cold, hard knot in her gut, but now it was overlaid with a fragile, sharp layer of resolve. This was her new life, and she would not be a pawn in this one.

The first week at Peverell Castle was a disorienting blend of profound luxury and quiet dread. The ancient magic of the castle wrapped around her like a protective embrace, but the comfort itself was a source of anxiety. For someone so used to being on guard, to sleeping with one eye open, the profound quiet and comfort was unnerving. After a life spent in a cupboard, a drafty dormitory, and a damp tent, the constant warmth and opulent silence felt like a trap. Ari would jolt awake in the middle of the night, her heart pounding, expecting the cold floorboards of Privet Drive, the chill of a dungeon or the hard ground of the Forest of Dean, only to find herself tangled in sheets of impossibly soft linen. Her meals were another source of jarring comfort. Whenever she felt the slightest pang of hunger, the house-elf Lethe would appear with a quiet pop, carrying a silver tray laden with food more delicious than anything Ari had ever tasted. The little elf would place the meal on a small table in the sitting room with a reverent bow, her large, empathetic eyes shining with a desire to please that made Ari's stomach clench with discomfort.

Her relationship with the two men in her life settled into a strange, new dynamic. Marvolo was a coiled serpent, accepting the opulent surroundings as his long-overdue birthright. He moved through the castle with an unnerving entitlement, his posture already that of a lord surveying his domain. Ari watched during their first breakfast as he addressed the house-elf Styx not with a request, but with a quiet, firm command for a different type of tea, his tone leaving no room for anything but immediate obedience. He belonged here. Ari, on the other hand, felt like an imposter.

Marcos was a constant, steadying presence, and that, more than anything, set her teeth on edge. He began her education immediately, and their lessons took place over breakfast. “An heiress does not slouch, Ariela,” he said gently on the third morning, his light-blue eyes kind but observant. “Spine straight, shoulders back. It is a projection of confidence.” Ari straightened reflexively, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. “Better,” Marcos approved with a warm smile. “You are a quick study. I saw you in the library yesterday. You were reading about ancient warding schemes. I thought you might find this interesting.” He slid a slim, leather-bound book across the polished table. It was titled The Invisible Walls: A Peverell Treatise on Blood Wards and Familial Magic.

A wave of suspicion washed over Ari, so intense it was almost nauseating. A gift. Praise followed by a gift. The pattern was horribly familiar. Dumbledore’s eyes had twinkled in just the same way before he’d asked her to risk her life, before he’d sent her off on another deadly errand. Kindness, in her experience, was currency. It was payment for a service she had not yet been asked to render. She stared at the book, her mind racing. What does he want? What is this book meant to prepare me for? What is the price?

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice tight. She pulled the book towards her, her fingers tracing the tooled leather, but she didn’t open it. She could feel Marcos’s gaze on her, but it wasn't one of disappointment, but of quiet, thoughtful assessment. He saw the way her hand hesitated before taking the book, the flicker of deep-seated mistrust in her eyes that was gone as quickly as it came. He saw a child who had been taught that every gift has a price. He didn't push, simply giving a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his breakfast, allowing her the space to process. He was beginning to understand that rebuilding the Peverell line would involve more than lessons in etiquette; it would mean mending a heart that had been deliberately broken.

This internal war, coupled with the cold knot of anxiety that sat permanently in her stomach, left her feeling hollowed out. The plan they had laid out in the study—the cold, calculated eradication of the Riddles and Morfin Gaunt—played on a loop in her mind. It was murder. The Harry she had been would have fought it with every fibre of her being. But that Harry was a ghost. Her mind conjured an image of the Dursleys, their sneering faces, their casual cruelty. The Riddles had done the same. And Morfin Gaunt, from what she knew, was a monster in his own right. They were not innocents. They were people who threw their own family away. The jaded, betrayed creature that now inhabited her body saw the grim logic of the act. To build a new future, the foundations of the old had to be ground to dust. She accepted it, but the acceptance tasted like ash in her mouth. She sought refuge in the castle's vast library, the only place where the silence felt like a comfort rather than a threat.

Marvolo had claimed a corner of the library as his own, devouring books on obscure and dark magic with an insatiable hunger. He rarely spoke to Ari, but she always felt his eyes on her. His gaze was a heavy, proprietary weight, a constant reminder of the soul-deep bond that tied them together. He did not see himself as her fellow conspirator; instead he saw himself as her keeper.

On their third night at Stonehaven, he cornered her between shelves of books on elemental magic. “You are weak,” he stated, his dark eyes boring into her. His voice was a low whisper, but it carried the chilling authority she remembered so well.

A sarcastic laugh escaped Ari’s lips. “Weak? That’s rich coming from you.” She met his glare without flinching, a defiant spark in her green eyes. “Let’s tally it up, shall we? You, a supposed Dark Lord, and me, a ‘weak’ girl. I seem to recall defeating you as a baby, then again in a graveyard, and again at the Ministry. And correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it me who had to let you kill me just to get us here? If I’m so weak, what, precisely, does that make you?”

The air in the library crackled, the soft light from the floating orbs flickering as raw, untamed magic poured off Marvolo in waves. His face, for a moment, contorted into a mask of pure fury, the face of Lord Voldemort. A childish hand raised, a finger twitching, and Ari felt the phantom promise of a wandless Crucio so intensely it made her own magic surge in defence. But then, with a monumental effort of will, he mastered himself. The rage was leashed, pulled back from the brink, his expression smoothing into one of cold, dangerous clarity.

“You are a blunt instrument,” he hissed, taking a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “You survived on luck and the sacrifices of others. Your magical core is a tempest, barely contained. You have immense power, but no control. No discipline.” He leaned in, his dark eyes glinting. “Marcos can teach you of history and the dead. I will teach you how to fight. How to win. You are my Horcrux. Your power is an extension of my own, and your weakness is an insult to my immortality. I will not have my existence anchored to a flawed, second-rate vessel.”

His possessive words, the casual claim of ownership, were a spark on dry tinder. The years of being a tool, a symbol, a thing to be used and sacrificed by others, erupted in a blaze of furious defiance.

“I am not an extension of you!” she snarled, her voice low and shaking with a rage that was entirely her own. “I am not a vessel, or a shield, or your Horcrux. I am a person, and I do not belong to you. I will never belong to you.”

Marvolo's face held a flicker of cold, dangerous amusement. “Belonging is not a matter of choice,” he whispered. He didn’t raise his hand. He didn’t need to. With a flick of his eyes and a silent, wandless curse, Ari’s legs buckled beneath her. She cried out, more in shock than pain, as an invisible force slammed her to her knees on the hard stone floor.

He looked down at her, his expression one of absolute, unassailable superiority. “You are powerful, Ariela. But I am stronger. You are a tempest, but I am the storm that directs it. You will learn control. You will learn discipline. You will learn your place.” He held her there for a long, humiliating moment, pinned by his will alone. Then, just as silently as it had been cast, the curse was lifted.

Ari scrambled to her feet, her body trembling with a mixture of fury and shame. He hadn’t even needed a wand. The effortless dominance of the display was a more potent argument than any words. He was right, compared to him, she was weak. And her weakness was a liability she could no longer afford. With a curt, jerky nod, a gesture of submission born not of concession but of cold, hard defeat, she would accept his tutelage. Their lessons would begin as soon as they got new wands, no doubt they were going to be brutal, exhausting sessions where he would push her magical endurance to its limits, forcing her to embrace the darkness she had always fought. The thought made her feel both scared and exhilarated.

The next morning over breakfast, it was Ari who broke the tense silence. “We need wands,” she stated, her voice flat as she looked at Marcos. “Marvolo can’t teach me to duel properly with wandless magic, and it’s foolish for either of us to be without one.”

Marvolo made a soft noise of agreement. “She is correct. While my control is, of course, impeccable, it is inefficient. And she is utterly defenseless. We must rectify this.”

Marcos took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes assessing them both over the rim of his cup. “An astute point. You are right. To be without a wand is to be vulnerable, and we are anything but.” He set his cup down with a soft click. "We will rectify the issue today before we can move ahead with the next stage of the plan. And we will acquire new wardrobes while we are at it. You cannot present yourselves to the world in these grey basics."

He took them not to Diagon Alley, but to Madrid. The journey involved a series of dizzying Apparitions, ending in a sun-drenched, normal-looking plaza. Marcos led them to a wall adorned with a vibrant mosaic of a flamenco dancer. He pushed his magic into a specific blue tile, and the mosaic shimmered, the tiles rearranging themselves to form an archway. They stepped through into El Nido Escondido—The Hidden Nest.

It was an assault on the senses, a world away from the orderly, almost sterile propriety of Diagon Alley. The air was warm and smelled of orange blossoms, cinnamon, roasted nuts, and a kind of wild, untamed magic that tasted of ozone and hot sand. The street was not a straight, sensible lane, but a narrow, winding alley paved with colourful, mismatched tiles that formed a chaotic, beautiful pattern underfoot. Wrought-iron balconies overflowed with magical flora that shimmered and changed colour in the sunlight—vines that dripped with glowing, star-shaped flowers, and potted cacti that hummed with a low, magical energy. Small, brightly-coloured lizards with iridescent scales skittered up the stucco walls, their eyes glowing like tiny embers. The sounds were a vibrant cacophony: the passionate strumming of an enchanted guitar from an unseen courtyard, the hiss and crackle of a potion being brewed in an open-fronted apothecary, the haggling voices of witches and wizards arguing in rapid-fire Spanish, and the cooing of strange, brightly-plumed birds perched on the rooftops. The magic here felt older, more passionate and elemental than the stuffy, commercial magic of Britain. It was a place of life, of noise, of unapologetic vibrancy.

Marcos first led them to a boutique called ‘El Telar de las Estrellas’ - The Loom of the Stars. The shop was elegant and understated, the interior draped in rich fabrics. The tailor, a tall, severe-looking man named Mateo, assessed them with a critical eye.

"They require new wardrobes," Marcos stated simply.

Mateo's eyes swept over Ari, taking in her silver-blonde hair and pale skin. “For the señorita, colours of the jewel. Sapphire, amethyst, emerald… The cuts must be elegant, flowing. Nothing that will encumber her.”

Ari, used to the shapeless hand-me-downs of Dudley and the drab functionality of school robes, felt a strange thrill. This was a chance to define herself, to create a new skin. She deliberately avoided blacks, the colour of her past grief and mourning. Instead, she chose robes of deep sapphire that made her eyes seem greener, rich plums, shimmering silver, and a soft dove grey for everyday wear. For formal robes, she selected a shade of silver-green that shimmered like dragon scales, and emerald green which almost matched her eyes. They were subtle but rich, the very antithesis of the practical, unassuming clothes she had always worn.

Marvolo, in contrast, knew exactly what he wanted. He moved through the fabrics with an air of absolute authority. "Acromantula silk," he specified, his voice cold and precise. "For my formal robes. Black. The everyday wear will be in the darkest charcoal and navy. The cut must be sharp, severe. Nothing less than perfect." Mateo nodded, his respect for the boy’s unnerving certainty palpable. This was not a child choosing clothes; it was a lord commissioning his armour.

Leaving the tailor with their measurements and a heavy pouch of Galleons, Marcos then took them to the wandmaker's shop, a heavy, carved wooden door depicting a dragon coiled around an apple tree. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of strange herbs and polished wood. The wandmaker was a woman named Carmen Vidalbosque, ancient and reclusive, with eyes as black as obsidian that seemed to see right through them.

“Marcos Peveral,” she rasped, her obsidian eyes crinkling at the corners in a rare show of warmth. “It has been too long. The years are kind to you, my friend. Or perhaps your Master is simply slowing your passage through them. I, unfortunately, am not so lucky.” Her gaze drifted to the two children standing silently beside him. “And you bring a strange vintage to my door today. Two very old souls in tiny new bottles.”

A genuine smile touched Marcos’s lips, a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanour. “Carmen, my dear, you are as timeless as the wood you shape. And you know I only bring you the most interesting challenges.”

She led them to a workbench where dozens of lengths of unstained, unworked woods were laid out. “A wand is more than wood and core. It is an extension of the soul. Your magic must choose its vessel. Hold your hand over the woods. See which calls to you.”

Ari hesitantly reached out. As her hand passed over a pale, silvery-white length of Rowan, she felt a distinct warmth, a hum of energy that resonated with her own. The wood seemed to brighten under her touch. “This one,” she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty.

Marvolo stepped forward, his movements precise. His hand swept over the woods with disdain until it paused over a piece of dark, rich Yew. The wood seemed to absorb the light around it, and Ari felt a familiar chill in the air. A cruel, satisfied smile touched his lips. “This one.”

“As I expected,” Carmen murmured, setting the chosen woods aside. She then brought out a velvet-lined tray displaying numerous crystal vials, each containing a single, suspended wand core. “Now, the heart of the wand.”

As Ari’s hand moved over the tray, a vial containing a single, shimmering black strand of Thestral tail hair began to vibrate, emitting a low, mournful hum. At the same time, another vial, this one containing a shard of iridescent Unicorn Horn, began to emit a soft, golden light, pulsing with a gentle warmth. Carmen’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Duality,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe. “Death and Life. The guardian of the veil and the champion of the living. A rare and powerful balance.”

“This is very different from my first time,” Ari commented quietly, thinking of the chaotic explosion of sparks in Ollivander’s dusty shop. “He just had me try wands until one chose me.”

Carmen made a soft, dismissive sound, a puff of air that spoke volumes. “Ollivander is nowadays more a shopkeeper, not a true craftsman. He matches wixen with wands that he or his family has already made. It is an efficient model for the masses, I will grant him that. But it is not true wandcraft.” Her obsidian eyes fixed on Ari, sharp and discerning. “He does not personalize the wand to the witch or wizard. A pre-made wand cannot account for the nuances of a soul, especially not one as complex as yours. For most, his wands are adequate. For the powerful, they are inferior things, a butter knife for magic that requires a scalpel.”

Marvolo made a soft noise of agreement, a cool, condescending sound. “If that is true, then it explains a great deal about the mediocrity of British wizardry,” he stated, his voice laced with the quiet authority of his former self. “Arming the populace with little more than magical trinkets and then wonder why they are so easily led.”

His turn was less nuanced. His hand went directly to a vial containing a splinter of Horned Serpent horn, which glowed with a cunning, intelligent light. As it did, a nearby vial holding a single, dark red Dragon heartstring began to smoulder, the glass misting over from the sudden heat. “Ambition and raw, untamed power,” Carmen observed, her voice tinged with reverence and fear. “A conqueror’s choice.”

She gathered the chosen materials. "To blend such cores is a delicate art. It will take time. Return at sunset."

With their wands commissioned, Marcos led them to an open-air restaurant called 'El Candil del Basajaun'. It was perched on a wide balcony overlooking the bustling alley below, with enchanted breezes keeping the midday heat at bay. Marcos ordered for them in fluent, rapid-fire Spanish, and soon their table was covered in small, colourful plates of tapas. There were sizzling gambas al ajillo, patatas bravas with a spicy, enchanted sauce that smoked gently, and small, savoury tarts filled with what Marcos explained was a type of magical mushroom that enhanced one's senses for a short time. For Ari, used to the bland, heavy fare of the Dursleys and even the repetitive menus at Hogwarts, the vibrant, complex flavours were a revelation.

Marcos then led them to a bookstore called 'El Laberinto de Papel'—The Labyrinth of Paper. It was a chaotic, multi-levelled maze of towering, mismatched shelves that seemed to shift and rearrange when you weren't looking. Books with whispering pages and snapping covers were chained to the shelves. Marvolo, with a gleam in his eye, disappeared immediately into the darkest, most obscure sections, returning with a stack of texts on soul magic, blood rituals, and territorial warding theory—tomes on subjects that were undoubtedly restricted, if not outright illegal, back in Britain. Ari, meanwhile, found herself drawn to books on magical theory, healing, and, with a morbid curiosity, a slim, leather-bound volume on the ethics of necromancy. Marcos purchased their selections, plus several volumes on pureblood law and politics.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows down the alley, they returned to Carmen’s shop. The two finished wands lay upon a black velvet cloth on the counter.

Carmen presented the first to Ari. "Eleven inches of polished Rowan," she said, her voice a low murmur. The wand was a pale, elegant creation, smooth and cool to the touch. Its design was one of subtle duality; the handle was carved into what at first glance looked like a stylized feather, but from another angle, the clever lines suggested the faint, sinuous outline of a coiled serpent. A single, thin band of silver was inlaid just above the grip, gleaming softly in the dim light. “Rowan, for protection and vision,” Carmen explained, her obsidian eyes intense. “Thestral hair, for one who has accepted Death. And Unicorn horn, for a heart that still champions life. It is a wand of profound duality, señorita. It will protect the innocent with one breath and strike down your enemies with the next. A heart of the veil and life, a weapon for a fallen champion.” When Ari took it, the wand sent a jolt of energy up her arm—not the chaotic explosion of her first wand, but a strange, harmonious chord of ice and warmth. It felt like a homecoming and a declaration of war all at once, a perfect echo of the paradox she had become. The Thestral hair resonated with the cold, hard resolve in her soul, while the Unicorn horn hummed with a stubborn, resilient life she refused to let go of.

Next, she turned to Marvolo, holding out the dark Yew wand. "Thirteen and a half inches of dark Yew," she stated. It was a stark, severe piece of wandcraft, polished to a gleam that resembled dark, oiled bone. The wand was perfectly straight, devoid of any gentle curves, its handle wrapped in dark green, braided snake skin. A single, sharp sliver of Horned Serpent horn was embedded in the pommel, catching the light like a predator’s eye. “Yew, for power over life and death,” she stated. “Dragon Heartstring, for raw, untamed magical force. And Horned Serpent horn, for cunning and ancient knowledge. It is a wand of absolute dominance, señor. A conqueror’s scepter. A heart of cunning and fire, for a lord who would see the world remade in his image.”

He took the wand, feeling its immense power surge through him. It was a cold, clean fire, a stark contrast to the tainted, disobedient power of the Elder Wand. This wand did not have another master; it had found its only one. A cruel, satisfied smile touched his lips, but he inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "Gracias, Maestra," he said, his voice a low, formal murmur that acknowledged her skill. The air around him crackled with his power, now properly channeled.

They returned to Stonehaven Isle as dusk fell, a silent, swirling journey through shadow that deposited them back in the castle’s main hall. The chaotic energy of Madrid dissolved into the quiet, powerful hum of their new home. Their new wardrobes and books arrived shortly after, delivered by a pair of formidable-looking Spanish owls with knowing, amber eyes. That evening, back in the quiet solitude of her rooms, Ari stood before the large window, the new Rowan wand cool and solid in her hand. The stormy sea outside felt like a reflection of the tempest within her. But for the first time, she did not feel like she was drowning. Holding this wand, wearing robes chosen by her and for her, she felt the ghost of Harriet Potter—the girl who was a symbol, a sacrifice, a tool—finally begin to fade. That life was a closed book. This one, she decided with a flicker of iron resolve, would be written in her own ink.

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Chapter Text

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The next morning, Marcos informed them of their next appointment. "Today, we secure your new identities in the eyes of the magical world. We go to Gringotts."

Marvolo felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. It was time to excise the final remnants of the rot that had defined his ignominious beginnings. Marcos procured a Portkey that took them directly to a private receiving chamber deep within the bank, bypassing the crass commercialism of the main hall. The room was carved from raw rock, lit by the cold, hard light of glowing gems embedded in the walls. The goblin who met them, a grizzled warrior named Bloodfang, eyed them with the undisguised avarice and suspicion of his race, his hand resting on the hilt of a wicked-looking axe. Marvolo met the creature’s gaze without flinching, a silent acknowledgement between predators.

“We are here to claim heirships and perform a blood adoption,” Marcos stated, his voice calm and authoritative.

Bloodfang grunted, a sound of reluctant assent. "The Peverell account manager has been informed. Follow." He led them through a labyrinth of stone corridors, the air growing colder and heavier with the scent of ancient metal and raw magic. They arrived at a heavily guarded circular chamber. "Ironclaw will conduct the ritual."

The Ritual Chamber was stark and intimidating, just as it should be for a rite of such significance. The air was cold, and the only light came from glowing runes carved into the floor. Another goblin, older and even more scarred than Bloodfang, stood waiting beside a black stone bowl. This was Ironclaw. He nodded curtly at Marcos.

“The ritual is binding, wizard,” Ironclaw said, his voice like grinding stones. “It forges a new bloodline, recognized by magic itself. It is meant for infants, who have no established identity. For one of your age,” he looked at Marvolo, his black eyes glinting with a hint of cruel curiosity, “it will be unpleasant. Your very being, your magic, your blood, will be forcibly rewritten. Are you prepared for such a price?”

Marvolo felt a surge of contempt. What did this creature know of prices paid for power? He had torn his own soul apart. A little pain was insignificant. He met the goblin’s gaze without flinching. “Proceed.”

The blood adoption was ancient and steeped in a magic that felt far more binding than any Ministry law. Ironclaw produced the ritual bowl carved from black stone, its surface etched with glowing runes that pulsed with a faint, malevolent light. Marcos and Marvolo each sliced their palms with a goblin-forged silver knife, allowing their blood to mingle in the bowl. As Ironclaw began to chant in the harsh, guttural sounds of the goblin tongue, the runes on the floor flared to life. The blood in the bowl began to glow, not a fierce red, but a molten, angry orange. It rose from the bowl in a violent lashing torrent that struck Marvolo in the chest.

Agony, white-hot and absolute, slammed into him. He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound that disgusted him, his small body convulsing as the magic invaded him. He watched, through a haze of pain, as Ariela’s face filled with horror. Her weakness was an irritation. This was not a violation; it was a purification. It was not a gentle blending of bloodlines; it was a hostile takeover, the ancient, potent magic of the Peverell line forcefully overwriting the legacy of the Riddles, burning away the taint of his Muggle father. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he fought to endure it, forcing his body into stillness through sheer, indomitable will. For a long, silent moment, the only sound in the chamber was his harsh, ragged breathing.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The glow faded, and he was left trembling on the cold stone floor. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his features subtly altered. His skin now held a slightly darker, healthier olive tone, a faint echo of Marcos’s Spanish heritage, and his dark eyes had lightened to a striking, crystal blue. The name Tom Riddle, and all it represented, was ritually burned from the Gringotts records, replaced by the newly forged, and hard-won, identity of Marvolo Cadmus Peverell.

"It is done," Ironclaw stated, his expression impassive. "Follow me to my office to confirm if you are eligible for any heirships."

He led them back through the corridors to a large, opulent office, a stark contrast to the ritual chamber. Here, he had them perform the full Gringotts Ancestry and Claims test. For Ari, the process was straightforward. Ironclaw pricked her finger, allowing three drops of blood to fall onto a large, complex parchment covered in shimmering, interlocking circles. Golden lines shot out from the blood, tracing her lineage directly back through Gabriel Peverell, confirming her as the undisputed Heiress of the main Peverell line. The true Peverell crest blazed to life in silver fire at the top of the parchment: a midnight-black shield bordered in antique silver, bearing a raven with garnet eyes and outstretched wings. The raven clutched a bone-white key in its talons, framed by a twisted yew tree under an eclipsed moon. Beneath it, a scythe lay etched with ancient runes and wrapped in thorns, flanked by spectral hounds guarding either side. Below, in a curling ribbon of faded script, glimmered the family motto: Mors est solum initium — Death is only the beginning.

For Marvolo, it was more complex. His blood hit the parchment, and deep green lines spiderwebbed outwards, confirming his maternal link to the House of Gaunt and, through them, the coveted line of Slytherin itself. The crest of a coiled serpent shimmered with a sickly green light.

“The blood of Slytherin is confirmed,” Ironclaw stated, his voice flat. “But blood is not enough for such a claim. The Slytherin Lordship has lain dormant for generations. The Gaunts were too diminished by inbreeding, their magic a mere puddle where once there was an ocean. The family magic rejected them as unworthy.” His black eyes fixed on Marvolo. “You must prove your power is sufficient to awaken and claim what they could not.”

Ironclaw gestured to a black, velvet-covered pedestal. With a flick of his wrist, the velvet dissolved, revealing a large, coiled serpent carved from obsidian. It was cold, ancient, and radiated a palpable aura of dark, hungry magic. “This is the Serpent of Salazar. It was his test for his own descendants. Place your hand upon it. If your magic is worthy, it will accept you. If not…” The goblin’s lips stretched into a cruel smile, revealing pointed teeth. “It will consume your magic, leaving you a squib.”

Ariela tensed, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, but Marvolo felt a surge of cold, exhilarating certainty. He stepped forward, his expression one of disdain for the very idea of failure. Ignoring the serpent's head, he thrust his small hand directly into its open, fanged mouth.

With a sickening crunch of stone on bone, the obsidian jaws snapped shut, biting down on his hand. Ariela cried out, but Marvolo didn't even hiss. A blinding, dark green energy erupted from the stone, throwing Ironclaw back against his desk. The serpent’s eyes flared to life, two points of blazing emerald light, and a low, powerful hiss echoed through the office. Marvolo did not flinch, his gaze locked with the statue's glowing eyes as he felt the ancient magic rush into him, not as an attack, but as a subject tasting its master's blood and judging its worth. His own magic, pure and potent, met the challenge with a cold, absolute command. The emerald glow softened, the hissing subsided, and the obsidian jaws slowly ground open, releasing his hand, which was miraculously unharmed. The carving’s glowing eyes seemed to bow in deference.

Ironclaw slowly picked himself up, his face a mask of shock and awe. “It accepts you,” he breathed, staring at Marvolo with a new, profound respect. “The Lordship of Slytherin is yours to claim when you are of age.” The goblin quickly amended the parchment, which now showed Marvolo as Heir Slytherin.

With a snap of his fingers, Ironclaw summoned two small, ornate boxes that appeared on his desk with a soft thud. "Your Heirship rings," he stated.

He pushed the first box, made of dark, aged wood, towards Ari. Inside, on a bed of faded black velvet, lay an elegant ring. Forged from shadow-forged platinum so dark it appeared black in most light, the ring shimmered faintly with silver undertones. At its centre was a smooth, oval-cut black diamond, framed by a fine inlay of preserved yew-wood. Within the gem, the Peverell crest was etched in delicate silver: a raven with outstretched wings clutching a bone-white key, framed by a twisted yew under an eclipsed moon. Subtle glyphs marked the band—on one side, a crescent eclipse curling with mist; on the other, a scythe wrapped in thorns. Twin garnets, no larger than a tear, were set into the sides, glinting like watchful eyes. On the inner band, barely visible to the naked eye, was a single line of ancient script: Mors est solum initium — Death is only the beginning.

"The Heiress ring," Ironclaw grunted. "It will ward you against minor hexes and attempts to track your magical signature. It will also grow warm in the presence of common poisons and love potions." Ari slipped it onto her finger. It resized instantly, a cool, solid weight that felt both foreign and deeply, strangely familiar.

Ironclaw then pushed the second box, this one of black lacquer inlaid with silver, towards Marvolo. The ring inside was a masterpiece of cold, predatory elegance. Forged from goblin-forged silver, the metal had a dark green lustre, as if it had been quenched in venom. Two intricately detailed serpents coiled to form the band, their scales so finely rendered they seemed to shift in the light. Each serpent was devouring the other's tail in an eternal, silent conflict, a perfect Ouroboros of ambition and self-consumption. Where their heads met, a flawless emerald was clutched in their fangs. Cut with unnerving precision, its facets seemed to hold a cold, internal light. "For the Heir of Slytherin," the goblin said, his voice holding a new note of respect. "Its protections are similar. It will resist magical compulsion and alert you to toxins." Marvolo took the ring and slid it onto his finger with an air of absolute ownership. The serpents seemed to writhe for a moment before settling, the emerald glinting like a malevolent eye.

“There is one final piece of business, Ironclaw,” Marcos said, his voice drawing the goblin’s attention. He stepped forward, his presence commanding the room. “While Heiress Peverell is the rightful head of her house, she is not yet of age. The House of Peverell cannot remain dormant, a ship without a captain. As the eldest living Peverell of the main line and as her magical guardian, I will claim the Lordship in regency until she is of age to inherit in her own right.”

Ironclaw’s black eyes narrowed, studying Marcos for a long, silent moment. He consulted the Peverell family charters, which lay open on his desk, his long finger tracing the ancient goblin script. “The Peverell charters allow for such a claim by the ranking patriarch in the absence of an adult heir,” the goblin grunted, the words seemingly begrudged. “If your blood is true. The claim will be valid.” With another prick of blood from Marcos and a guttural chant, the magic in the room shifted once more. A deep, resonant hum filled the air as the ancient family magics formally recognized their new Lord, and the Lordship ring box appeared on his desk.

“The Lordship ring,” Ironclaw stated, holding out a heavy, iron box that seemed to absorb the light. Marcos took it and opened the lid. The ring within was stark and powerful, a more masculine version of the Heir ring. Forged from the same shadow-forged platinum the band was thicker, more substantial, its glyphs more deeply etched. At its center was a square-cut black diamond, held in place by a stark, minimalist setting that emphasized the stone's size and flawless, light-devouring depths. Within the gem, the Peverell crest was etched in visceral, blood-red detail: a raven with outstretched wings clutching a bone-white key, framed by a twisted yew under an eclipsed moon. Instead of delicate garnets, two chips of obsidian were set into the sides, seeming to drink the light. On the inner band, the same line of ancient script was inscribed: Mors est solum initium — Death is only the beginning. Marcos slid it onto his finger, where it settled with a feeling of immense age and authority.

“We will, of course, file the necessary paperwork with your Ministry,” Ironclaw added, a greedy glint in his eye at the thought of the processing fees. “The re-establishment of a Lordship for a Most Ancient and Noble House is a significant event. Especially one that holds four seats in your Wizengamot that have remained unclaimed for centuries.”

Marvolo watched the exchange, his mind alight with the political implications. This was not a man merely interested in guardianship; this was a demonstration of power. Marcos was securing their flank, establishing a formidable and unassailable position for them before they even took their first step into British society. It was a masterful move, and Marvolo felt a flicker of genuine respect for the man’s cunning.

They left Gringotts with new identities and their legal, societal and magical standings firmly cemented. As they stepped out of the private entrance and back into the mundane world, Marvolo felt a profound shift. The pain of the ritual had been excruciating, a scouring fire that had burned through his very magical core, seeking out every trace of the mundane filth that had tainted his bloodline. But as he stood outside Gringotts, the London air feeling thin and tasteless after the raw, ancient magic of the bank, Marvolo felt clean. The lingering stain of the Muggle, Riddle, had been cauterized. His magic, once a raging torrent he had to constantly wrestle into submission, now felt like a deep, cold river flowing through pristine, newly-carved channels. It was his, completely and utterly, unmarred by the weakness of his parentage. The name resonated in his mind, not as a new acquisition, but as a truth finally acknowledged: Marvolo Cadmus Peverell-Slytherin and soon to be Lord Slytherin. It tasted of power, of lineage, of destiny.

He glanced at the girl beside him. Ariela. She was starting to carry herself with a new stillness, her posture straighter since Marcos’s corrections had begun. She was still a blunt instrument, yes, a creature of chaotic, sentimental impulses, but she was his instrument. A priceless, living anchor for his soul, now housed in a vessel of acceptable purity. He felt the thrum of their connection, a constant, hum beneath his skin. He would have to sharpen her, hone her into a weapon worthy of carrying a fragment of his own being. Her revulsion at his necessary plans was a weakness that would need to be burned away.

Then there was Marcos. The man stood as a calm, formidable presence, the power of a true Necromancer a quiet weight in the air around him. Marvolo was no one’s son, but he could appreciate the strategic value of this new ‘father’. Marcos was a key, a gateway to knowledge and power that had been lost to the brutish wizards of Britain for centuries. He was a resource to be cultivated, his loyalty to be ensured. The quiet affection the man was beginning to show them was a useful tool, a lever to be used when the time was right.

They returned to Stonehaven Isle, the journey through shadow smooth and silent.

The rest of the day was spent in the library. While Ariela lost herself in a book on healing theory—a waste of time, in his opinion—Marvolo meticulously reviewed the texts he had acquired in Madrid. He was not a student learning anew; he was a master reviewing the flawed schematics of a previous, failed project. The Horcrux ritual, as he had performed it, had been a crude, brutal act. He now saw the elegant, horrifying artistry that could have been. His old self had been a butcher. Under the tutelage of a Master Necromancer, he would now become a surgeon.

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As dusk settled over the rugged cliffs, filling the great hall with deepening shades of grey and purple from the panoramic windows, a warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows. The three of them gathered around the polished mahogany table laden with a fragrant, steaming dinner, the quiet hum of the castle's magic a backdrop to the clink of silverware and the murmur of the sea.

Ariela, still reeling slightly from the intensity of the Gringotts rituals and the weight of her newly cemented identity, found herself studying Marcos across the table. His calm, almost detached demeanour, combined with the immense power he wielded and the effort he had gone to for them, sparked a question she couldn’t hold back. She had trusted him, perhaps out of desperation, but a deeper understanding was needed.

“Marcos,” she began, her voice a little hesitant at first, then gaining strength, “why are you doing this? Why are you helping us? This... this is a tremendous undertaking. New identities, a home, inheritances, powerful magic... It's a lot for someone who doesn't really know us, or have any loyalty to us.” She glanced at Marvolo, whose gaze had sharpened, clearly interested in the answer.

Marcos set down his glass of wine, his keen blue eyes meeting hers. A faint, almost melancholic smile touched his lips. “Ariela,” he said, his voice quiet, “I told you, I am a servant of Death. And Death sent you to me. But it is more than that. You and Marvolo are a gift from my Master. Who am I to question Death’s will, or snub such a gift?” He paused, his gaze drifting to the roaring fire. “I am the last true Necromancer of the Peverell line. My cousin, Gabriel, was like a brother to me. His death, the loss of our family over many years, left a void. A line broken.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the roaring fire. “When you arrived, a tear in the veil, it was not just Death’s call. It was the echo of my blood, crying out. You are the embodiment of a future I believed lost. You, and Marvolo, are the continuation of our line, a chance to restore what was broken, to bring new life to arts that have been forbidden and forgotten.”

He looked from Ari to Marvolo, his smile returning, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “And frankly,” he added, a hint of dry humour in his tone, “I was rather lonely. A castle this size and Pazo Peveral in Valdemoraz, requires more than just house-elves. Besides,” his gaze lingered on Marvolo, “it promises to be interesting. A challenge I welcome, even if it means I have to interact with British Wixen.”

Marvolo said nothing, but his intense gaze on Marcos did not waver. Marcos’s explanation resonated with him. The restoration of broken lines, the continuation of powerful magic, the pursuit of forbidden knowledge – these were ambitions he understood. And a challenge. Yes, Marvolo understood challenges. He hadn't seen the man's help as altruism, but as a transaction of power, and this explanation solidified its terms, a complex web of shared lineage, ambition, and the implicit patronage of Death itself. It was a satisfactory answer.

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Chapter Text

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After dinner, the three of them gathered in the study before the roaring fire. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken purpose. It was time for the next crucial step.

“The Gringotts ritual has erased Tom Riddle from all magical records,” Marcos stated, his voice calm as he swirled a glass of dark red wine. “But the mundane world still remembers. The loose ends remain.”

“The Riddles,” Marvolo said, his voice a quiet hiss that cut through the crackling of the fire. There was no question in his tone, only a statement of fact. It was a piece of unpleasant, but necessary, administration. A stain to be wiped from the tapestry of his history. He watched Ariela out of the corner of his eye. She flinched, a barely perceptible tightening in her shoulders. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. Good. Let her feel the weight of what was necessary. Sentiment was a disease, and he would be her cure.

“And Morfin Gaunt,” Marvolo continued, his gaze unwavering. “Azkaban is a temporary inconvenience. His blood is a link, and his mind holds knowledge that cannot be allowed to surface. It is… inefficient to leave him.”

Marcos nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “A sound strategy. Eliminating all traces of the past is the only way to secure the future.” He looked at Ariela, his gaze softening slightly. “This is the world you now inhabit, Ariela. Choices made for the betterment of your family are often harsh but necessary if we are to survive.”

She didn’t look at either of them. She stared into the fire, her green eyes reflecting the dancing flames. For a long moment, she said nothing. The silence was a battlefield, her internal war almost palpable in the air. Finally, she gave a single, sharp nod, her lips a thin, white line. “I understand,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

It was not acceptance, not truly. It was choosing to work with Marvolo instead of against him. From his side, she could observe. She could learn. And perhaps, if she was clever enough, she could steer. It was a cold, venomous logic, the grim choice of working with one monster to potentially prevent the rise of another, or to at least mitigate the damage he would cause. It was surrender, not to him, but to the ruthless reality of the path she had chosen. It would have to do. For now.

“Tonight, then,” Marcos said, rising to his feet. “There is no sense in delaying the inevitable.”

He led them to the crypts, the air thick with the smell of cold stone and old, potent magic. The shadows here were deep, pooling in the corners like still, black water.

"We will travel by shadow," Marcos stated, his voice a low murmur that seemed to be absorbed by the darkness. "It is the only way to move across such a distance without alerting the Ministry's sensors. Like when I brought you here, the journey will be disorienting. Stay close."

He placed a hand on each of their shoulders. The world dissolved not into a swirl, but an instantaneous, suffocating plunge. For a timeless moment, they were nowhere, suspended in a cold, silent void between spaces. Then, with a jarring suddenness, reality reasserted itself.

They stood on a deserted country lane, the oppressive dampness of the English countryside clinging to Ariela's robes, a stark contrast to the clean, salt-laced air of Stonehaven. The village of Little Hangleton lay sleeping below them under a moonless, mist-shrouded sky. It was utterly, painfully mundane. Yet, Ariela could feel a palpable aura of misery and decay emanating from the Gaunt shack hidden in the woods on one side of the valley, and a smug, self-satisfied rot from the large manor house on the opposing hill.

The Riddle House. It was just a building of brick and stone, yet in the oppressive quiet of the night, it felt like a monument to a lifetime of hatred she was only just beginning to comprehend. She glanced at Marvolo. His small face was a mask of cold, serene focus, but through their bond, she could feel the seething, triumphant hatred coiling in his chest. This wasn't just an errand; it was a pilgrimage. A homecoming drenched in vengeance.

“It is time to erase the past,” Marvolo said, his voice a quiet promise of the violence to come. He looked at Ariela, a silent command in his gaze. She met his eyes, her own a turbulent sea of conflict, but she did not look away. He gave a slight, satisfied nod and began to walk down the lane, his two companions falling into step beside him, three silent shadows moving through the twilight, bound for the house that held the last, festering remnants of his former life.

They moved like ghosts, Marcos’s shadow-magic muffling their footsteps as they approached the manicured path leading to the front door. He raised a hand, a silent command to halt.

“No magic until we are inside,” Marcos murmured, his voice a low whisper in the dark. “Muggles are unobservant, but not stupid. We do not wish to alert any neighbours.”

He approached the door and knocked, a polite, firm rapping that was shockingly normal. After a moment, a light flickered on inside the entrance hall, and the door opened a crack, revealing a tall, sour-faced man in a dressing gown. Thomas Riddle.

“What is it?” he snapped, his voice thick with irritation. “Who are you?”

“My apologies for the late hour,” Marcos said, his voice smooth and cultured. “My car has broken down just down the lane. I saw your light on and was hoping I might impose upon you for the use of your telephone.”

Thomas Riddle’s eyes narrowed, sweeping over Marcos’s finely tailored, if slightly unusual, clothing. His gaze then fell on the two children, and his expression curdled with suspicion.

“We don’t have a telephone,” he lied, his hand already moving to close the door.

“A moment of your time is all I ask,” Marcos said, his voice never losing its calm, persuasive tone. But this time, it was laced with a subtle, irresistible compulsion. Thomas Riddle’s eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second. His hand fell away from the door.

“Very well,” he said, his voice flat. “Come in. But be quick about it.”

As they stepped inside, Marcos paused, his gaze sweeping the entryway. "Is there anyone else in the house? I would hate for us to disturb them."

Thomas Riddle grunted, already turning his back on them. "Just my wife and son. The maid went home hours ago."

He led them into a stuffy drawing-room that smelled of stale cigar smoke and furniture polish. An older woman with a perpetually pinched face, Mary Riddle, looked up from her knitting with a sharp, suspicious glare. Beside her, a handsome man in his early thirties with dark hair and a strong chin, Tom Riddle Sr., lowered his newspaper, his face a mask of annoyed patrician arrogance.

“Thomas, who are these people?” Mary demanded.

“Car trouble,” the older man grunted, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

Mary’s gaze fell upon Marvolo, and a look of pure, unadulterated loathing twisted her features. “What an unnatural-looking child,” she spat, her eyes zeroing in on his face. “He has the look of that Gaunt filth from the shack, another one of that tramp’s whelps.”

His thoughts, cold and venomous, slid into Ari’s mind, an unwelcome intrusion. Gaunt filth, tramps whelp. Yes, that is what they would see. The stain of my mother's weakness. Let them see it. Let them choke on it.

Tom Riddle Sr. shot up from his chair, his face pale with a mixture of fury and fear. "Mother is right," he snarled, his voice a hateful echo of his parents'. "He has the same strange look in his eyes. The look of that witch." He shuddered, a theatrical gesture of disgust, backing away slightly. "She bewitched me, I tell you! Poured some foul potion down my throat and clouded my mind. I would never run off willingly with some ugly whore of satin," he said, appealing to his parents, his voice growing louder, more frantic. "It was witchcraft, vile and unnatural! We don’t want your kind in this house! We are good, honest Christian folk, not like you devils!"

“We were just passing through,” Marcos said smoothly, stepping in front of Marvolo. “We understand that you have your grievances with the young woman who passed away some years ago, but we are looking for any of Merope Gaunt’s relatives.”

“Good riddance to that filthy, inbred little tramp. I hope her death was slow and painful,” Mary spat, her voice dripping with venom. “She tried to drag our respectable family name through the mud, down to her putrid squalor. That whole family was rotten to the core, a blight on this village. Her disgusting father is dead, thank heavens, and that violent brother of hers is locked away where he belongs, rotting with the rest of the freaks.”

“What about the child,” Marcos stated plainly, his voice losing its gentle, persuasive edge and taking on a colder tone. “The one born of your son and Merope Gaunt.”

A smug, satisfied smile curled Thomas Riddle’s lip. “That business is finished. We received a letter from the orphanage just last week. The devil’s spawn is dead. Died of some fever, they said. Best news I've had all year. Good riddance.”

Ari took a small, involuntary step forward, her voice trembling but clear, cutting through the hateful rhetoric. "You knew?" she asked, her green eyes fixed on Tom Riddle Sr. "You knew she had a son? That he was in an orphanage? He was your son, your grandson... why didn't you take him in?"

“He was left to rot in that wretched place, just as he should have been,” Thomas grunted. “He’s lucky we left him there, if the witch hadn't run off we would have drowned it at birth!” Mary sneered, setting down her knitting with an air of finality, her voice rising to a shrill peak. “It was a monster, tainted by her bad blood! Why would we want it? Nothing good could ever come from that line. Its death is a blessing!”

This was it. The final justification. They were hateful, ignorant Muggles who had thrown away their own blood. Ari felt the cold to her bones, but it didn't silence the small frantic, screaming voice of the girl she used to be. The girl who had tried to save Pettigrew.

Marcos looked at Marvolo and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Be efficient, Marvolo. No theatrics.”

Marvolo stepped forward, his new Yew wand, a stark splinter of dark wood, sliding into his small hand. His crystal-blue eyes were chips of ice, holding no rage, only a cold, absolute purpose.

Thomas Riddle scoffed. “What’s this? A child with a stick?”

Marvolo raised the wand. The three Muggles stared, their expressions shifting from contempt to confusion, and finally, as they saw the look in the boy’s eyes, to a dawning, primal fear.

Mine, was the singular, triumphant thought that flooded Ari’s mind, Marvolo's possessive certainty a tidal wave of ice and fire. Mine to erase.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The jet of green light was horrifically familiar, a sight seared into Ari’s soul. It struck Thomas Riddle squarely in the chest. He dropped without a sound, his eyes wide with a final, uncomprehending shock. Mary Riddle opened her mouth to scream, but a second jet of green light silenced her forever, her knitting falling from her lap as she crumpled to the floor.

Tom Riddle Sr. stared, his mouth agape, a whimpering sound caught in his throat as his eyes darted from his dead parents to the small, terrifying boy with the wand. Marvolo turned the wand on him last, a slow, deliberate movement. A cruel, predatory smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to his childish features. He was savoring this moment.

“Crucio!”

The curse, whispered with venomous precision, struck his father. Tom Riddle Sr.’s body arched violently, his limbs thrashing as an agonizing, animalistic scream tore from his lungs. He collapsed, twitching and convulsing on the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head. Ari felt a wave of nausea so profound she swayed on her feet. It wasn’t just the sight of the torture; it was the feeling bleeding through her bond with Marvolo—a cold, ecstatic pleasure, a righteous fury being satisfied.

Marcos’s voice was sharp, a low hiss in the sudden silence. "Marvolo. Enough."

Marvolo ignored him for another long second, drinking in the sight of his father's suffering, before he broke the curse and cast again. "Avada Kedavra!" The third jet of green light filled the room, and the Riddle line was extinguished forever.

The room was plunged into a dead, ringing silence. The smell of ozone and expended magic, thick and acrid, filled the air. Ari stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hand was on her own wand, but she hadn’t drawn it. She couldn’t. She stared at the three bodies, so quickly and efficiently dispatched. It was visceral. She could feel the life leaving the room, a sudden, horrifying void in the fabric of the world. Her every instinct screamed at her to do something, to reverse it, to run. But she was rooted to the spot, a silent, horrified accomplice.

She felt Marvolo’s satisfaction through their bond, a cold, clean feeling of a task completed. It was like swatting a fly. There was no remorse, no hesitation, only the grim pleasure of a ledger finally balanced. The feeling was so alien, so monstrous, it made her want to be sick.

“It is done,” Marcos said quietly into the ringing silence. The three bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, a testament to the brutal efficiency of the curse. Marvolo stood in the center of the drawing-room, his expression one of utter loathing as he stared down at the corpse of his father. "I want this place, and every memory it contains, erased from the face of the earth," he whispered, his voice dangerously low. Marcos met his gaze and saw the cold, absolute finality in the boy's eyes. He gave a single, slow nod.

The three of them stepped outside, turning to face the house. Marcos lowered his wand. With a flick of his wrist, a tiny, orange spark shot from his wand tip, passed through the drawing-room window, and landed on the dry, chintz curtains. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a small flame licked up the fabric. It caught hold with a sudden whoosh, spreading to the wallpaper and the old, dry wooden furniture with frightening speed. The violent, silent consumption was replaced by the roar of a natural, hungry inferno. Glass shattered from the heat, and thick, black smoke began to pour from the upper windows. They stood in the darkness, watching the house become a blazing pyre, its light a monstrous beacon in the quiet night. There would be no doubt as to the cause of death; just a tragic, accidental fire that claimed three lives. A clean slate.

The return journey was an instantaneous, suffocating plunge through the veil. One moment they stood before the blazing pyre, the heat a monstrous caress on their skin; the next, they were back in the profound, bone-chilling cold of the Peverell crypts. The transition was seamless, yet for Ari, it was a violent wrench. The utter lack of travel time gave her no space to process, no distance from the atrocity she had just witnessed. She stumbled as they reformed on the cold stone, the image of green light burned behind her eyelids, her legs unsteady. Marvolo, beside her, was a pillar of serene composure.

Ariela had thought they were returning to the main hall, and the sudden shift to the heart of the castle's necromantic power only heightened her sense of dread. Marcos had not brought them back to rest.

“One loose end remains,” he stated, his voice calm and unyielding in the echoing silence of the stone chamber. “We will deal with it now, while the magic of the night is still upon us.”

He gestured to the center of the floor, where a large, circular drain was set into the stone. "Morfin Gaunt. To leave him alive is an unnecessary risk. But to kill him ourselves invites investigation. There is a cleaner way. A way that leaves no trace." He looked at Ariela, then Marvolo, his gaze intense. "The Ministry uses Dementors as guards. They believe them to be little more than mindless beasts to be controlled. They are wrong. Dementors are creatures of Death. They are his harbingers, his hounds. A true Necromancer can speak their tongue, the language of the dead."

The logic was inescapable. A Dementor’s Kiss left no mark. It was the perfect, untraceable murder. The thought was still revolting, but her horror was now mingled with a cold, grim resignation.

With his wand, he began to trace a complex circle of runes on the stone, the symbols glowing with a faint, sickly green light. As he worked, he began to chant in a low, guttural language that made the very air vibrate. The temperature in the chamber plummeted, and the shadows in the corners seemed to deepen, writhing as if alive.

Marcos completed the circle. He stood back, his face beaded with sweat from the effort, and stepped into the glowing runes himself. "Watch. Learn. This is power."

He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath that frosted in the air. He did not speak aloud, but Ari could hear the call in her mind. It was a silent, commanding pull on the fabric of the veil, a summons issued in a language of pure will and dominion over the dead.

A horrifying, rasping sound echoed from the center of the circle, a sound like a thousand dying breaths. From the deepest shadows, a figure emerged. Tall, cloaked, its face hidden beneath its hood, the Dementor glided into the circle, its very presence a vortex that leeched all warmth and hope from the room.

Marvolo stood his ground, his hand on his wand, his expression one of fascinated, clinical analysis. This was a tool he had never considered he could command. Yes he had made deals with Dementors, but to command them held much promise.

The Dementor stopped before Marcos. It did not bow, but there was a stillness to it, a deference that went beyond fear. Its gaze, if it had one, seemed to flicker to Ari then Marvolo, acknowledging their presence, before returning to the Necromancer who had summoned it.

Marcos spoke, but the words were not sound. They were a projection of thought, cold and sharp, that pierced the silence of the chamber. Ari heard them as clearly as if they had been screamed. "There is a prisoner in Azkaban. His name is Morfin Gaunt. Go to him. Consume his soul. Leave nothing behind."

The Dementor’s head tilted, a gesture of understanding. Its mental voice whispered back, a sibilant rush of cold despair that Ari could feel in her bones. “Death’s servant will eagerly obey the Necromancer, this one has been hungry for so long.”

With another long, rattling breath that seemed to steal the very air from Ari’s lungs, the creature dissolved back into the shadows, the oppressive cold receding, leaving only the damp chill of the chamber behind. The glowing runes on the floor faded to black.

Now, it was truly done.

When Ari finally stumbled back to her suite, she didn't just feel like an accomplice. She felt like a monster. She had stood by, a silent bystander, and watched as Marvolo killed his family, whilst Marcos commanded one of Death’s own creatures to extinguish a soul. She had done nothing. Said nothing. Her silence was her consent. She slammed the door of her luxurious suite behind her, stumbling into the opulent bathroom and retching into the toilet, her body convulsing with a violent revulsion.

When there was nothing left to bring up, she collapsed onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. The opulent luxury of the room felt obscene, a grotesque mockery of the lives that had just been so casually extinguished. The soft velvet of the rug, the gentle warmth from the enchanted fireplace, the breathtaking view of the sea—it was all tainted, stained by the memory of her own command.

She looked at her hands. They were clean, but in her mind’s eye, they were stained with a darkness far deeper than blood. The acid of betrayal had burned away her naivete, but what had it left in its place? Was this the price of her second chance? To stand by and watch as the boy she was tied to, become a murderer all over again? To witness patricide and feel only relief from the perpetrator?

A sob tore from her throat, raw and ragged. The crisis of conscience she had been holding at bay crashed down on her with the force of a tidal wave. She was now Ariela Peverell, Heiress to an ancient and shadowed line. And she was an accomplice to murder. For the first time since she had made her bargain, she wondered if she had made a terrible, unforgivable mistake.

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Chapter Text

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The polished marble floor was unforgivingly cold against Ari’s cheek, a sharp, grounding reality in the surreal opulence of the bathroom. She lay there for a time she couldn’t measure, curled into a tight ball, trying to make herself smaller, to disappear. At first, the sobs were silent, violent shudders that wracked her small frame, her teeth clenched to keep the sound from escaping. But the dam of her composure, so carefully constructed over the past few years, finally broke. A raw, ragged wail tore from her throat, the sound of a heart tearing in two, echoing in the vast, silent room.

The shaking eventually subsided, not into peace, but into a bone-deep exhaustion that left her feeling hollowed out, a mere shell, drowning in her own complicity. The ghost of Harry Potter, the idealistic Gryffindor who had once tried to save even her most bitter enemies, was screaming in the back of her mind, a frantic voice, a horrified litany of her failures. You stood there. You watched. You did nothing, the voice screamed. But another, colder whisper answered back, its logic a chilling balm. They were cruel. They threw away their own blood. This was necessary for survival. The war within her was more exhausting than any duel. She was an accomplice. She was a monster. And the worst part was, a small, dark part of her knew it was true.

For three days, she was a shade haunting her own luxurious suite. The world outside the panoramic windows—the grey, churning sea and the endless sky—was a distant, unreal painting. Her world had shrunk to the visceral memory of a flash of green light. Lethe would appear with trays laden with steaming broths and delicate pastries, her large eyes wide with a concern. Ariela would just shake her head, the thought of sustenance obscene in the face of what she had witnessed. The food would sit, cooling, a testament to a life she felt she no longer deserved to live, until the little elf retrieved it hours later, her ears drooping with sadness.

Sleep was not a refuge but a battlefield where her past and present horrors collided. The green flash of the curse that had killed Thomas Riddle would bleed into the flash that had taken her parents. The silent, gaping mouth of Mary Riddle would morph into the last smile on Sirius's face before he fell through the veil. The sickening thud of their bodies hitting the floor was the thud of Dobby's small form in her arms. These weren't just memories; they were fresh wounds, torn open by the new horror she had just embraced. The murders were the catalyst, the spark that ignited a pyre of grief she had never allowed herself to feel. The war had offered no time for mourning; it had been one loss after another, each one walled off and buried under the grim necessity of survival. But here, in the suffocating silence of Stonehaven, the walls had crumbled. She wasn’t just grieving for what she had just witnessed, but for everything she had lost. The finality of her choice was a second, more profound abandonment of everyone she had ever loved. They were not just dead; she had erased herself from their world. She was a ghost to them now, as surely as they were to her.

On the evening of the third day, the silence of her self-imposed exile was broken by a soft knock at her bedroom door. It was followed by Marcos’s calm, even voice.

“Ariela? May I come in?”

She didn’t answer, couldn't find the words. The door opened anyway, a soft click that sounded like a judgment. She heard his footsteps, steady and unhurried, cross the rug in her sitting room, stopping at the foot of her bed where she sat huddled in a ball. She didn’t look up. She felt his presence, a weight of ancient magic and quiet authority. He didn’t speak, simply stood there for a long moment, observing the pathetic, trembling creature curled in on herself. She braced herself for a lecture, for disappointment, for the cold dismissal she had come to expect from guardians.

Instead, he simply said, “The first time is always the most difficult.” His voice was not laced with pity, but with a simple understanding that was somehow more unsettling. He knelt, not beside her, but a respectful distance away.

“What you are feeling,” he continued, his voice a low baritone, “is the poison of a world that lied to you. A world that taught you that morality is a simple matter of light and dark, good and evil. It is not. It is a spectrum, and survival often requires us to walk in the grey.”

She finally looked up, her tear-stained face a mess, her green eyes burning with a self-loathing so intense it was a physical force. “They were people,” she choked out, the word tasting like ash. “We just killed them.”

“Yes,” Marcos agreed, his gaze unflinching. “They were cruel people who abandoned their own blood to rot in an orphanage. They were people who celebrated the news of their own grandson’s death. Their cruelty was mundane, Ariela, but it was cruelty nonetheless. We did not kill innocents. We removed a cancer to allow for a better future. Your future.”

His rational was cold, sharp, and inescapable. It mirrored the very thoughts she had used to justify her own silence, yet hearing it spoken aloud gave it a horrifying finality.

“I didn't do anything,” she whispered, the words a desperate plea for an absolution she knew she didn’t deserve.

“No, you didn’t, and that is a choice in itself, one you will likely make again,” Marcos replied. There was no comfort in his tone, only fact. “But this burden you feel, it is more than just the Riddles and Morfin. I have felt the echoes of your grief since the moment you arrived. The grief that haunts you, the ghosts that you see in your nightmares, they are not from this life, are they?”

Pausing to look her in the eyes, Marcos implored her, “you cannot carry the weight of two worlds alone, child. Share the burden. Tell me of the world you left behind.”

His invitation was not a demand, but a quiet offering. It was the first time anyone had asked, the first time anyone had acknowledged the war she had already fought and lost. The dam of her composure, already cracked, shattered completely. The story tumbled out of her, a torrent of grief and betrayal held back for too long. She spoke of Ron and Hermione, their friendship a shining beacon that had ended in a lie. She spoke of Sirius, his laugh echoing in a house that now belonged to a different timeline. She spoke of Lupin and Tonks, of Fred, of Dobby, of all the faces she had seen go still and cold in the Great Hall. She spoke of her parents, a sacrifice she now understood was built on a foundation of manipulation by an old man who thought he knew better.

Marcos listened, his expression unchanging, his silence a vessel for her pain. He did not interrupt, did not offer false comfort or empty platitudes. He simply bore witness to her story, to the weight she had been carrying alone.

When she was finished, her voice a raw whisper, the room was filled with a new kind of silence. Not of absence, but of shared understanding.

“You have borne more than any soul should have to,” he said finally, his voice a low baritone. “The world you knew failed you. The people you trusted betrayed you. You are right to grieve for them. But you must not let that grief become an anchor that drowns you in the past.” He rose to his feet, a tall, imposing shadow. “What was done to the Riddles and Morfin was a necessary act. What you must learn now is how to wield the power you possess, not just for survival, but to build a future worthy of those you have lost. You can stand by and allow Marvolo to be the sole architect of your shared destiny, or you can take control, and honour their memory by living a life of strength, not of servitude.” He paused at the door. “The choice, as always, is yours. But I will not allow you to remain weak. Your weakness is a liability to this family. To our family.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Ari alone with the echo of his words and the cold, hard truth they contained. He hadn't offered comfort. He had offered a path. A darker, more dangerous path than any she had ever walked, but a path that promised something she now craved more than anything: control.

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The next morning, she found them in the library. Marcos was reading, and Marvolo was levitating a collection of sharp, wicked-looking daggers, arranging them in complex patterns in the air with his new wand. The memory of his cold, ecstatic pleasure during his father's torture sent a shiver down her spine. He glanced at her as she entered, his crystal-blue eyes holding a flicker of dismissive contempt. He had felt her breakdown through their bond, her messy, emotional turmoil. He saw it as a flaw, a disgusting weakness to be purged.

She watched them for a long moment from the doorway. Marcos, the calm, paternal authority. Marvolo, the coiled serpent of ambition. They were the two poles of her new world. Her breakdown had been a luxury, a final, grieving spasm for the sentimental fool who had walked into a forest to die. That girl's idealism was a fatal flaw. Ariela Peverell would not make the same mistake. She consciously pushed the ghost of Harry Potter down, locking her in a mental box alongside her dead friends and broken loyalties. Only then did she step into the room. “I’m ready,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm, addressing them both.

Marcos looked up from his book, a flicker of approval in his eyes. Marvolo let the daggers clatter to the table, his expression one of bored impatience.

“Ready for what?” he drawled. “Another bout of hysterics?”

“Ready to learn,” she bit out, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You were right. I’m a blunt instrument. So sharpen me.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Marvolo’s face. “Excellent.”

Her education began that very day. Marcos took them both to the crypts deep beneath the castle, a place of profound silence and cold, still air. This was his classroom. Her first lesson in necromancy had nothing to do with raising the dead.

“Necromancy is not the vulgar art of reanimating corpses for battle, as lesser wizard's believe,” Marcos explained, his voice echoing in the stone chamber as he addressed them both. “That is puppetry, a crude and messy business. True necromancy is the art of the veil. It is the understanding of life, death, and the echoes they leave behind. It is the study of soul-magics, of spiritual residue, of the manipulation of the forces that bind and release the soul.”

He gestured to the ancient stone walls around them. "This place is saturated with it. Every soul that has passed within these walls has left a trace, an echo of their joys and sorrows. A necromancer learns to read these echoes, to communicate with the imprints of the dead, not the dead themselves. We learn to mend tears in the veil caused by violent death, and, if necessary, to create them. We can draw on the ambient energy of decay to power our workings, and we learn to silence the spirits of a place so that others cannot hear their tales." As he spoke the last words, he lightly touched a section of the wall. For a fleeting second, Ari saw a faint, silvery image superimposed over the stone: a woman with a kind face, humming a lullaby to a babe in her arms. Ari could almost hear it, a phantom melody at the very edge of her hearing that made the hairs on her arms stand up. The image vanished as soon as he removed his hand. “Every stone has a story,” Marcos said quietly. “Necromancy is about learning the language.”

"And you are the last true practitioner?" Marvolo asked, his tone less a question and more a demand for confirmation, a subtle challenge to Marcos's authority.

Ari remembered the wandmaker’s words. "Carmen said you were aging slowly," she interjected, her curiosity overpowering her caution. "That your Master was kind to you."

A faint, wry smile touched Marcos’s lips. "Carmen has sharp eyes. As a servant of Death, I am afforded certain… considerations. Time is less of a concern for me than for most." He looked directly at Marvolo, his gaze holding a glint of amusement. "So, while your soul may be seventy years old, Marvolo, rest assured, I am still old enough to be your father. Do not forget who the master is in this room."

Marvolo’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head in a stiff, reluctant gesture of acknowledgement. Marcos had effortlessly reasserted his dominance.

He placed a single, freshly cut white rose on a stone altar. “Close your eyes. Reach out with your magic. Not with your wands, but with your magical core. Feel the life force of this flower. It is bright, but it is already fading. It has been severed from its source. Feel the moment of its cutting, the echo of that small violence. Feel its slow, inevitable decay.”

Ari did as he instructed. At first, she felt nothing. Then, a faint, pulsing warmth, like a tiny, fading heartbeat. She could feel the ghost of the sun on its petals, the memory of the rain. And beneath it all, a cold, creeping emptiness as its life bled away. The sensation was deeply unsettling, a violation that made her skin crawl. Simultaneously, a foreign feeling brushed against her consciousness through the bond—Marvolo’s clinical curiosity, the sense of a resource being wasted. It was like tasting ice while touching a flame.

"So," she said, opening her eyes, her voice laced with a newfound, dry bitterness. "My special Peverell power is knowing when the floral arrangements are past their prime. Wonderful. I'll be the life of every party. Or, you know, the death of it."

Marvolo let out a soft, impatient sigh, his eyes still closed. “This is rudimentary. The energy is fading, yes, but it is still malleable. It could be repurposed.”

“Patience, Marvolo,” Marcos chided gently, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. “You feel the potential, which is good. Your blood understands this magic instinctively. But first, you must both master control and perception.” He looked at Ari. “You feel the decay as a violation. He feels it as an opportunity. Both perspectives are valid. Both are dangerous. You must learn to navigate them.”

He then gestured back to the section of the stone wall, where the air seemed to shimmer almost imperceptibly. “Perception is the foundation. Now, we move from the echoes of life to the echoes of will. Strong emotions—love, grief, rage—and significant events, as I showed you earlier leave an imprint on a place, a psychic residue. To read these echoes, you must first still your own mind. Your own emotions create a psychic noise that will drown out the whispers of the past. Quiet your thoughts. Extend your magic not as a force, but as a net. Let it drift, let it listen.”

He placed a hand on the wall. "Focus on this spot. Do not feel for life, but for memory. Open your senses to what was.”

Ari focused, her brow furrowed in concentration. At first, all she could feel was the static of her own turmoil—the guilt from the Riddle house, the simmering rage at her betrayal, the fear of Marvolo. It was a cacophony.

“You are still feeling yourself, Ariela,” Marcos’s voice cut through her thoughts, calm and instructive. “Set it aside. Acknowledge it, and then place it in a box and close the lid. You can wallow in your misery later. For now, you are a scholar. Be silent and listen.”

She took a deep breath, picturing the mental box he described, shoving the screaming ghost of Harry Potter inside it and slamming the lid shut. She tried again. This time, the silence was deeper. And in that silence, she felt it. A profound, aching sorrow washed over her, so intense it was a physical weight. A phantom scent of salt and funeral lilies filled her nostrils. She saw a faint, silvery image superimposed over the stone: a woman with delicate Peverell features, dressed in mourning robes, weeping silently as she clutched a letter with a broken seal. It wasn't just a vision; it was a feeling, a shared grief that resonated with her own losses, a hollow ache for a husband lost at sea.

Through their bond, she felt Marvolo's experience, a stark and chilling contrast. He wasn't seeing a story; he was perceiving the magical structure of the memory. In his mind's eye, the echo was a complex web of shimmering threads: the heavy, dark blue cords of grief were interwoven with the thin, sharp silver threads of memory, all anchored to the stone by the fading crimson of a powerful bloodline. He wasn't feeling the sadness; he was analyzing the strength and decay rate of the magical signature, cataloging the power of the emotion that had left such a lasting stain.

"You see?" Marcos's voice was low, pulling them back to the present. "One feels the story, the other reads the data. Ariela, your empathy allows you to understand the motive behind the echo, the human truth of it. Marvolo, your analytical mind allows you to perceive its structure, its power, the type of magic that created it. Both are forms of truth. Both are essential. This is the language of the dead. Learn it, and no secret can be kept from you."

💀💀💀

Her lessons with Marvolo were another matter entirely. They took place in a vast, empty training hall, its walls scorched and pitted from centuries of duels. To begin, there would be no theory, no philosophy. Marvolo’s focus was singular: to break her reliance on a few simple spells and build a foundation of pure, reactive combat. The deeper, more esoteric theories of the Dark Arts could come later; first, he had to build a warrior.

“Your repertoire is pathetic,” he sneered on their first day, circling her like a shark. “Expelliarmus? Stupefy? You fight like a first-year hoping to avoid detention. Those spells are for children. You are not a child.”

“They worked well enough on you,” she shot back, her new Rowan wand held tight in her hand.

His eyes flashed with fury. Before she could blink, a silent, vicious-looking curse, a bolt of sickly yellow light, shot from his wand. She threw herself to the side, the spell sizzling against the stone where she had been standing.

“Luck,” he hissed. “And the protection of others. You have neither now. You have only me. And I demand excellence.”

Their duels were brutal. He didn't hold back, forcing her to rely on pure instinct. In their first exchange, her muscle memory took over and she cast a crisp Expelliarmus. Marvolo didn't even bother to block it; he sidestepped, the red jet of light soaring harmlessly past him.

“Is that the best you can do?” he mocked, his lip curled in disdain. “The Girl-Who-Lived’s signature party trick? Pathetic.” A stinging hex caught her on the arm before she could raise a shield, the pain sharp and electric. Absently rubbing her arm where the stinging hex hit, responding with a hiss "oh, absolutely. I'm feeling very educated. Remind me to send you a fruit basket for all this enriching, character-building pain."

"Again. And this time, try to fight like a Peverell, not a Hufflepuff."

He forced her to use spells she had only ever read about, spells that felt wrong on her tongue. The first time he made her cast the bone-breaking curse, the incantation felt like grinding glass in her throat. The magic left a cold residue on her soul, a stark contrast to the clean warmth of the Patronus charm. But the curse worked. And the sickening thrill of its effectiveness was a poison all its own.

“My apologies,” she panted after a particularly clumsy shield charm earned her another stinging hex. “I wasn’t aware ‘grace under pressure from a homicidal eleven-year-old’ was part of the curriculum. My previous mentors preferred a more ‘learn by almost dying’ approach. This is just a tedious variation on a theme.”

And yet, for all his cruelty, Ari was forced to admit that he was a terrifyingly brilliant teacher. He didn't just attack; he instructed. After a particularly clumsy shield charm on her part, he didn't just punish her with a stinging hex. He paused the duel.

"Your shield is reactive," he explained, his voice sharp. "You wait for my spell to be cast, then you throw up a wall of unfocused magic. It is a Gryffindor's defense: brave, stupid, and inefficient. A true duel is not an exchange of spells; it is a battle of wills. You must dominate the space, anticipate your opponent's movements, and force them to react to you. Your magic should be a blade, not a blunt shield."

He never relented, continuously pushing her. "Your footwork is atrocious. A drunken troll could dodge that. Do it again." he shouted after one Ari stumbled away from a particularly nasty curse. His insults were precise, his insights unnervingly accurate. He deconstructed her entire dueling style, laying bare every flaw born of Dumbledore’s limited, light-magic-focused teachings. He taught her how to move, how to use the environment, how to chain spells together in a fluid, deadly sequence that left no room for thought, only reaction. It was a dark, ruthless education in the art of magical combat, and she hated him for every second of it. She also knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she was becoming more powerful and more dangerous with every passing day.

“Focus, Ariela!” he would snarl, his voice echoing in the hall. “Your sentimentality is a chain around your neck. You hesitate. You think of mercy. Mercy is for the weak. We are not weak.”

During one particularly grueling session, he disarmed her, her wand clattering across the floor. He advanced on her, his own wand pointed at her chest. For a terrifying second, she saw the Dark Lord, a the monster from the graveyard, and her body froze.

“Pathetic,” he spat, standing over her. He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His touch was cold, his grip surprisingly strong. “You have the power of a tempest inside you, and you cower like a frightened rabbit. You are my Horcrux. Your power is an extension of my own, and your weakness is an insult to my immortality. Unleash it. Or I will unleash it for you.”

His crystal-blue eyes were inches from her own, and in their depths, she saw not just cruelty, but a fierce, possessive intensity. He wasn't training a soldier; he was forging ‘his’ Horcrux, into a weapon that would be worthy of him. The proximity was suffocating, but something inside her finally snapped. The years of being a pawn, a symbol, a thing to be used and sacrificed, erupted in a blaze of furious defiance.

“I am not a thing!” she yelled, shoving him back with a surprising strength that broke his grip. The words tore from her throat, raw and shaking with a rage that was entirely her own. “I am not your Horcrux! I am not some possession you get to label and forge! I spent seventeen years as a weapon for one manipulative old man. I will not spend this life as a tool for another!”

Marvolo stumbled back, his face showing shocked disbelief, which quickly hardened into a cold, dangerous fury. This was not the snarky retort he expected. This was rebellion. A challenge to the fundamental truth of his ownership over her.

"Do not forget your place," he hissed, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.

"And you, do not forget yours," she shot back, her chest heaving, her green eyes blazing with a fire he hadn't seen since the final battle. She snatched her wand from the floor, her hand steady now with the white-hot energy of her rage. “You may have been a Dark Lord, but you are not my Lord. And I do not belong to you.”

The confrontation left the air in the training hall crackling with a new, dangerous tension. Their session ended not with exhaustion, but with a silent, mutual stand-off. Raw and shaking from the confrontation, Ari retreated to the library, intending to bury herself in a dusty tome on counter-curses. She was slumped in an armchair, staring blankly at the page, when a soft pop announced Lethe’s arrival.

“Mistress Ariela is looking sad,” the elf said, her large, tennis-ball eyes full of concern. She held out a tray with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and a plate of small, honey-drizzled cakes.

A genuine, weary smile touched Ari’s lips for the first time that day. “Thank you, Lethe. It’s not sadness, just exhaustion.” She took the mug, the warmth a welcome comfort. “This castle is so big. I feel like I’ve only seen the library, the dining room, and the training hall.”

Lethe’s ears perked up. “Oh, but there is so much more! Lethe knows all the secrets! Would Mistress Ariela like to see a special place? A happy place?”

Curiosity stirred. “Yes, Lethe. I think I would like that very much.”

Beaming, the little elf led Ari from the main library through a discreet side door she hadn't noticed before, into the castle’s older, more private heart. They walked down a long, quiet corridor lined with the portraits of severe-looking Peverell ancestors, their painted eyes following her with a silent, assessing weight. They passed the closed doors of a music room, from which Ari could hear the faint, melancholic echo of a long-forgotten sonata, and a disused armoury, where the scent of polished steel and old leather still clung to the air. The castle was breathing around her, its history a living presence.

Finally, Lethe stopped before a large, faded tapestry depicting a grim-faced Peverell on a hunt, a gryphon lying dead at his feet. The elf ignored the macabre scene and reached out to touch a single, almost invisible silver thread woven into the tapestry’s border. The ancient fabric shimmered and swung inwards, revealing not cold stone, but a narrow, winding spiral staircase, lit by floating motes of dust that danced in the faint light from above. The air here was different, warmer, smelling of dried lavender and old parchment.

“Marcos does not use these paths much anymore,” Lethe whispered conspiratorially as they ascended. “Too many memories.”

Following the staircase up several floors at the end it opened into a circular room that was a masterpiece of enchanted artistry and subtle luxury. The ceiling was a dome of deepest midnight blue, across which golden stars and shimmering nebulae swirled in a slow, celestial dance. The light came not from a single source, but from two large, golden chandeliers, their glow supplemented by soft, floating motes of light that drifted through the air like captive fireflies. The circular walls were paneled in a creamy white, accented with intricate gold molding that framed not only the windows but also several beautifully detailed, built-in celestial diagrams.

A massive, arched window of seamless crystal dominated the far wall, offering a breathtaking panoramic view back towards the remote, mist-shrouded hills of the Ardnamurchan peninsula. Two plush armchairs upholstered in cream velvet with gleaming gold frames were arranged to the right on a thick, soft white rug that partly covered the geometric-tiled floor. To the left sat an elegant writing desk made of pale wood, a half-finished chart of the constellations lying upon it, the celestial bodies mapped out in elegant, silver ink. And, in the center of the room, positioned to take full advantage of the view, stood a magnificent brass telescope, gleaming as if it had been polished only yesterday.

“This was the Lady Elladora’s place,” Lethe said softly, her voice full of reverence. “Your mother, Mistress Ariela. She loved the stars.” The elf pointed a spindly finger at a half-finished star chart on an elegant writing desk. “She was teaching the Master Gabriel the constellations before… before they were gone.”

Ari stepped forward, her fingers tracing the delicate lines of her mother's handwriting. Remembering Marcos's lesson, she consciously reached out with her senses. The parchment was imbued with a faint, happy echo. Closing her eyes, she focused, allowing the memory to wash over her.

She saw two figures leaning over the desk, their silvery forms hazy and indistinct. One was a woman with kind eyes and a cascade of dark hair—Elladora. The other was a man with a gentle smile and silver hair—Gabriel Peverell.

“You see, my love?” Elladora’s voice was a soft, melodic whisper in Ari’s mind. “If you trace the line from that star to this one, it forms the wing of Cygnus, the swan. It is flying south for the winter.”

“I see a collection of shiny dots,” Gabriel’s voice teased, warm and full of affection. “But if you say it’s a swan, I will believe you. You see magic in everything.”

“That is because everything has magic in it, you silly man,” she replied, and Ari felt a wave of pure, uncomplicated love emanating from the echo.

Ari opened her eyes, a sharp pang of loss twisting in her gut. This wasn't the abstract grief for parents she'd never known; this was a visceral ache for a life of warmth and laughter that she never got to live. The love she had just felt was not the tragic, sacrificial love of Lily Potter. This was a quiet, happy love. A love that had simply existed, for its own sake. It was a kind of love she'd never been allowed to have.

She moved towards the brass telescope by the window, its metal cool beneath her fingers. She reached out again, seeking another echo.

This one was different. It was just Elladora, alone in the turret at night, one hand resting on her slightly rounded stomach. The echo was saturated with a fierce, protective love and whispered hopes.

“Hello, my little star,” Elladora’s phantom voice murmured, her gaze fixed on the heavens. “Ariela. Your father thinks it’s a beautiful name. I hope you like it. I hope you have his kind heart and… well, I suppose a bit of my Black family fire wouldn't hurt. This world can be a cold place. But you will always have us. We will keep you safe. We will show you all the magic in the stars.”

A single, hot tear escaped Ari's eye and traced a path down her cold cheek. The echo faded, leaving behind a deep silence and an iron-clad resolve. This was another mother she could have had. A living, breathing woman, full of hope, who had loved her daughter before she was even born. The grief was sharp and real, a personal loss that felt more immediate than the loss of Lily Potter. But it was not a replacement. It was a new, second loss, a doubling of her orphanhood. She had lost two mothers now, one a legend she could never live up to, the other a whisper of a happy life she would never know. These echoes, this room, they were not just ghosts of a life she’d lost; they were a promise of what she was now fighting to build. A home. A family. A future. She would honor the memory of both mothers—Lily, who had died for her, and Elladora, who had wanted nothing more than to live for her. It was a heavy burden, but it was also a purpose.

She turned to the little elf, her smile genuine and warm, though her eyes held a new, hard glint. “Thank you, Lethe. This is the best room in the castle.”

The days bled into one another, a grueling cycle of chilling lessons and brutal training. Ari was pushed to the very brink of her endurance. She was changing. The ghost of Harry Potter was receding, her noisy, noble protests growing fainter. In her place, a cold, quiet pragmatism was taking root. She looked at her hands, which could now cast curses as easily as they once cast a Patronus, and felt a chilling sense of purpose. But now, that purpose had a face. It was the memory of another mother’s handwriting on a star chart. It was the fierce loyalty of a house-elf. It was the hope of a home she never had. In the crucible of this dark education, she was coming to a terrible understanding: to survive the world they were going to build, she couldn't just be a hero. She would have to learn to wield the weapons of a monster, not for the love of the darkness, but to protect the small, fragile sparks of light she was so desperate to keep.

💀💀💀

Chapter Text

💀💀💀

Over two months had passed since their violent arrival in the past. The winds still howled around Stonehaven Isle with winter stubbornly refusing to give up its hold, lingering well into mid-March. But within the castle walls, a new, intense rhythm had taken hold. The days were a relentless cycle of study and training, each lesson pushing Ariela further from the girl she had been and forging her into something new, something harder.

This afternoon's lesson was not in the brutal training hall or the chilling crypts, but in the Great Hall itself, its vast space plunged into a deep twilight, the only light coming from the roaring fire in the hearth. Marcos stood before them, a calm silhouette against the flames.

“The magic of our bloodline, the magic of the Peverell name, is tied to the shadows,” he began, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed to be absorbed by the darkness around them. “It is not the crude, brutish magic of force, but the subtle art of influence and passage. You have learned to feel the echoes of the dead. Today, you will learn to wear the veil itself. You will learn to weave shadows.”

He gestured to the vast, gloomy space around them. “This is not a spell with an incantation. It is an act of will, an extension of your very being. You must feel the shadows in the room, not as an absence of light, but as a tangible substance, cool and heavy like liquid silk. Close your eyes. Do not try to command them yet. Simply feel them. Sense their weight, their texture, their ancient stillness.”

Ari closed her eyes, trying to follow his instruction. She could feel the familiar cold of the stone floor, hear the crackle of the fire, but the shadows remained just empty space.

Marvolo, beside her, let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh of impatience. Through their bond, she felt a flicker of his perception: he wasn't just feeling the shadows; he was seeing them with his magic as a living, shifting tapestry of dark energy that permeated the entire room. He was already seeing the patterns, the currents, the places where the darkness was deepest.

“You are looking with your eyes, Ariela,” Marcos’s voice cut in, though he hadn’t moved. “This is a magic you must feel in your blood. Forget sight. Forget hearing. Reach out with your core.”

Ari tried again, pushing past her frustration. This time, she felt a subtle shift, a coolness that was separate from the stone, a gentle pressure against her skin. It was faint, but it was there. She tried to pull it towards her, to wrap it around herself like a cloak, but it was like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. The shadows slipped away, leaving her feeling clumsy and exposed. She managed only to dim the space around her by a fraction, a pathetic graying of the air.

Marvolo had no such trouble. On his Second true attempt, he didn’t just pull the shadows; he commanded them. They flocked to him, a silent, swirling vortex of darkness that clung to his small form until he was a void in the shape of a boy, his crystal-blue eyes burning with cold light from within the gloom. He took a silent step, and then another, his footfalls utterly silent on the stone floor. It was a predatory, perfect concealment.

“Arrogance will be your undoing, Marvolo,” Marcos chided gently, his voice cutting through the silence. “You command the shadows, but you do not listen to them. They will obey, but they will not warn you of what lies beyond. Ariela, you struggle because you are fighting them. Do not command. Invite. The shadows are old friends of our line. Greet them as such. Remember, a soldier may obey an order, but a friend will warn you of the danger ahead.”

Right. Make friends with the dark, empty void, Ari thought, a familiar, bitter humor bubbling up. Merlin, my therapist, if I had one, would have a field day with this.

Pushing down the fresh sting of old betrayals, she followed his instruction. This time, she didn't pull. She opened herself to the darkness, a silent invitation, a quiet offering of kinship. The shadows responded instantly, flowing towards her, weaving around her limbs with a soft, whispering caress that felt less like a tool and more like an embrace. It felt natural. A homecoming. When she opened her eyes, the room looked the same, but she felt a weighty sense of stillness, of separation. She took a step, and the sound of her foot on the stone was a distant, muffled memory.

“Good,” Marcos approved. “Now, the next step. Shadow-stepping.” He demonstrated again, his form dissolving completely into the large shadow cast by a pillar, only to reform a second later from the shadow of the hearth across the hall. “It is not apparition. It is a physical journey through the veil, the space between spaces. It is faster, more silent, and untraceable. But it is also more dangerous. If your will falters while you are within the veil, you can be lost forever. For now, we will begin with small steps.”

He pointed to two patches of deep shadow on the floor, no more than five feet apart. “From here, to there. Do not think of it as moving from point A to point B. You must see the two shadows as one, connected by the veil. Step into one with the absolute certainty that you will emerge from the other. Your will is the bridge.”

Marvolo went first. Without hesitation, he stepped into the first patch of darkness and vanished with a faint, soundless ripple. An instant later, he emerged from the second patch, his expression one of bored triumph.

Ariela took a deep breath. She stepped into the shadow, trying to hold the destination in her mind. For a split second, she was nowhere—a cold, disorienting void of absolute silence and pressure. Her concentration wavered, a flicker of fear breaking her focus. She stumbled out of the same shadow she had entered, gasping, a wave of vertigo washing over her.

“Your fear makes you hesitate,” Marcos said, his voice patient. “You do not yet trust the shadows. You must. This is your birthright.”

She tried again, and again, each failure leaving her more disoriented and frustrated, the cold pressure of the veil clinging to her skin. Marvolo watched her struggles, his initial amusement souring into irritation. Her incompetence was grating. It was a reflection on him, on the power contained within her that was also a part of him.

“This is pitiful,” he finally snapped, his voice sharp with annoyance. “You are letting your fear master you. The shadows are not your enemy.”

“I’m trying,” she shot back, her cheeks flushed with frustration. “My apologies that I'm not as proficient as the almighty Dark Lord, who has at least fifty years of practice on me.”

“Excuses. Trying is insufficient,” he hissed. “Success is the only acceptable outcome.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowed in thought. The teacher in him, the part that had guided his Knights and then Death Eaters with ruthless efficiency, warred with his contempt for her weakness. The former won out. Her failure was an inefficiency he could not tolerate. “You feel the pressure of the veil, yes? The cold?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“That is where your focus wavers. You panic. You must anchor yourself. Our bond,” he said, the words clipped and precise, “can be used for more than sharing my displeasure. I can project my own certainty, my own mastery of the path. It will be disorienting. But it will show you the way.”

Ariela stared at him, stunned. He was offering to help. Not out of kindness, but out of an obsessive need for perfection, for control. It was the most Marvolo-like offer of assistance she could imagine.

“Stand beside me,” he commanded. She moved to his side, her apprehension a palpable thing. “Do not fight me. Open your mind to the connection. I will guide you.”

She took a deep breath and gave a short, sharp nod. He stepped into the shadow, and this time, he pulled her with him, not physically, but through the psychic tether of their shared soul.

The world dissolved. For Ariela, the initial plunge was the same cold, terrifying void. But this time, it was different. Woven through her own fear was his absolute, unwavering certainty. She felt his perception of the veil—not as a crushing void, but as a silent, waiting corridor. His will was a steel cable, pulling them through the darkness. She felt his destination lock in place, a beacon of solid intent. Through him, she understood. It wasn't about pushing through the darkness; it was about knowing, with absolute conviction, you would emerge. Her own fear receded, replaced by his cold, commanding calm.

An instant later, they reformed in the second patch of shadow across the hall. She stumbled, but she didn’t fall, her feet finding the solid stone floor. The vertigo was still there, but it was manageable, lessened by the shared experience.

Marvolo pulled back from their mental connection abruptly, the sudden separation leaving Ariela feeling strangely adrift. He looked at her, his expression a facade of cool analysis, but she could feel the faint tremor of exertion from him through their bond.

“Now,” he said, his voice flat. “Do it alone.”

The lesson was clear, failure was not an option but he had shown her the way when needed.

💀💀💀

Later that night, Marvolo was in his study, poring over a dense text on territorial warding, when the intrusion came. It was not a sound or a presence, but a wave of raw, messy emotion that slammed into his consciousness, a bleed-through from the Horcrux bond that was as unwelcome as it was disorienting. Fear. Helplessness. And betrayal so sharp and all consuming it felt like a shard of ice twisting in his own gut.

He slammed the book shut, a low hiss of irritation escaping his lips. It was her. Ariela. Her chaotic, sentimental emotions were polluting the pristine quiet of his mind. He had felt it before—her brief flashes of anxiety, her flicker of hope in the solar but this was different. This was a deluge, an uncontrolled torrent of memory and pain from a life that was supposed to be over.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Let her drown in her own weakness. But the feeling was persistent, a grating noise that made it impossible to concentrate. An unstable vessel was a liability. He rose from his chair, his movements fluid and silent. This had to be dealt with, not out of any sense of compassion, but for the sake of his own peace and quiet.

He slipped from his room, the shadows of the corridor clinging to him like a second skin. He arrived at her door and passed through it as if it were smoke, reforming inside her chambers. The room was dark, the only light a faint glow from the dying embers in the hearth. Ariela was thrashing in her bed, tangled in the fine linen sheets, whimpering in her sleep.

She was back in the Headmaster’s office, the silvery threads of memory wrapping around her like chains. She could hear Dumbledore’s voice, calm and reasonable, as he condemned her to death. She saw Ron’s face, pale and silent. She saw Hermione’s, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gave a single, sharp nod of agreement. “For the greater good, Harry.” Their faces turned away from her, leaving her utterly, terrifyingly alone.

“Stop it.”

The voice was sharp, cold, and real. It sliced through the dream like a shard of glass. Ariela’s eyes flew open, her heart hammering against her ribs. A figure stood over her bed, a small silhouette against the faint glow of the fire. For a terrifying second, she thought the nightmare had followed her out.

“Marvolo?” she gasped, pushing herself up, the dream-fear clinging to her like a shroud.

“Your distress is distracting,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. He stood there awkwardly, his arms crossed, clearly out of his depth. He was a master of pain and fear, not of comfort.

“It was just a nightmare,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“It was a memory,” he corrected, his tone clinical, dissecting the issue with cold logic. “It has no power here. They are not here. They cannot hurt you.” He sounded as though he were explaining a simple potion ingredient.

He took a hesitant step closer. He was clearly uncomfortable, the foreign territory of offering solace a far more challenging landscape than any dueling ring. He flicked his wand, and a glass of water shimmered into existence on her bedside table.

“Drink,” he commanded. It was not a suggestion. He watched her with his unnervingly intense crystal eyes as her shaking hands reached for the glass. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of her ragged breathing.

“They will not hurt you again,” he stated, his voice a low, possessive hiss. “I will not allow anyone else to harm you.”

Without another word, he turned and dissolved back into the shadows. He had addressed the problem; now it was to be concluded. He left Ariela alone in the sudden, ringing silence.

She stared at the spot where he had been, her heart still pounding, a new kind of chill spreading through her. The monster who haunted her past had just… comforted her. It was a clumsy, almost insulting attempt, born of his own selfish need for quiet, but it was an act of care nonetheless. His words echoed in her mind. Anyone else. The implication was as clear as it was terrifying. In his mind, he was the only one who had the right to hurt her now. His comfort was not a kindness; it was a claim of ownership. And that, she realized with a fresh wave of dread and confusion, was somehow more terrifying than any of his threats, and more frightening than any nightmare.

💀💀💀

The following morning, the three of them sat in the study. A tense, thoughtful silence had fallen after their breakfast. It was Marvolo who finally broke it, his voice calm and precise, devoid of the childish tones it should have had.

“It is time we discussed our future. Specifically, our education.”

Ari stiffened. She knew where this was going.

“Hogwarts,” Marvolo stated, his gaze fixed on Marcos. “We will be attending on the first of September.”

The name of the school was a punch to the gut. Ari’s mind was flooded with memories: the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, the scent of the Forbidden Forest, the sting of betrayal in the Headmaster’s office. “No,” she said, her voice low and firm. “Absolutely not.”

Marvolo turned his unnervingly intelligent eyes on her. “Do not be a sentimental fool, Ariela.”

“It’s not sentiment, it’s logic,” she shot back, her voice gaining strength. “Why would we go back? I’m learning more here with Marcos and you than I ever would in a classroom. Necromancy and your particular brand of dark arts… none of that is on the Hogwarts curriculum. We could be homeschooled, take our OWLs and NEWTs whenever suits, and continue our real education without interruption. School seems unnecessary.” She leveled her gaze at him. “Besides, how will you possibly cope with being surrounded by actual children all day? It will be hard enough for me, and I’m what eighteen now. You’re seventy. I can’t imagine you suffering fools gladly in Potions class, Merlin you’ll be a hundred times worse than Snape.”

Marvolo’s eye twitched, her points hitting closer to home than he would ever admit. The thought of enduring the mindless chatter of his ‘peers’ was, frankly, nauseating. But strategy overrode his personal distaste.

“Hogwarts,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “is a microcosm of the society we must conquer. It is a political landscape in miniature. To isolate ourselves here is to be blind. Where previously I sought to rule through terror from the outside. It was inefficient. It bred resentment and rebellion. The new order will not be built with curses from a distance, but with conversations in the corridors, with friendships forged in the Slytherin common room. We will earn their loyalty before they even realize it has been given. We will become their leaders, their confidants. We will become indispensable.”

"Conversations and friendships," Ari repeated, a dry, humorless smile touching her lips. "I'm sure there will still be a healthy dose of fear and a few well-placed curses. Just for old time's sake."

He ignored her sarcasm, his gaze unwavering. “Furthermore, there is the matter of Grindelwald. He may be weakened by the loss of the Elder Wand, but he is far from defeated. His influence spreads across Europe like a plague. His followers will be looking for a new source of power, and the Peverells have always been known to hold Death’s favour. You and I, Ariela, are beacons. Hiding here is a temporary solution. Hogwarts is the most heavily warded fortress in Britain. By my side, it is the one place you will be relatively safe from his agents.”

The possessive undercurrent was unmistakable, but the argument was, infuriatingly, sound. The thought of returning to that castle, of walking the same halls where she had been led to her death, made her soul ache. But the alternative, cowering on an island while Marvolo plotted alone, or facing Grindelwald’s forces without allies was untenable. And there was another reason, a fragile, desperate hope she barely dared to acknowledge. Hogwarts was her home. It was the only real home she had ever known. And if she were there, if she were by his side, perhaps she could steer him. Perhaps she could mitigate the damage, be a counterweight to his ambition.

She took a deep breath, the internal war finally reaching a ceasefire. The old Harry would have refused. But the old Harry was a pawn who died for other people's plans. Ariela Peverell would make her own moves. “Fine,” she said, her voice tight with a reluctance that was almost physically painful. “I’ll go. To keep an eye on you.” The words were for him, but the truth was for her: she was going to reclaim her home, and she would be damned if she let him burn it down without a fight.

Marvolo gave a small, triumphant smile. He had won. He knew he would.

“Then it is settled,” Marcos said, breaking the tense silence. He had watched the entire exchange with a calm, discerning eye. “But attending Hogwarts is only part of the equation. I gain the power you seek, we should not simply appear out of nowhere. We must start to weave ourselves into the fabric of society. We must build alliances. And there is only one place to start.”

He looked at Ari. “Your mother was Elladora Black. Her family is ancient, powerful, and at the very heart of pure-blood Britain. Your cousin, Arcturus Black, is the current Lord of the House and leader of the Dark Faction in the Wizengamot. Although I may be an unknown, the return of his lost Peverell cousin, with a direct claim to another ancient and powerful line, will be an event he cannot ignore. It represents a significant opportunity to consolidate power.”

He rose and walked to his writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill embossed with the Peverell crest. “Tonight, I will write to Lord Black,” he stated, his voice taking on a formal tone. “Lord to Lord. It is the proper way.” His gaze flickered between Ariela and Marvolo, a master strategist moving his pieces into place. “I will inform him that I, as Lord Peverell Regent, have returned to Britain after many years abroad. The time has come for my children to be educated at Hogwarts.”

He looked at Ariela. "I will explain that after the tragic death of my cousin Gabriel and his wife Elladora, I took you in and have raised you as my ward, alongside my son. For your safety, I thought it best to remain abroad. However, now, as the Heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, it is time for you to return and take your place in our society."

His eyes then settled on Marvolo, a flicker of something calculating within them. "I will, of course, also mention my son Marvolo. A boy of singular power who has recently been confirmed as the Heir of Slytherin. For a family as obsessed with lineage as the Blacks, the re-emergence of the Peverell line, coupled with the chance to ally themselves with the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, will be an irresistible lure. They will see a future of unparalleled power through an alliance with our houses."

Marcos set down the quill for a moment, his gaze distant. "The letter is the first step. The next is more direct. We must establish a foothold for you both in the heart of British politics. The Wizengamot sits in two days." His eyes met Ariela's. "I have no interest in their endless posturing, but for your future, your family's power must be recognized. I will claim the four Peverell seats, as is my right as your Lord Regent." Then, he turned to Marvolo. "The Slytherin line also commands four seats, which have lain dormant for centuries. As you are not of age, you cannot claim them yourself. However, with your assent, I can claim them by proxy on your behalf. Eight seats, speaking with one voice, will give you a considerable platform from which to build your influence when you both come of age."

Marvolo considered this, his expression unreadable. Ariela expected him to balk at the idea of anyone acting on his behalf, but his ambition was more pragmatic than his pride. "You will act as my proxy," Marvolo agreed, his voice a low command rather than a concession. "But you will vote only as I direct. Our voice may be singular, but the will behind it is mine."

“Excuse me,” Ariela interjected, her voice quiet but laced with steel. She leaned forward, her green eyes meeting Marvolo’s with an unblinking intensity. “If four of those seats are mine, then it will be our voice. Not just yours. You may control the Slytherin votes, but the Peverell votes are mine. I will not be a silent partner in this alliance.”

Marvolo’s eyes narrowed, a flash of annoyance crossing his features at her audacity. But before he could put her in her place, Marcos cut in smoothly.

“Of course,” Marcos said, his gaze shifting between them, a flicker of something almost like pride in his eyes as he looked at Ariela. “A unified front requires a unified will. The Peverell-Slytherin bloc will vote as one, following discussion between its heirs.” He gave a slight, formal nod. "The will of the Heirs shall be respected." He then dipped his quill in the ink, the scratching sound loud in the silent room as he began to craft a masterpiece of formal courtesy and veiled power. As Marcos focused on the letter, Marvolo turned his cool, assessing gaze upon Ariela.

“Your etiquette has improved, but your knowledge of British society, its politics, and its customs is still lacking,” he stated, his voice a low command that cut through the quiet. “We have only weeks before we are to be presented to the very heart of that society. It is insufficient, but it will have to do. Your education must be accelerated.” He rose from his chair with an unnerving grace. “Come. The library. There is much you still need to learn if you are to avoid embarrassing us.”

Ariela bristled at his tone but followed him from the room without a word. She had agreed to this, after all. He led her to the vast library, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and leather.

"You said you would build loyalty in the Slytherin common room," she began, her tone neutral as she pulled a book on ancient runes from a nearby shelf. "What is it you think they'll be loyal to?"

Marvolo’s expression twisted into something of pure disgust. “They will be loyal to a world that isn't being actively desecrated.” He finally raised his eyes from the page, his gaze sharp and venomous. “You still don't understand. The issue was never truly about blood, Ariela. That was a vulgar simplification for the masses. The true problem with Muggle-borns is the disease of their ignorance. They come into our world, and they don't see its heart, its soul, its magic. They see a fantasy, a secret club where they can wave a stick and make a feather float. They have no respect. No understanding.”

His voice dropped, laced with a visceral hatred. “They bring their mundane sensibilities, their Christian god, and their narrow worldview. Our traditions, our connections to the earth and the veil are seen as devilry. They demand we change to suit them. They leech from our world while poisoning it from within, replacing our sacred days with their vapid, hollow holidays.” His hand clenched into a fist. “They ignore the true sources of power—Samhain, Yule, Ostara, Beltane—because they are afraid of what they cannot comprehend. It is not just dilution, Ariela. It is a slow, creeping death of our culture, of our magic. A desecration.”

He stopped, his crystal-blue eyes boring into her. “In comparison to the future. Can you feel it? The difference in the magic that surrounds us, in the very air you breathe?”

Ari frowned. Now that he mentioned it, she had felt it. A vibrancy, a thrumming energy in the world that was more potent than what she remembered. She had dismissed it as the ancient power of Stonehaven Isle, but it was more than that. It was everywhere. “I feel more,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “There’s more ambient magic. I thought it was just the castle.”

A cruel, knowing smile touched his lips. “It is the world itself. It is Mother Magic, and in this time, we still give back to her. These rituals, these festivals, they are not just celebrations. They are offerings. We pour our magic into the land, and in return, the land nourishes our magic. It is a sacred symbiosis. But in our shared past, Dumbledore and his Light faction, in their bid to appease the Muggle-borns, had outlawed most of the olde rituals. They called them ‘dark.’ They cut us off from our source. They starved our world to make it more palatable for the invaders.”

He leaned forward, his voice a low, intense whisper. “That is what they destroy. They are not just ignorant; they are a blight. And I will not allow them to kill our world again.”

A cold sort of understanding dawned on Ari. It was a twisted, elitist argument, but it was laced with truth. "I was never taught any of this," she said, her voice quiet but laced with a new hardness. "It was just Halloween and Christmas. Another thing Dumbledore conveniently left out." She met his gaze, her own burning with a cold fire. "I want to learn. Everything. If this is a source of power, I will not be left ignorant of it again."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Marvolo’s face. It was the look of a tutor whose student had finally grasped a difficult but essential concept. “A wise decision,” he said, the cruel smile returning. “And the greatest irony is that your own birth in this life falls on one of the most potent days of the year.”

Ari looked at him, confused. “My birthday is May first.”

“Precisely,” he said, his smile widening into something sharp and dangerous. “Beltane. The great fire festival that marks the beginning of summer. A day of rampant life magic, of fertility, of potent creation. A day when the veil thins, not to the dead as it does at Samhain, but to the world of the Fae. To be born on such a day is to be blessed with the wild, untamed magic of life itself.” His gaze intensified, a look of chilling insight in his eyes. “Do not mistake the source of that gift, however. The irony is not that you, Death’s Chosen, were simply born with an affinity for life. The ultimate irony is that Death itself gave you this gift. It remade you, placed your soul in a vessel born on a day of life’s most potent celebration. For what is Death without life? It is nothing. One cannot exist without the other. The ultimate balance. You carry the gift of Death in your Peverell blood, and the gift of Life in the very flesh of your new body. You are a paradox, Ariela. A walking contradiction of the highest order. A power that, if you ever learn to control it, will be formidable indeed.”

The information settled in Ari’s mind, another piece of a puzzle she was only just beginning to assemble. Her birth, her very existence in this new life, was tied to the magic that Dumbledore's rhetoric had sought to erase. It was another example of the kind of vital, intrinsic knowledge he had kept from future generations, reinforcing the bitter truth that her entire magical education was significantly lacking.

“We will begin with the next significant day, which is Ostara, the spring equinox, at the beginning of next week on the twenty-first of March,” Marvolo continued, his tone once again that of a professor lecturing a student. “A time of balance, rebirth, and potent magical equilibrium. It is the perfect opportunity to align our magic with the turning of the year, as our ancestors did.” He closed his book with a soft thud, the sound one of finality. "I will make the necessary preparations for a ritual."

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Chapter Text

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The Wizengamot chamber was a cavern of dark, oppressive stone. Tiered benches rose into the gloom, filled with the witches and wizards who held the reins of power in Britain. The air was thick with the weight of centuries of judgment, a palpable miasma of ambition, prejudice, and old, bitter rivalries. On one side sat the so-called Light Faction, a collection of older, established families led by the stern, but widely respected Lord Owen Abbott. Opposite them sat the Dark Faction, a bloc of pure-blood houses, their unspoken leader the imposing, hawk-nosed Lord Arcturus Black. Between them lay the unaligned members of the Neutral Faction, their votes the spoils in a constant, silent war.

The session was just beginning, the Chief Warlock, an elderly, wizened wizard named Eliphas Gore, brought the chamber to order with a sharp bang of his gavel. "This session of the Wizengamot is now open," he announced, his thin voice echoing in the chamber. "As is tradition, we will first hear any petitions for new members or changes in factional allegiance before we proceed to the day's agenda."

As he spoke, the great doors to the chamber swung open. A junior Ministry representative, looking nervous and important, walked in. A single figure followed him, tall, dressed in impeccably tailored robes of a deep, midnight blue that bore a subtle, silver raven crest over the heart. The man moved with an unnatural grace, his footsteps silent on the ancient stone as he descended to the center of the floor, the representative falling back to the side. A shocked, curious silence fell over the chamber.

"State your name and your purpose," the Chief Warlock demanded, his eyes narrowed.

The man stopped, his keen, light-blue eyes sweeping the chamber, missing nothing. “I am Marcos Antioch Peverell,” he announced, his voice a calm, resonant baritone that carried to every corner of the room without magical amplification.

A wave of murmurs and gasps rippled through the tiers. Peverell. The name was a thunderclap from history, a name of myth and immense power.

“The House of Peverell has been dormant for generations,” Lord Nott grunted from the Dark benches.

“Dormant, Lord Nott, but not extinct,” Marcos corrected smoothly. “I have returned to Britain to see to my childrens’ education. And to reclaim what is ours.” He turned to the Chief Warlock. “I have come today to claim the four seats of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell, as is my right as the acting Lord Regent for the last direct descendant of my cousin Gabriel, the Heiress Ariela Amalthea Peverell.”

He produced a scroll, sealed with the official Gringotts mark, and presented it to the Chief Warlock. The aged wizard took it and placed it upon a large, flat obsidian stone set before his podium. The magic of the chamber stirred. Runes carved around the stone flared with a silver light, which flowed from the stone to the scroll, verifying its authenticity and the magic of the bloodline within.

“The claim is valid,” Gore announced, his voice filled with a new weight. “The seat of House Peverell is hereby reactivated and granted to Lord Regent Marcos Peverell, with all four seats attendant to the line.”

A space in the front tier of the neutral section began to shimmer with a silver light. From the ancient stone floor, a high-backed chair of polished ebony rose silently, forming itself from pure magic and settling into place. As the magic of the chamber accepted him, the midnight blue of Marcos’s own robes bled away, replaced by the formal, deep plum robes of a voting member of the Wizengamot, the silver Peverell crest now emblazoned over his heart.

But Marcos was not finished. “Furthermore,” he continued, his voice ringing with authority, “I have another claim to present.” He produced a second scroll. “By right of blood, my son and heir, Marvolo Cadmus Peverell, has been confirmed by Gringotts as the sole Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin.”

This time, the chamber erupted. Shouts of disbelief and excitement echoed off the stone walls. Lord Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with avarice, while the other lords of the Dark Faction exchanged stunned, excited glances. Lord Black, however, did not look surprised. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face as he sat back in his seat, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrest not in shock, but in triumph. The news had simply confirmed what the Peverell letter had promised. Across the aisle, the members of the Light Faction murmured amongst themselves, their faces a mixture of apprehension and disbelief.

“The Slytherin line commands an additional four seats,” Marcos stated, his voice cutting through the din. “As my son is not of age, I claim these seats by proxy, with his full assent.”

The Chief Warlock, looking stunned, took the second scroll and placed it upon the obsidian stone. The runes flared again, this time with a powerful green light that seemed to make the very air hum. The magic surged from the stone, not to create a new seat, but striking the newly created Peverell bench. The ebony wood pulsed with the emerald light, and the silver Peverell crest above it was momentarily entwined with a spectral, coiling serpent.

Eight seats. The unspoken thought hung in the air, heavy and potent. A new, major power bloc, controlled by one man, had just materialized out of thin air.

“To which faction does the Peverell-Slytherin bloc declare its allegiance?” Lord Black called out, his voice sharp with anticipation. This was the crucial question. Eight seats could tip the balance of power decisively.

Marcos’s gaze swept the room, from Black’s eager face to Lord Abbott's guarded one. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “For the present, we will take our place among the Neutral Faction,” he declared. “We will observe the political landscape of our new home before committing our considerable influence to any cause.”

The statement was a masterstroke. It was a declaration of independence and a clear message: their allegiance was for sale, and the price would be high. He gave a slight, formal bow to the Chief Warlock and then, with measured steps, ascended to the newly activated Peverell-Slytherin seat in the neutral section. He sat, a figure of calm and power, his presence changing the entire dynamic of the room. The rest of the session proceeded under a new, palpable tension, with every lord stealing glances at the silent, enigmatic man who now held a terrifying amount of power.

When the session finally concluded, Marcos rose. As he made his way down from the tiers, he was intercepted not by the eager Dark Faction, but by the shrewd and patient Lord Greengrass, a prominent member of the Neutral bloc.

“Lord Peverell,” Greengrass began, his tone one of cautious welcome. “A momentous day for the Wizengamot. It is good to see an old and respected name return to these chambers.”

“Lord Greengrass,” Marcos returned with a polite, but noncommittal, nod.

“Your decision to remain neutral is a wise one,” Greengrass continued, his eyes assessing Marcos carefully. “The political climate is volatile. A man of your influence could be a great force for stability.” For ten minutes, Greengrass circled the topic, speaking of trade agreements and proposed regulations, but his true purpose was clear: to gauge Marcos’s leanings, to test for weaknesses, and to plant the first seeds of a potential alliance within the Neutrals. Marcos, for his part, was the picture of courteous interest, offering thoughtful but ultimately vague responses, giving the other lord nothing concrete to grasp.

Finally, extricating himself with a polite excuse, Marcos left the chamber. As the great doors closed behind him, the plum of his Wizengamot robes dissolved back into his own midnight blue. And there, waiting for him in the marble corridor, was the delegation he had been expecting. Lord Black stood at its head, flanked by a smirking Lord Malfoy and a grim-faced Lord Rosier, their impatience barely concealed.

“Lord Peverell,” Arcturus Black said, his tone smooth as polished stone. “We were beginning to think Lord Greengrass had spirited you away. A most dramatic return to our political sphere. We are delighted to welcome you.”

“Lord Black,” Marcos acknowledged with a nod. “Lord Malfoy. Lord Rosier.”

“A masterful entrance,” Malfoy purred, his eyes glinting. “To claim two of the most ancient lines at once, and eight seats. You have certainly made your presence known.”

“I merely reclaimed what was ours,” Marcos replied, his voice even.

“And your decision to align with the Neutrals,” Lord Black added, stepping closer, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “A truly inspired bit of theatre. A clear message to Abbott and his ilk that the old ways are not so easily dismissed. It shows a respect for tradition that has been sorely lacking in this chamber of late.”

Rosier, who had been silent until now, gave a thin, cruel smile. “Indeed. Some of us still believe in the sanctity of our world, free from the dilution of outside influence.”

It was an ambush, just as Marvolo had predicted. A blatant attempt to court his seats before Lord Abbott and the Light could make their move. Marcos’s smile did not reach his eyes.

“My only allegiance is to the preservation of magic and the prosperity of my family, gentlemen,” Marcos stated, his words carefully chosen. “I will align myself with those whose actions best serve that purpose.”

“A noble goal, and one we share,” Arcturus said smoothly. “Which is why you and your family must allow us to welcome you properly. I was, in fact, just about to dispatch an owl to you in response to your letter. My wife Melania and I are hosting a small social function at our home in three weeks’ time. It would be an honor if you and your children would attend. A chance for a more private conversation among like-minded individuals. It is crucial for the children to be introduced to the right sort of people before they begin their schooling.”

The invitation was a strategic play wrapped in velvet. An open door to the heart of their power base, where Marcos and his children could be properly courted and assessed.

“We would be delighted, Lord Black,” Marcos replied, his voice a silken promise. “It is, as you say, time we were reacquainted with our peers.”

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The three weeks leading up to the Black family’s “small social function” were an exercise in controlled, suffocating pressure. The announcement of Marcos's success in the Wizengamot, and the eight seats he now controlled, had sent ripples through their small world. The weight of expectation was a tangible thing, a fourth presence in the castle.

Their education intensified. The lessons in etiquette, politics, and pure-blood customs became relentless. But it was the promise of the Ostara ritual that truly consumed Ari’s thoughts. Marvolo, true to his word, had taken charge of the preparations with a single-minded focus.

On the morning of the spring equinox, he led them not to the crypts, but to a windswept clifftop on the far side of the island. An ancient, weathered stone circle stood there, its granite monoliths thrumming with a quiet, ancient power. Marcos had explained that it predated the castle itself. A flat, central altar stone was already prepared with offerings: a bowl of freshly gathered rainwater, seeds, colourful spring flowers, and two unlit white candles.

“Today, light and dark are in perfect balance,” Marvolo began, his voice surprisingly resonant in the open air. Today he was a high priest performing a sacred duty. “Today we do not take from magic. We give back. We thank the earth for its slumber and welcome the coming light and life. We offer a piece of our own magic to nourish the land, and in return, it will nourish us.”

He instructed them to take their places around the altar. Marcos stood as a silent observer, a guardian of the olde ways, allowing Marvolo to lead.

“This is a ritual of pure intent,” Marvolo explained, his crystal-blue eyes fixed on Ari. “You must feel the intent in your core. The gratitude for the cycle. The joy of rebirth.”

He began a low chant in a language Ari didn’t recognize, but the magic in the words was undeniable. It resonated with the thrumming power of the stones, with the crash of the waves below, with the very air they breathed. He lit the two candles, their flames burning with an unnatural steadiness in the wind. He then took a single seed, imbued it with a silent pulse of his magic, a feeling of cold, focused intent, and placed it in the center of the altar.

It was Ari’s turn. She took a seed, looking at it thoughtfully. The concept of joy was no longer a completely foreign language. She had felt it in the quiet solitude of the solar, in learning new fields of magic, in the simple pleasure of reading a book in the library. She had happy memories now, small sparks of light in the encroaching darkness. But how to translate that feeling into this? How to pour an emotion into a physical object? She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the memory of Lethe’s happy squeak, but the magic remained inert. It wasn't a lack of feeling, but a lack of understanding, of technique.

Marvolo’s voice cut through her concentration, sharp and thoughtful, but not unkind. “You are trying to push the memory into the seed. That is not how it works. An echo of a past joy is a pale imitation of true power.” He paused, his expression shifting to one of calculation, the teacher emerging once more. “In this life you were born on Beltane. You are a creature of life as much as you are a child of death. The magic of life flows through you, whether you acknowledge it or not. Do not try to channel a feeling. Channel your nature. Let the innate magic of your being, the very essence of your Beltane birth, flow into the seed.”

His words struck a chord. She was born on a day of potent life magic and she wanted to see if she could use that magic. She took another seed. This time, she didn't try to think of a happy memory. She focused on the core of her being, on the strange, thrumming duality of Death’s favour and Life’s blessing. She let the raw, untamed magic of her core flow, not forcing it, but allowing it to spill from her fingertips into the tiny seed in her palm. It grew warm, then hot, and a tiny, vibrant green shoot unfurled from it in a matter of seconds. It pulsed with a brilliant, vital light that was a stark contrast to the cold power of necromancy. For a moment, she felt it—a connection to the living, breathing world that was pure and untainted. A connection to the mother who had given her this life.

Smiling wide, she placed the living seed on the altar. The moment it touched the stone, a wave of palpable energy rolled out from the circle.

Marcos then stepped forward, placing his own hand on the altar stone. He offered no seed, but poured a stream of his own powerful magic into the circle; a feeling of wisdom, of duty, and of protection. The energy from the circle intensified, the air shimmering, the salty tang of the sea momentarily replaced by the rich scent of damp earth and blooming flowers.

Marvolo raised his hands, his voice ringing out in the ancient tongue, a final incantation to seal their offering. "As we give, so shall we receive. Let the magic of this place be renewed. Let our own magic be aligned with the turning of the world." The candle flames flared once, bright as stars, and then extinguished themselves, leaving behind a peaceful, humming silence.

“A potent offering,” Marcos murmured, his face holding a rare, impressed expression. “Mother Magic is pleased.”

The feeling of life, of creation, lingered with Ari long after the ritual was complete. While Marvolo retreated to the library to consult a tome on ancient power structures and Marcos disappeared into his study, Ari found herself drawn to the castle’s central courtyard. The wild, enclosed garden, with its resilient flowers and hardy grasses, was a splash of vibrant life she hadn't truly appreciated before. She noticed a patch of flowering sea thrift being choked out by some stubborn weeds.

In her old life, gardening had been a chore forced upon her by Petunia. But it was also a secret solace. She had loved the feel of the soil, the quiet satisfaction of coaxing life from the earth, of bringing order and beauty to a neglected corner of the world. Here, it was different. Here, it was a choice.

She knelt on the soft grass, the fabric of her fine robes brushing against the flagstones, and began to gently work the weeds free with her bare hands. The soil was cool and damp, and the simple, repetitive motion was calming, a welcome antidote to the high-stakes world of politics and dark magic.

A soft pop announced Lethe’s arrival. The little elf wrung her hands, her large eyes wide with concern. “Mistress Ariela! You should not be dirtying your hands! Lethe can be doing that for you!”

Ari looked up and gave the elf a genuine, warm smile. “It’s alright, Lethe. I like it. It makes me feel good.” She patted the patch of grass beside her. “Come on, you can help me if you want.”

Lethe’s ears drooped slightly with confusion but then perked up as she saw the genuine peace on Ari's face. “If Mistress is wanting to garden, then Lethe will help!” With another pop, she returned holding a small trowel and a pair of gardening gloves, which she offered to Ari with a reverent bow.

Ari laughed softly, taking the gloves. "You don't have to bow, Lethe. We're just pulling up weeds."

"Lethe is honored to be pulling weeds with the great Mistress Ariela!" the elf squeaked, her voice full of earnest devotion. She began pointing out the different plants with a surprising expertise. "This one is dittany, Mistress! Very good for healing potions. And this one," she gestured to a patch of vibrant purple flowers, "is monkshood. Very pretty, but very poisonous! Styx says Master Marvolo has been asking for some for his studies."

"Of course he has," Ari muttered under her breath, a wry smile touching her lips. "Let's make sure we get all the weeds away from the dittany, then. I have a feeling I might be needing it."

They worked side-by-side in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of gulls. Lethe, seeing Ari’s gentle touch with the plants, showed her which flowers attracted shimmering, fist-sized sprites that darted through the air like living jewels. Ari found herself relaxing in a way she hadn't since her arrival, the simple act of nurturing life a balm to her fractured soul. It was a quiet rebellion of normalcy in a life that was anything but.

That evening, the Great Hall was transformed. The house-elves, under Marcos’s direction, had created a feast that was a world away from the heavy, formal dinners they had been practicing with. The long table was laden with dishes celebrating the equinox: roasted chicken with herbs, fresh-baked bread studded with seeds and nuts, a salad of the first spring greens, and bowls of brightly coloured berries. Honey cakes, glistening and warm, sat beside a pitcher of spiced cider that steamed with a fragrant, cinnamon-scented mist. The air was filled with the scent of food and flowers, a vibrant contrast to the usual quiet solemnity of the castle.

For the first time, there were no lessons in etiquette, no strategic discussions. There was only the quiet crackle of the fire and the shared meal. Ari took a bite of a honey cake and felt a surprising warmth spread through her, a faint echo of the vital magic from the ritual. It was a clean, wholesome feeling, so different from the cold residue left by the dark curses she practiced with Marvolo. This tasted of life.

“The traditions are important,” Marcos said, his voice softer than usual as he watched them. “They remind us that we are part of something larger than ourselves. That our magic is a gift from Mother Magic, and one that requires respect and thanks.”

Even Marvolo seemed to shed some of his usual predatory intensity. He ate with a quiet focus, and when Ari asked about the spiced cider, he explained its origins and the specific magical properties of the herbs used with a detached, academic precision that held none of his usual condescension. For a few brief hours, they were not a Necromancer and his two volatile wards, not a Dark Lord and once prophesied enemy. They were simply a family, sharing a meal, brought together by the ancient magic they had just honoured. It was a fragile truce, a fleeting moment of peace in the eye of the storm they were creating, but for Ari, it was a lifeline. It was a memory she could hold onto, a reminder that even in the deepest shadows, there could still be sparks of light.

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Chapter Text

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The rest of the preparations passed in a blur of last-minute instruction. Finally, the night of the party arrived.

Lethe and Styx helped them dress. Ari’s robes were the colour of a deep, twilight storm cloud, a shimmering silver-grey that made her moonlight hair seem to glow and her green eyes appear as chips of emerald. The cut was elegant and severe, projecting an image of quiet, untouchable grace. Marvolo was a study in stark elegance, his Acromantula silk robes of the darkest charcoal.

“You look acceptable,” he stated, his gaze appraising.

“And you,” she retorted, her voice a soft, silken mockery, “look like you’re about to foreclose on an orphanage. It’s a very commanding look for an eleven-year-old.”

Marcos appeared, the picture of a powerful, enigmatic lord. “Tonight,” he said, his voice calm, “you are the embodiment of our future. They will see children, and in that, they will see an opportunity. Let them. Let them see children, but show them that you are not pawns to be manipulated. Let them see your power, but let them guess at its depth. Let your unity unnerve them. Are you ready?”

“Born ready,” Ari murmured with a humour only she could appreciate.

They Flooed into the entrance chamber just off the main hall of the Black ancestral home. The air was thick with the scent of old magic, beeswax, and the cloying perfume of too many flowers struggling to mask the underlying scent of decay. Their entrance was perfectly timed. A house-elf announced their arrival.

“Lord Marcos Antioch Peverell, Lord Regent of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Peverell. Heiress Ariela Amalthea Peverell, Heiress to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Peverell. And Heir Marvolo Cadmus Peverell-Slytherin, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin.”

A hush fell over the crowded room. Every head turned. They moved through the crowd, a silent, unified trinity. Lord Arcturus Black, flanked by other lords of the Dark Faction—Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, Avery, Nott, and Travers among them—approached. While their expressions were of polite welcome, their eyes betrayed them. Their gazes swept over Ariela not with curiosity, but with the cold calculation of a Gringotts goblin assessing an artifact. They saw four Peverell votes, an ancient name, and a powerful bloodline ripe for acquisition. She was a prize to be won for their sons. Then their eyes shifted to Marvolo, and the calculation turned to a covetous gleam. The Heir of Slytherin. To bind him to their family would be to secure a dynasty, to gain the ultimate bragging rights of breeding the next generation of Slytherin's line.

“Lord Peverell,” Arcturus said, his voice a smooth baritone. “A pleasure to welcome you.” He gestured for Marcos to join him in a more private corner of the drawing-room, the other senior lords of the Dark Faction—including Arcturus’s cousin Pollux, Lord Malfoy, Lord Rosier and Lord Nott—following like satellites into his orbit.

“Your entrance at the Wizengamot was most effective,” Arcturus began, once they were sure they were not being overheard. “Eight votes, declared Neutral. A masterful play.”

“A necessary one,” Marcos replied calmly. “I am unfamiliar with the current political landscape. It would be foolish to commit my family’s considerable influence without due diligence.”

Lord Brutus Malfoy smirked. “But one must have leanings, Lord Peverell. The Light Faction, under Abbott, grows bolder in its attempts to cater to Muggle-born sensibilities. They dilute our world.”

“They weaken it,” Lord Tiberius Nott growled, his hand tightening around his glass. “They talk of restricting ancient family magics, of banning rituals that have been our right for centuries.”

Pollux Black, his eyes sharp and assessing, finally asked the question they all wanted answered. “The Peverell line has always been synonymous with the olde ways, a deep understanding of the true nature of magic. Your stance on these traditions is of great interest to us all.”

Marcos let the silence stretch for a moment, meeting each of their gazes. “My family has always believed that our magic is a gift from the Mother Magic herself, a force to be respected and nourished,” he said, his voice imbued with quiet authority. “We celebrated Ostara just last month with a ritual offering, to give back to the magic we so freely take. To abandon such traditions is to starve our very souls. It is a path to weakness and decay.”

The answer was exactly what they had hoped to hear. A collective look of satisfaction passed between the lords.

“A man who respects the olde ways,” Arcturus said with a gratified smile. “It is refreshing.” He then fixed his gaze on Marcos, a silent question in his eyes. The Dark Faction’s support for Grindelwald’s crusade against the Muggles was an open secret.

Marcos’s expression hardened, his gaze flicking to Lord Caspian Rosier, whose sympathies for Grindelwald were well-known. “My support for the olde ways should not be misconstrued,” he stated, his voice turning cold as steel. “I could never align my family with any faction that supports Grindelwald’s madness.” The statement was a blow, silencing the self-satisfied murmurs. “His desire to break the Statute of Secrecy is not a show of strength; it is a suicidal fantasy. Muggles may be weak and ignorant, but they outnumber us a thousand to one. Even an army of ants can bring down a cobra when their numbers are great enough. To reveal ourselves would not be a glorious conquest; it would be our annihilation. The Statute must be strengthened, not shattered. Anyone who believes otherwise is a fool.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Lord Rosier's amiable facade dropped, replaced by a cold, reptilian stillness. Lord Black and Lord Malfoy, however, exchanged a swift, calculating glance. While they shared a disdain for Muggles, their ambitions were primarily focused on Britain. Grindelwald was a foreign entity, a potential rival as much as a potential ally. Marcos’s staunchly anti-Grindelwald, yet pro-tradition stance presented a new, intriguing political possibility: a powerful, British traditionalist movement, free from foreign influence. Marcos had just drawn a line in the sand, not against them, but against a specific ideology, forcing them to reconsider their own positions and the path to ultimate power.

It was Lord Malfoy who, after a tense moment, smoothly changed the subject, ever the pragmatist. “Which brings us to another tradition of great importance,” he interjected, his eyes glinting. “The future of our lines. We must ask, Lord Peverell, are there any pre-existing betrothal contracts for the Heiress Peverell or the Heir Slytherin? Powerful alliances must be forged for the next generation, after all.”

It was the true purpose of the evening, laid bare. They were not just courting his votes; they were shopping for their children. While the children were kept at a polite distance, the discussion was close enough that Marvolo could hear every word. A possessive fury enveloped him, it was almost a physical sickness, coiled in his gut at Malfoy’s words. The unmitigated gall of these petty lords, discussing his Horcrux as if she were a prize mare to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, was infuriating. The idea that some simpering fool like Abraxas Malfoy or, Merlin forbid, one of the other Lords brutish offspring having control over his horcrux, was an offense to his very being. She was his. An extension of his own soul. The thought of anyone else laying claim to her, controlling her, was an obscenity he would not tolerate.

“There are no existing contracts,” Marcos stated, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “In keeping with Peverell tradition, no such contracts are considered before a child’s eleventh birthday, and their education, both magical and political, is my current priority. They must first understand the power they wield before any such unions can be considered.” He let his gaze sweep over the eager faces of the lords. “Furthermore, much like her parents before her, I do not believe in forcing a match upon my ward. The choice of who she marries will ultimately be hers.” He paused, letting the statement hang in the air for a moment before adding with a cool finality, “Provided, of course, that the match meets with my approval. When the time is right, we will be open to reviewing suitable proposals.”

He had left the door open just enough. The lords exchanged another set of calculating glances. The prize was on the market, and the bidding had just begun. Marvolo’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He would let them have their little fantasies for now. He would play their game. But Ariela was not a prize to be won. She was a treasure to be guarded, and he was the only one worthy of being her keeper.

With a subtle gesture from Lady Melania Black, the children were sent their way. Ari reached out with her senses, as Marcos had taught her. The air around Abraxas Malfoy was thick with the cloying echo of his father's ambition, a secondhand arrogance. The hulking forms of Crabbe and Yaxley were nearly blank slates, their magical echoes faint and unremarkable, defined only by a brutish loyalty to those they perceived as stronger. From the quiet, watchful Corvus Lestrange, she felt a thin, sharp echo of cruelty that made her skin prickle with a familiar dread. And then there was Walburga, leaning against a pillar, whose echo was a crackling, restless fire of boredom and rebellion.

Abraxas Malfoy, dripping arrogance, was the first to speak. “Peverell,” he drawled, his eyes flicking from her to his father and back again. “A powerful re-emergence. A Peverell-Malfoy alliance would certainly solidify the traditionalist platform.”

Before Ari could even process the blatant political proposition from a twelve-year-old, Marvolo stepped forward slightly, placing himself between her and Abraxas. His movement was subtle, but it was a clear, possessive claim.

“You presume much, Malfoy,” Marvolo said, his voice devoid of inflection but laced with a cutting authority that made Abraxas flinch. “The Peverell and Slytherin lines have their own agenda. We are not a stepping stone for your father’s ambitions.”

The air grew thick with a sudden, tense silence. Abraxas’s face went from pale to a blotchy red.

It was Walburga who broke the tension, pushing off the pillar with a sigh that was a masterpiece of theatrical ennui. “My, my, Abraxas,” she drawled, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “First you parrot your father, then you get put in your place by the Heir of Slytherin. Not a good showing.”

Abraxas looked utterly mortified. Before he could retort, Lucretia Black stepped forward, her expression one of wide-eyed wonder, desperate to change the subject. “Your hair is so beautiful! Is it true you were raised in the Americas?”

Walburga rolled her eyes dramatically. "Pay my cousin no mind," she said to Ari, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Her head is filled with tales of dashing princes from foreign lands. She was hoping Heir Slytherin arrived on a dragon." Lucretia blushed, and Walburga gave her a not-unkind nudge.

“There is nothing wrong with stories,” Ari replied, her voice quiet but firm, playing along with Walburga's rebellious energy. “They are echoes of a kind, are they not? Glimpses into worlds we might otherwise never see.” Grinning wider “and if my dear snakey cousin was going to arrive on anything it would have been a Basilisk not a dragon.”

Walburga's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. A slow, genuine smirk spread across her face. "Echoes. Glimpses into other worlds. Basilisks." She looked Ari up and down, her assessment sharp but now tinged with something like excitement. "Finally," she murmured, almost to herself. "Someone interesting." Her gaze flicked towards Druella Rosier and Ivy Flint, who were pointedly trying to catch Marvolo’s eye, giggling behind their hands. "Gods, what a bore," Walburga muttered, her voice low enough for only Ari to hear. "Their mothers have clearly instructed them to secure the Slytherin line. Their most profound thought of the evening will be whether a betrothal announcement pairs better with sapphire or periwinkle."

With a subtle jerk of her head towards a pair of doors leading to a darkened balcony, she muttered, "Come on. If I have to listen to Druella Rosier brag about the new enchanted pony her father bought her one more time, I might actually curse someone. My uncle and father would be furious. Cursing guests is so gauche."

Ari followed her without hesitation. The cool night air on the balcony was a welcome relief. Below them, a perfectly manicured garden was illuminated by floating, enchanted lights. The sounds of the party were a muted drone.

“So,” Walburga began, a challenging glint in her eye as she leaned against the stone balustrade. “The lost Peverell heiress. Are you enjoying being the most fascinating piece of livestock at this year's market?”

"I do my best to entertain," Ari replied, her tone laced with dry amusement. "It's the least a prized piece of livestock can do."

Walburga laughed, a sharp, genuine sound. "I think I’m going to like you. This world could use a bit of shaking up." Her expression turned serious, her dark eyes intense. "Do you have any idea what you've walked into? They don't see you. They see four Wizengamot seats and a vault full of gold. They're already planning your wedding."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Ari said, her voice cool. "But a prize should have a say in who wins it, don't you think?"

Walburga's smirk was a sharp, brittle thing, a mask for the bitterness in her eyes. "A pretty thought," she said, her voice cynical. "But a choice? For us? We are broodmares, cousin, meant to secure alliances and produce heirs. That is our function." She let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, a puff of condensation in the cool air. "My cousin Lucretia has already accepted it. She will simper and smile and marry whomever her father tells her to for the 'good of the family'. It's pathetic." Her gaze hardened. "It's all so dreadfully boring. The same lessons, the same expectations. Don't you want more than that?"

"I want to understand the power I have," Ari admitted, her voice low. "Not just my titles, but the magic itself. The kind of magic they don't teach you at Hogwarts."

This, more than anything, seemed to capture Walburga's full attention. "The olde ways," she breathed, her eyes alight with a sudden, intense fire. "Yes. That's real power. The kind they can't take from you. The kind that gives you a choice when you have none." She leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "A word of advice, cousin. In this world, you're either a predator or you're prey. Decide which one you are, and don't apologize for it."

The unexpected kinship was a strange, disarming surprise. This girl, with her sharp tongue and rebellious spirit, was a spark of chaos in the stifling formality of the evening. She was, Ari realized with a jolt, so much like Sirius. A tragic, bitter irony that made her heart ache. How, she wondered, her gaze fixed on Walburga's animated, defiant face, did this bright, fierce spark of a girl curdle into the hateful, screaming harpy whose portrait had haunted Grimmauld Place? What pressures, what disappointments, what soul-crushing duties would it take to extinguish this fire and leave only bitter ash behind? The thought was a leaden stone in her gut. She had come back to change her own fate, to escape a destiny written for her by others. But looking at Walburga, a new, dangerous thought took root. If she was already rewriting the rules for herself, could she not, perhaps, kindle this spark in her new friend? Could she nurture it, protect it, and ensure that this light, at least, did not go out?

Later, having left Walburga to her own devices, Ari noticed Orion standing alone near a grand, dust-sheeted harp, looking deeply uncomfortable. She approached him, her steps silent on the thick carpet.

“It’s a beautiful instrument,” she said softly, gesturing to the harp. “A shame it isn’t being played.”

Orion jumped, startled. “Oh! Heiress Peverell. I didn't see you.” He stared at the harp as if seeing it for the first time. “My great-aunt used to play. The echoes are still here, if you listen closely.”

Ari tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Echoes can be deceptive. Sometimes they show you not what was, but what a person wished had been." She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the dusty strings without touching them. "This one feels different. It's not an echo of joy or performance. It's an echo of regret. Of a talent abandoned for duty."

Orion stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. He had only ever felt a vague sadness around the instrument, a feeling he dismissed as his own melancholy. But the way she spoke of it, with such quiet certainty, as if she were reading a language he was only just beginning to learn existed, it was utterly fascinating. She wasn't like the other girls, who spoke of dolls, marriage or gossip. She spoke of magic as if it were a living, breathing thing with its own secrets and emotions.

"How... how do you do that?" he whispered, his voice full of a sudden, intense curiosity.

"Lord Peverell says it is a matter of listening," she replied, her gaze distant, as if she were looking at something he couldn't see. "Most people are too busy making their own noise to hear the stories the world wants to tell them." She finally looked at him, her green eyes seeming to pierce through his awkward exterior and see the insecure boy beneath. "You hear them too, don't you? Faintly."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, an acknowledgement of a part of himself he had always kept hidden. He nodded, unable to speak, a flush creeping up his neck. In that moment, Ariela Peverell was the most interesting, most enigmatic person he had ever met, and he suddenly wanted to know everything about her.

While Ari was occupied, Marvolo took the opportunity to isolate his own targets. He approached the trio of Abraxas Malfoy, Corvus Lestrange, and Theodore Nott, who were standing near a large, ornate tapestry depicting a grim wizarding battle. These three, in his past life, had been the foundation of his Knights of Walpurgis. His closest followers.

He gave a slight, formal nod. "Heir Malfoy, Heir Lestrange, Heir Nott. It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance."

They straightened immediately, their previous conversation forgotten. "Heir Peverell-Slytherin," Abraxas replied, his tone conveying a practiced level of respect that his father had no doubt drilled into him.

Marvolo's gaze went to the tapestry, his expression one of cool appreciation. “A fine piece. The Battle of the Black Moors, if I am not mistaken. A brutal, but necessary, victory for our ancestors against the encroaching Muggle armies.” He turned his unnervingly intense eyes on them. "A reminder that our world has always had to fight for its existence."

The statement resonated with them, a shared history of pure-blood pride and grievance.

“Our fathers were just discussing the current threats,” Nott rumbled, eager to contribute. “The Ministry’s attempts to restrict olde family magic.”

“Indeed,” Marvolo said, seizing the opening. He let his gaze fall on each of them in turn, a silent invitation into his confidence. “There are those who believe our traditions are 'dark' or 'outdated'. They seek to dilute our world with foreign sensibilities, to make our magic more palatable. They do not understand that our power is tied to the olde ways, to the very bones of this land.”

He gestured to the tapestry. “The wizards depicted here understood that. They understood that progress requires power. True power. Not just the wealth your family commands, Heir Malfoy, which is considerable,” he added, a subtle stroke to Abraxas’s ego. “Not just the unwavering strength for which your family is known, Heir Lestrange,” he continued, acknowledging Corvus with a nod. “And not just the loyalty to tradition that your house has always embodied, Heir Nott.”

He paused, letting them absorb his praise, his acknowledgement of their individual family strengths. “It requires all three, unified by a single vision. A vision for a stronger, purer wizarding world, free from the weakness and sentimentality that currently plagues it.”

They were hooked. He had not just spoken to them as children; he had spoken to them as heirs, as future lords, acknowledging their legacy and appealing to their pride.

“The future of our world will be decided by those with the strength and vision to shape it,” he concluded, his voice a low, compelling whisper. “I trust we are all in agreement on that point.” It was not a question. It was a declaration, the first quiet meeting of a court that would one day kneel before him.

As the party began to wind down, Ari found herself approached by Lady Melania Black and a sharp-eyed woman who introduced herself as Irma Black, Pollux Black’s wife and mother to Walburga, Alphard and Cygnus.

“Such a tragedy, your parents,” Lady Melania began, her voice dripping with insincere sympathy. “But a blessing that Lord Peverell was there to ensure you were raised with the proper values. An heiress has so many duties to her line.”

“Indeed,” Irma Black added, her gaze sharp and assessing. “Your mother, Elladora, was a true Black, she understood her duties. It would be a shame if, after all this time, her only daughter were to fall short of the family’s standards.”

It was a test, a polite interrogation designed to find holes in their story and gauge her suitability. Ari felt a flicker of panic, but then, a quiet thought slid into her mind, not her own, but Marvolo’s, a calm, precise instruction through their bond. Vague elegance. Less is more. Defer to Marcos’s judgment.

“Lord Peverell was most insistent on a quiet, secluded upbringing,” Ari said, her voice a model of serene grace. “He believed it was for the best, given the circumstances of the time. While I am grateful for his protection, I confess I am eager to learn more of my mother’s world and the duties expected of a Black woman.”

She had turned their veiled threat into an appeal for guidance, a masterstroke of deference that immediately softened their expressions.

“But of course, child,” Melania said, placing a condescending hand on her arm. “It is our duty, as the ladies of the House, to guide you. We will ensure you are properly prepared. We cannot have a Black descendant disgracing the family name, after all.”

“We will take you under our wing,” Irma confirmed with a sharp nod. “There is much to learn. The right way to host a solstice ball, the correct charities to patronize…”

“While your intentions are no doubt admirable, Irma,” a new voice, cool and sharp as shattering ice, cut through the conversation. Ari’s head snapped up. It wasn't the words that caught her attention, but the magic behind them. It coiled in the air, a palpable force of dark, potent energy, like a serpent ready to strike. Aside from Marvolo and Marcos, it was the strongest magical aura she had yet encountered in this new life. A woman with piercing grey eyes and an aristocratic bearing that made the other two women seem like commoners approached them. She was unnervingly beautiful, her dark hair coiled in an elegant chignon, her black robes exquisitely tailored. "If anyone is to teach the girl the ways of the House of Black, it will be a Black by birth, not a Macmillan or a Crabbe."

Melania and Irma flushed with anger and embarrassment at the casual, cutting dismissal of their married-in status.

The woman ignored them, her intense gaze fixing on Ari. “My apologies for the intrusion. I am Cassiopeia Black. Your mother and I were close,” she said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “She was a force of nature. It would be a disservice to her memory to have her daughter's education overseen by those who barely knew her. We will speak again, child.”

With a final, meaningful look and a slight nod, Cassiopeia turned and glided away, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Ari now had another powerful figure to consider, an unexpected potential ally who had just declared her interest.

The rest of the evening was a blur of veiled questions, assessing glances, and meaningless conversation. Ari and Marvolo moved through the room as a unit, a silent, coordinated dance of poise and observation. They were a mystery, an enigma, and by the end of the night, it was clear that every person in that room was desperate to solve them. The seeds, as Marcos had said, were planted. Now, they just had to wait and see what grew.

Back at Stonehaven Isle, the three of them gathered in the study, the tension of the evening still clinging to them.

“Well?” Marcos asked, pouring three glasses of water.

“Predictable,” Marvolo scoffed, sinking into an armchair that was far too large for him. “Black wants our votes. Malfoy wants our money. Rosier wants to watch the world burn. They are exactly as I remembered.”

“And the children?” Marcos prompted.

“They see us as prizes on the marriage market,” Ari said, her voice tired but sharp. “The boys, or rather their fathers, see the Peverell name and its votes. The girls, or their mothers, see the Slytherin line and the prestige of a new dynasty. Abraxas practically proposed a political union on the spot.”

“The Malfoy boy is a peacock,” Marvolo sneered, a flash of his earlier annoyance returning. “And the others are no better. They speak of alliances and betrothal contracts as if they have any right to you. As if I would allow my Horcrux to be handed over like chattel, placed under the control of a fool.”

“Merlin damn it, Marvolo!” Ari snapped, her own patience, worn thin by the evening’s events, finally breaking. “How many times do I have to say it? I am not your possession, and I will never be your possession. You will have no say in who I marry, if I ever choose to marry.”

Marvolo simply blinked at her, his expression unchanged, as if her outburst were no more than the buzzing of an irrelevant fly. He completely ignored her defiance, his mind having already moved on to a more pressing analysis. "Your handling of the other children was adequate," he stated, his voice devoid of any lingering anger, replaced entirely by detached assessment. "Orion Black is a puppy, and you played him well. A few more carefully chosen words, and he will be eating from your hand.” He paused, his eyes glinting. "And your unexpected rapport with Walburga was an interesting development. Her disdain for the expected makes her predictable in her own way, but also a potent ally if her loyalty can be secured."

"There was someone else," Ari interjected, her thoughts moving back to the enigmatic woman in black. "Cassiopeia Black. Did you feel her magic? It was potent. Like a coiled snake."

Marvolo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Her magical signature was significant, yes. Well-controlled. She has a reputation for being a recluse and a formidable duelist. She holds no titles and attends these functions rarely, but her interest is noteworthy."

"She said she was close with my mother," Ari continued, looking at Marcos.

Marcos leaned forward, his expression intrigued. "Cassiopeia," he mused. "Elladora spoke of her often. She called her 'Cassie'. She said that of all the Blacks, Cassiopeia was the only one who truly understood the nature of power, not just the performance of it. That she had a brilliant mind for politics and a ruthless streak that even Arcturus respected. Elladora was very fond of her." He took a slow sip of water. "Her taking an interest in you is the most significant development of the evening."

The night's casual, manipulative cruelty still sent a shiver down her spine, but she no longer flinched. This was the world she now inhabited.

“We have made our entrance,” Marcos said, his gaze thoughtful. “We have established ourselves as a power to be courted. Now, we must be patient. We will let them come to us. In the meantime, your necromancy education must be a priority, we only have a few short months until you will need to leave for Hogwarts and the training is put on hold.”

The name still sent a jolt of anxiety through her, but it was different now. It was no longer just a place of ghosts and betrayal. It was the next battlefield. And this time, she would walk onto it not as a victim, but as a contender in her own right.

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Meanwhile, Elsewhere...

The next morning, in the grand, sunlit breakfast room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the mood was decidedly less frenetic. Arcturus Black lowered his copy of the Daily Prophet, his sharp gaze falling on his youngest son. Orion had been unusually quiet all morning, pushing a piece of kipper around his plate with a thoughtful, faraway expression.

“You have been quiet this morning, Orion,” Arcturus observed, his voice a low rumble. “Did the excitement of last night’s gathering prove too much for you?”

Orion looked up, his expression surprisingly serious for a boy of ten. “No, Father.” He placed his fork down with a deliberate, almost formal gesture. He looked first at his father, then his mother, Melania, who was observing him with a curious expression over the rim of her teacup.

“I am going to marry Heiress Peverell,” he declared.

The statement, so matter-of-fact and delivered with such utter conviction, hung in the air. Arcturus’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Melania set her teacup down with a soft click.

“Is that so?” Arcturus said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He was not angry, but intrigued. This was a decisiveness he had not seen in his son before. “A bold declaration. And what makes you so certain of this?”

“She is… different,” Orion said, struggling to find the words. “She is not like the other girls. She understands things. She sees things.” He looked at his father, his eyes shining with a strange, intense light. “She is worthy of the House of Black.”

“Indeed, she is,” Melania said, her voice smooth as silk. She glanced at her husband, a silent communication passing between them. “A Peverell heiress, with Black blood no less. She is certainly a more advantageous match than your cousin Walburga.” The unspoken words hung in the air: She has her own power, her own seats and a legendary name.

“The girl has spirit,” Arcturus mused, steepling his fingers. “And the Peverell name carries immense weight. Four votes, tied to ours… it would create an unshakeable bloc. A union between our houses would be a formidable thing indeed.” He looked at his son, a new respect in his eyes. “A worthy ambition, Orion. A very worthy ambition indeed.”

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Chapter Text

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With their public debut at the Wizengamot, the first move had been made. But it was a double-edged sword. While it announced their return to the political stage, it also sent a clear signal across Europe, one that Marcos knew would not go unnoticed. News of the re-emergence of the Peverell and Slytherin lines would travel swiftly, and it would inevitably reach the ears of Gellert Grindelwald. The new urgency that settled over Stonehaven was not only driven by the looming Hogwarts deadline, but by the shadow of a far greater threat. Marcos could not guarantee his own life against an army of fanatics, let alone the lives of two ‘children’ who were now beacons of power. He was the last of his kind, and he was determined that the ancient knowledge of the Peverell line would not die with him. He needed to teach them everything, to ensure the art would survive, just in case something ever happened to him. Afterall, no matter how powerful Gabriel had been, he had still fallen to weaker beings.

To his relief, both ‘children’ were surprisingly apt pupils, though for different reasons. Marvolo, now with a whole soul and a less volatile temperament, had shed some of his trigger-happy tendencies, channeling his immense ambition into a ferocious scholarly appetite. He absorbed Marcos’s teachings with the intensity of a starving man at a feast. Ariela, for her part, was finally beginning to move past the initial horror and grief of her past life. She found herself enjoying the raw, untamed power that was her birthright, the feeling of her magic answering her call with an ease she had never known. Though Marvolo had the advantage of seventy years of experience, Ariela’s years as a survivor had made her wily and unpredictable. In their duels, she could still occasionally best him through sheer cunning and a desperate, hard-won instinct to stay alive, a fact that both infuriated and intrigued him.

This new urgency drove their lessons deeper, moving from simple perception to active manipulation. They were back in the crypts, the air thick with the cold, heavy silence of ages. The scent of old stone, damp earth, and something else; a faint, metallic tang of regret clung to the air. Today’s lesson was about drawing power, the most seductive and dangerous aspect of the art.

“Necromancy is not just about commanding the dead,” Marcos explained, his voice a low hum against the stone, a sound that seemed to be absorbed by the shadows themselves. “It is about understanding and utilizing the energy of the cycle. Life feeds death, and death, in turn, can empower life. Today, you will learn to tap into the ambient magic of decay.” He indicated a wilting bouquet of dahlias on the central altar, their petals brown and curling at the edges like scorched parchment. “Your own magical cores are potent, yes, but they are finite. Every spell you cast, every ward you raise, drains you. To rely solely on your own power is to limit yourselves, to tire yourselves in a prolonged engagement. A true Master of this art learns to draw upon external sources. This,” he gestured to the flowers, “is a potent but dangerous source. It is the raw energy left behind when life departs. To learn to wield it is to have a limitless well from which to draw, to power rituals that would otherwise leave you magically exhausted for days, to replenish your own reserves when they run low, to fuel your magic without cost to yourself. But be warned,” his gaze was sharp, serious, “this is a frigid power. It feels empty, and the temptation is always to draw more to fill that emptiness. It is an addiction of the soul. It will numb you to the world of the living if you let it.”

Marvolo, as always, was a natural. He closed his eyes, his posture one of arrogant ease. Ariela, connected to him, felt his magic reach out. It wasn't a request; it was a command, an imperious plucking of power that was rightfully his. The air around the dahlias shimmered, a faint, grey mist rising from the dying petals, spiraling towards him like iron filings to a lodestone. A flicker of icey, clean, satisfying power washed through their connection. For Marvolo, it was like a sip of fine, chilled wine; crisp, potent, and utterly his to command. He performed the warming charm with a thought, a faint, shimmering heat appearing around his hand, fueled by the death of the flowers.

Ariela, however, again struggled. The moment she reached out, part of her own wild magic recoiled as if burned, making her feel unbalanced. The sensation was cloying, a taste of ash and dust in the back of her throat, a phantom chill that reminded her of the Dementor’s soul-leeching presence. She could feel the energy, a stagnant pool of cold potential, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it.

“You hesitate, Ariela,” Marcos observed, his tone patient but firm. “You see it as theft, a desecration. It is not. It is a cycle, as natural as the turning of the seasons. You must find the balance within yourself. Acknowledge the part of you that serves Death, the part that understands the veil. This is your birthright as much as it is his.”

Marvolo sneered, his eyes snapping open, already bored with the simple exercise. His gaze swept the ancient crypt, a hungry, covetous light entering his eyes. “This is childish. Why are we sipping from a puddle when an ocean awaits? The ambient energy here, in the very stones of this crypt, is immense. It is saturated with centuries of death, with sorrow and power. That is a well worth drawing from.”

“Even a master swimmer can drown, Marvolo,” Marcos warned, his voice turning sharp as flint. “The power in these stones is vast, but it is also chaotic. It is the residue of countless souls, each with their own memories, griefs and rages. It is a maelstrom of raw, untamed emotion. To draw on it without discipline, without reverence, is to invite madness.”

But Marvolo wasn’t listening. The taste of power, however small, had whetted his appetite. He saw Marcos's caution not as wisdom, but as a weakness, a limitation he himself did not possess. He had conquered death once; he would command its echoes now. Ariela felt his immense will expand, a net of pure ambition cast into the sea of deathly energy that surrounded them. It was an act of supreme arrogance, a declaration of his own godhood. He wasn't just drawing on the energy; he was trying to dominate it, to bend the raw, chaotic power of a thousand deaths to his singular will.

For a moment, it seemed to work. A visible shimmer filled the air of the crypt, the shadows on the walls writhing and coalescing into a vortex of grey energy that swirled around his small form. A triumphant, ecstatic thrill, so potent it was almost painful, shot through their bond. This, the feeling screamed, is true power!

Then, it turned against him.

The vortex didn't just flow into him; it began to pull from him. The grey mist darkened, turning a sickly, necrotic black, thick with the stench of grave dirt. The triumphant thrill twisted into a spike of excruciating, shredding agony. The chaotic energy, too vast and too ancient to be controlled by mortal will, had reversed the flow. It was no longer feeding him; it was consuming him, a psychic vampire draining his very essence.

Marvolo’s eyes flew open, wide with a flicker of shock and dawning horror. A gasp escaped his lips, a cloud of white mist in the plummeting temperature. Frost spread from his feet, crawling across the stone floor in a spiderweb of white. His skin took on a ghastly, translucent quality, the blue of his veins stark against the grey. The vibrant, powerful thrum of his magical core, a constant presence at the edge of Ariela’s senses, dimmed alarmingly, like a flame being snuffed out in a vacuum.

He was dying.

“Marvolo!” Marcos’s voice was a sharp crack of alarm. He started forward, his own magic flaring, but he was too far away.

Ariela didn’t think. She moved. The sight of him, so arrogant and powerful, suddenly so fragile and small, triggered a protective instinct. The dark, coiling power of necromancy was useless here; it was like trying to put out a fire with oil. She reached for something else, something deeper. She reached for the memory of the Ostara ritual, for the vibrant green of the sprouting seed in her palm. She reached for the wild, untamed magic of Beltane.

Lunging forward, her hands landing on his small, shockingly cold chest. She ignored the icy burn of the death energy clinging to him and pushed. She didn't push with a spell or a curse, but with a raw, desperate outpouring of her own life force. A brilliant, golden light, warm and vital as the summer sun, erupted from her hands, a stark contrast to the cold, grey gloom of the crypt. It smelled of blooming flowers and fresh rain, a defiant roar of life against the encroaching silence of the void. She felt a pulling sensation from her own core, a dizzying drain that left her feeling weak and breathless, but she didn't stop.

The black vortex of death energy recoiled from the golden light as if burned, hissing and dissipating back into the stones with a final, resentful whisper. Marvolo’s small body convulsed, and he took a deep, shuddering gasp, his own magic flaring back to life, weak and sputtering at first, then steadying.

Sudden silence enveloped the room. For a single, unguarded moment, his eyes met hers. The cold, manipulative gaze of the Dark Lord was gone, stripped away by the raw terror of his near-unmaking. In its place was the wide, terrified stare of the lonely, scared boy, a look of undiluted fear and confusion. He was lost, drowning, and for a split second, he looked at her not as a rival or a Horcrux, but as the only solid thing in a world that was trying to tear him apart. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, his frozen prideful mask slammed back down. But Ariela had seen it. And she knew she would never be able to forget it.

“You… you should not have done that,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“You were dying,” she replied simply, pulling her hands back, a wave of exhaustion washing over her.

Marcos reached them, his usual calm composure shattered, pure fury written all over his face. “¡Niños idiotas y jodidos!” he snarled, the foreign words sharp and venomous in the cold air. “Reckless,” he continued, his voice a low, furious growl directed at Marvolo. “Arrogant and reckless. You are fortunate she was here. You attempted to command an ocean of souls, and it nearly dragged you under for your impudence. Do not mistake my guidance for partnership, boy. Dark Lord or no, in this castle, I am the Master. If you wish to learn the true nature of power, you will do as you are told.”

Turning to Ariela, his expression was no less stern. “And you. What you just did was just as dangerous. You poured your own life force into him. A noble, foolish impulse. That energy is not infinite. It is your life. And now, it must be replenished.”

He looked between the two of them, the prodigy who had nearly been consumed by death, and the paradox who had cheated it. “This is the lesson you must both learn, and you will learn it now. Necromancy is a seductive art. The feeling of stripping life, of wielding the power of decay, it offers a taste of godhood. But it is an empty power. It will hollow you out from the inside, leaving you a cold, empty thing, forever craving more, until you are nothing but a wraith, a slave to the hunger. You came dangerously close to that today, Marvolo.”

Marcos’s gaze fell on Ariela, his voice a mixture of awe and gravity. “And life magic, what you did is almost unheard of. We are Necromancers, Ariela. We take life to sustain our own, to fuel our magic; we do not give it away. It goes against the very nature of our craft.” His expression hardened, losing the awe and taking on a stern, instructional edge. "It is your own essence, your own time, your own soul. To give it away so freely is to shorten your own life, to burn your own candle down to save another’s. It leaves a mark, a weakness in your own spirit. If you were not a Necromancer, if you did not carry the blood of our ancestors, that gift of life would be a permanent sacrifice. There would be no ritual to bring it back. You would have simply shortened your own existence to extend his. But because you are what you are," he sighed, a heavy sound in the quiet crypt, "you have the means to rebalance the scales. We replenish our life with the life of other living things. It is a fundamental law of necromancy. What is given must be taken. You have created a deficit in your own spirit, a void. It must be filled.”

He gestured for them to follow him out of the main crypt and into a smaller, adjacent chamber. In the centre of this room was a single, large drain set into the stone floor, stained dark from centuries of use. Cocytus, his personal house-elf, was waiting for them, a placid-looking white goat standing beside him, tethered by a simple rope. The animal bleated once, a soft, questioning sound in the oppressive silence.

“For this occasion, a simple sacrifice will suffice,” Marcos said, taking a long, wickedly sharp ritual dagger from a niche in the wall. He held it out to Ariela. “The ritual requires a clean death, a true severance of life from flesh. A curse, such as Avada Kedavra, would work well on magical beings, but on a mundane creature, it taints the offering with the raw force of the curse, lessening its potency for a ritual of this nature. The blade is purer.” He paused, his gaze steady. "This animal will serve two purposes. Its life force will restore what you have lost. Its body will feed us. Life should never be wasted, Ariela, not in any form."

The dagger was heavy in her hand, the obsidian blade seeming to drink the dim light of the chamber. Her stomach churned. This was a line she had never imagined crossing.

“Place your hand on its heart,” Marcos instructed calmly. “Feel its life. Its warmth. Its simple, uncomplicated existence. And then, you must take it.”

Her hand shaking, Ariela knelt before the goat. She placed her palm against its chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of its heart against her skin. It was warm, alive, its life force a simple, gentle thrum. It looked at her with its strange, rectangular pupils, its expression one of placid innocence. A wave of nausea, the same she had felt in the Riddle House, washed over her. This was wrong.

But then she felt the emptiness inside her, the cold void where her own life magic had been. It was a dizzying, hollow feeling that left her feeling weak and disconnected from the world. She looked at the dagger in her other hand. This was the price. This was the balance Marcos spoke of.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes, and with a swift, economical motion that surprised even herself, she drew the blade across the goat’s throat. The obsidian blade was impossibly sharp. The reality was nothing like the clean dummy kills in her dueling practice. The cut was messy, and the animal let out a choked, gurgling cry, its body convulsing in a violent, desperate struggle. A torrent of hot, sticky blood poured from the wound, spattering her robes and the stone floor, the coppery scent thick and sickening in the air. The goat’s wide, terrified eyes rolled back in its head as its life drained away in a final, shuddering spasm that seemed to last an eternity.

Ariela stumbled back from the cooling body, her hand trembling, the bloody dagger falling from her numb fingers with a clatter. Marcos stepped forward, his expression grim and unyielding. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent command to stay.

"You have taken the life," he said, his voice a low command. "Now you will understand the purpose."

Marcos guided her hand, now slick with blood, over the goat’s still warm chest. As the lifeblood of the goat pooled and then disappeared into the darkness, he began to chant in the low, guttural language of the dead. The air grew thick and heavy. Marcos's magic, potent and ancient, reached out to the fading warmth of the flesh, to the very essence of the life that had just been extinguished. He drew it out, a shimmering, reddish-gold mist that rose from the goat's body.

“Now,” Marcos’s voice was a low command in her ear. “Draw it in. This life was given to Death to restore what you spent. Accept it. Complete the cycle.”

She reached out with her magic, and this time, there was no resistance. The warm, vibrant energy of the goat’s life flowed into her, not as a trickle, but as a flood. It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt. It was not the cold, empty power of decay she had recoiled from earlier. This was warmth. Vitality. Strength. The hollowness inside her was filled, the dizziness receded, replaced by a feeling of an invigorating power. It was a heady, intoxicating sensation, a feeling of pure life coursing through her veins, and a small, dark part of her, a part she hadn’t known existed, wanted more.

As the last of the energy settled into her core, Marcos stepped back, his expression grave. "You have now both witnessed and participated in the balancing. You have felt the price of life and the intoxicating power of its replenishment." He looked at them both, his gaze lingering on Marvolo's pale face and then Ariela's blood-stained hands. "Let me be clear. I will not teach you how to undertake the ritual which was completed here today. Not yet. Not until I am certain you both understand the consequences and the gravity of what this magic entails."

His eyes locked onto Marvolo. "You, with your arrogance, would have been destroyed." His gaze then shifted to Ariela. "And you, with your sentiment, would have given away your life. Both of you were reckless. Do not do anything so foolish as you did today again without me present. You have now felt the cost of this magic, but you do not yet possess the skill to pay it yourselves."

After the ritual was complete, Ariela excused herself, her mind a numb haze. She spent what felt like an hour in her private bathroom, standing under a torrent of hot water, scrubbing at her skin until it was raw, but she couldn't wash away the phantom feeling of the goat's warm blood or the memory of its fading heartbeat. The act had been a brutal necessity, and the surge of power she'd felt afterward was exhilarating.

To distract herself from the conflicting emotions, she dressed in a thick robe and retreated to the deep, comforting silence of the Peverell library. She wandered past the main reading tables, seeking a quieter, more secluded space. In the back of the vast, two-story room, was a cozy reading nook tucked away before a large, ornately carved fireplace. A fire was already crackling merrily in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow on the rich, dark wood of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flanked it. Around her, shelves were crammed with ancient, leather-bound tomes, their gold-leafed spines glinting in the firelight. A plush, button-tufted leather sofa and two matching armchairs were arranged on a thick, patterned rug, their surfaces worn and inviting. Pulling a random, heavy tome from a nearby shelf, something on ancient ley lines, its title barely legible, she sank into one of the deep armchairs, its weight a comforting anchor. She didn’t read, just stared into the flames, hoping to lose herself in their hypnotic dance.

It was there Marvolo found her. He didn't speak, but instead of leaving, he moved to a nearby shelf, his movements stiff and precise. He pulled down a heavy, dark-green tome on blood magic, its title embossed in silver, and took the armchair opposite hers. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of ancient parchment as he opened his book. The silence was no longer empty; it was a shared space, thick with unspoken things.

"You were a fool," she said finally, not looking up from the fireplace.

"I miscalculated," he corrected, his voice stiff.

"You almost died," she pressed, finally meeting his gaze.

"And you saved me," he admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He hated it. He hated the weakness, the reliance on her. But he was a pragmatist above all else. His fury at his own failure was immense, but it was matched by a grudging respect. Her power was not like his. It was wild, untamed, and it had succeeded where his own had catastrophically failed. She was not just a container for his soul. She was something more.

"The balance, as Marcos said," Marvolo stated, his voice a low murmur. "It seems my understanding of it is incomplete. Your affinity for life magic is a variable I had not properly accounted for." It was the closest he would ever come to admitting her strength.

Ariela just nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the shift that had just occurred between them. The dynamic had changed. He had faltered, and she had been his strength. It was a dangerous new precedent, one that would redefine their entire relationship.

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That evening, the dinner was a quiet, strained affair. The goat had been roasted with herbs from the garden, and while it was delicious, the memory of its final, shuddering moments hung over the table. It was Ariela who broke the silence, her gaze fixed on Marcos.

“You said that’s how you’ve lived for so long,” she said, her voice quiet. “By taking life. How old are you, exactly?”

Marcos took a slow sip of his wine. “I am one hundred and fifty-four years old.”

The number itself, while old, was not unheard of for a powerful wizard. What was astonishing, what defied belief, was that he wore those one hundred and fifty-four years as if he were in the prime of his life, his face unlined, his posture radiating a vitality that men a century younger would envy.

“And the rituals, they keep you young?” she asked, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach.

“They sustain me,” he corrected gently. “They replenish the life force that time naturally erodes. For a Necromancer, I am still quite young. Like most Peverell’s before me, I walk Death’s path of balance.” He set down his glass, his expression turning grim. “For many years, I have only taken from animals, or from the terminally ill who offer their remaining time freely in exchange for a painless end. It is enough to maintain the balance. But this is not the path all Necromancers chose. Many who practiced the art in the past either burned out spectacularly from their own ambition, as Marvolo nearly did.”

"That seems foolish," Marvolo interjected, his voice a low sneer, though it lacked its usual conviction. "To limit oneself to the dying. True power would be to take from the strong, to add their strength to your own."

Marcos’s gaze turned to him, and it was as sharp and glacial as the obsidian dagger from the crypt. “It is that very folly that nearly killed you today, boy. You reached for an ocean of power and it almost drowned you. Did you learn nothing? The necromancers of old felt that same hunger. They saw life not as something to be respected, but as a resource to be plundered. They took and took, growing more powerful, but also more hollow. Their humanity eroded with every life they consumed, until they were little more than monsters, slaves to an insatiable appetite. That is not power, Marvolo. That is oblivion.”

He let his words hang in the air, a direct, chilling warning. “Where do you think Dementors come from? They were not always as they are. They were once wixen, necromancers of immense power and even greater ambition. They followed the path you champion, taking from the strong, hoarding life, believing they could conquer Death itself. But they took so much, they hollowed themselves out completely. They consumed life until their own souls were extinguished, leaving only an eternal, gnawing hunger. They are the ultimate failure. Wretches who sought immortality and found only an endless, craving existence, forever trying to fill a void that can never be filled. They are a monument to the folly of trying to master Death. They are his eternal servants. Remember that, the next time Ariela may not be there to pull you back from the brink.”

That night, alone in his chambers, Marvolo did not sleep. For all his outward bluster, the day’s events had shaken him to his very core. He paced before the large window, the churning grey sea a mirror to the storm in his mind. For months, ever since that agonizing rebirth in the squalor of the orphanage, he had been fighting a war on two fronts. Outwardly, he was rebuilding his power, his future. Inwardly, he was in a constant, silent battle against the flood of emotions his newly whole soul had unleashed. The loneliness of the boy Tom, a pathetic ache he thought he had destroyed. The sharp, humiliating shame of his past failures. He had suppressed it all, burying it under layers of cold rage and intellectual superiority. But today, in the crypt, the floor had fallen out from under him.

The feeling of the crypt's deathly energy consuming him, pulling him apart, was a fathomless terror, more than any he had ever known. It was not the fear of a simple death, but of being unmade, of annihilation. It was the ultimate loss of control, and it had ripped open the door he had so carefully bolted shut. Marcos's words echoed in his mind, a chilling counterpoint to his own ambition. Wretches who sought immortality and found only an endless, craving existence.

He, Lord Voldemort, had come closer to that fate than he had ever thought possible. And he had been saved. Not by his own immense power, not by his superior intellect, but by her. By the girl he had dismissed as a sentimental fool. Her raw, untamed life magic had been an impenetrable bastion against the void. It was a power he did not possess and he did not understand.

His ambition had been his fatal flaw in his past life. He knew this with a brutal clarity. His arrogance, his belief in his own invincibility, that all power was his for the claiming had been his undoing. And today, he had done it again. He had arrogantly reached for power beyond his control, and it had almost destroyed him.

If he was to succeed in this new life, if he was to build the world he envisioned, things had to change. He could not afford to repeat his mistakes. He had to learn to rein in his more excessive tendencies. To temper his ambition with calculation. To understand the balance Marcos spoke of.

He looked out at the dark, roiling water, a reluctant, grudging respect beginning to take root in the fertile ground of his intellect. She was not just his Horcrux, a living container for a piece of his soul. She was becoming his equal. A different kind of power, a different kind of strength, but a power that was undeniably formidable. The thought, once galling, was now undeniable. But her equality did not have to make her a competitor. It made her a prize of unimaginable value. She was the other half of the equation, the life to his death. The thought of their bond, once a simple symbol of his ownership, now felt… different. It was a tether, yes, but not a chain. It was a conduit to a power he had never known, a power he now realised was essential.

Ariela Peverell was not a liability, but an asset to be possessed. Utterly. Completely. And he would never let anyone else have control over her, or take her from him. She was life, and she belonged to him.

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Chapter Text

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A few days later, Ariela sought refuge in her mother’s solar. It had quickly become her sanctuary, a world away from the oppressive cold of the crypts and the brutal efficiency of the training hall. The air here was warm and still, and the weight of ancient magic was replaced by a feeling of quiet peace.

The events in the crypt had been a stark and brutal education. From both her own and Marvolo's folly, she had learned the true cost of necromancy and the potential risks of both life and death magic. Pragmatically as a meat eater, she had come to terms with the price of the goat's life; it would have died to feed them anyway, and the ritual had simply repurposed its life force, ensuring nothing was wasted. But the broader implications left a disquieting chill on her soul. The ritual had been a transaction, a necessary balancing of a cosmic scale, but it was a scale she now understood could be tipped into monstrousness. The memory of the intoxicating power that had flooded her, and the dark part of her that had craved more, was a unsettleing new discovery.

She sat curled in one of the plush cream velvet armchairs, a leather-bound tome on life-affinity magic, a gift from Marcos, resting open in her lap. The text was dense, theoretical, speaking of cycles and balance, but it was the memory of the golden light pouring from her hands that truly consumed her thoughts. It had been instinctual, a power she hadn’t known she possessed. A power that was both a gift and a terrible burden.

A sharp, insistent tapping at the massive, arched crystal window startled her from her reverie. A magnificent eagle owl, its feathers the colour of midnight and its eyes like molten gold, was perched on the stone ledge, a single, elegant scroll of parchment tied to its leg. It was not one of the castle's owls. With a flick of her wand, she opened one of the smaller arched windows to the side, and the owl swept into the room, its wingspan impressive in the enclosed space. It landed gracefully on the back of a nearby chair, extending its leg with an air of aristocratic impatience. It fixed its intelligent golden eyes on her, making it clear it had been instructed to wait for a reply.

Ariela untied the scroll. The parchment was thick and creamy, sealed with the stark, proud sigil of the House of Black, but with a single, stylized constellation etched beneath it. A personal mark. The handwriting within was sharp, elegant, and unforgivingly precise.

Heiress Peverell,

I trust you have recovered from the social rigors of our family’s gathering. I myself found the entire affair rather tedious.

As your cousin and mother’s friend, I feel a certain responsibility to ensure her daughter is not miseducated by those with their own agendas. If you are truly interested in learning what it means to be a daughter of the House of Black, I would be happy to speak with you further. I am at your disposal; name a time and place that suits you, and I shall endeavor to be there.

Sincerely,

Cassiopeia Black

Ariela read the letter twice, her heart hammering against her ribs. Cassiopeia Black. The woman whose magical aura had been a coiled serpent of power, whose sharp tongue had cut down two of the most formidable women in the room without a single curse. The offer was a genuine one, an olive branch from a woman she had instinctively recognized as a formidable power. It was a chance to forge an alliance with someone who was not Marvolo. It was a chance to learn about her Black heritage; not just for her new mother, Elladora, but for the grandmother she had never known in her past life, Dorea Black. It was a chance to understand the family that had produced both the man she loved like a father and the woman whose madness had cost him his life.

Clutching the letter, Ariela left the solar in search of Marcos. She found Lethe in the hallway, carefully dusting a suit of armour that didn't look like it needed it. "Lethe, have you seen Lord Peverell?" Ariela asked. The elf's large eyes brightened. "Yes, Mistress Ariela! The Lord is in his study. He is reviewing some boring scrolls from the Ministry." "Thank you, Lethe."

She found Marcos in his study, just as Lethe had said, a stack of official-looking parchments on his desk. Without a word, she handed him the letter from Cassiopeia. He read it, a slow, thoughtful expression on his face.

"Cassiopeia," he mused. "Elladora spoke of her often. She was one of the only family members she truly respected. She said Cassie had a mind like a steel trap and a will to match. This is not a political move. This is personal." He looked at Ariela. "She is a powerful witch, and a valuable potential ally. You should accept."

"I know," Ariela said, a newfound resolve in her voice. "But not in a public place. Not where others can watch."

Marcos nodded in approval. "A wise decision. Issue an invitation. Lethe can procure a suitable portkey for your reply."

After speaking with Lethe, Ariela returned to the solar and, with a steady hand, penned her response.

Ms Black,

Thank you for your letter. I would be honored to speak with you further.

I find myself at a disadvantage, having spent so much time away from Britain. Lord Peverell has advised me against travelling to London alone at this time. However, I would be delighted if you would join me for lunch here at Peverell Castle tomorrow.

Enclosed is a portkey that will activate tomorrow at noon. It is keyed to bring you directly to our receiving chamber.

I look forward to our conversation.

Sincerely,

Ariela Peverell

She sealed the one-time portkey procured from Lethe into the letter, then tied the letter to the owl’s leg.

She watched as the magnificent bird soared out over the churning sea, a black speck against the grey sky. The world was a complex, dangerous place, filled with predators and politics. Cassiopeia’s letter was an opportunity to add another predator to their arsenal.

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The next day, a tense, expectant silence hung over Peverell Castle, a stark contrast to the usual thrum of their intense training schedule. The very air seemed to hold its breath. Marvolo had made his displeasure at an outsider being invited into their sanctuary known with a morning of withering glares and disdainful sniffs, before sequestering himself in the library like a dragon guarding his hoard. His disapproval was a palpable presence that seeped out from under the library door. Marcos, however, seemed intrigued by the development, a flicker of something almost like amusement in his eyes as he observed Ariela’s nervous energy.

At precisely noon, the air in the center of the grand receiving chamber began to warp, shimmering like heat haze on a summer's day. It solidified with a faint, silvery crackle into the elegant, imposing form of Cassiopeia Black. She stood for a moment, her sharp, intelligent eyes sweeping the room, taking in the ancient, rune-carved stone, the unexpectedly modern furnishings, and the raw, untamed power that thrummed in the very air of the castle. It was a place of deep, old magic, and her expression held a flicker of grudging respect. She was dressed not for a casual lunch, but for a strategic meeting, in perfectly tailored dark emerald robes that spoke of wealth and power without being ostentatious. Her magical aura was a tightly controlled, coiled serpent of dark, potent energy, contained but ready to strike. It was formidable, and Ariela felt her own magic rise to meet it, a defensive posture she was only just learning to control.

"Heiress Peverell," Cassiopeia said, her voice a cool, melodious alto that carried a hint of smoke. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Ms Black," Ariela replied, her own voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "Welcome to Stonehaven. It is an honour to receive you, and please call me Ariela, we are family after all."

Marcos stepped forward from the shadows where he had been observing, his presence a sudden, solid weight in the room. "Señorita Black," he said, his voice a smooth baritone. "It is an honour to welcome you to our home. I am Marcos Peverell."

Cassiopeia’s gaze shifted to him. She had, of course, seen him from a distance at the Black family gathering. A tall, silent figure standing in the periphery but up close, his presence was another matter entirely. The raw, formidable power that radiated from him was far more potent than she had anticipated, a quiet, unyielding magic that felt like the patient depths of the ocean. And then there was his appearance; he was no doddering, ancient guardian, but a man in his prime, with eyes that held the weight of centuries. A slow, appreciative smile touched her lips, a look of one predator assessing another.

"Lord Peverell," she returned, her tone shifting from polite formality to one of genuine interest, a subtle challenge in her voice. "The pleasure is all mine. I confess, you are not what I was expecting."

"I rarely am," Marcos replied, a hint of amusement in his own smile. "It keeps life interesting. And please, call me Marcos. 'Lord Peverell' feels far too formal for a friend of the family."

"Very well, Marcos," Cassiopeia replied, the smile reaching her eyes. "And in return, you and your charming ward must call me Cassie. Elladora always did." A flicker of something fond and melancholy crossed her face before she smoothly continued, "Now, you promised me lunch. I trust it is as interesting as its host."

Marcos chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. "I've taken the liberty of instructing the elves to prepare a taste of my home in Spain. Something a little more vibrant than the usual fare on this cold island. I hope it is to your liking. Please, this way."

He led them to a small, private dining room with a breathtaking view of the churning sea. Marvolo was already there, not seated, but standing by the large window, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back as he observed the storm-tossed waves. He turned as they entered, his posture immaculate, a mask of cool indifference firmly in place. His earlier disdainful sniffs and withering glares had not been mere childish petulance. Ariela felt it through their bond: a sharp, grating unease. He was vulnerable after his failure in the crypt, and Cassiopeia Black, a powerful and notoriously perceptive outsider, was an unknown variable he could not control. His posturing was a shield, his arrogance a fortress. But he was also a shrewd politician. Cassiopeia was a significant power in her own right, and a potential ally. He would play the part, burying his apprehension under layers of practiced condescension.

He gave a slight, formal bow. "Ms Black," he said, his voice quiet but carrying a formal weight that was startling from a boy his age. "It is an honour to welcome you to our home."

Cassiopeia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose a fraction. She had been expecting a pouting child, given his age. Instead, she was met with a display of flawless pure-blood etiquette, a miniature lord performing his duties. Her expression shifted to one of sharp, calculating interest. This boy was not just powerful; he was a player.

The lunch began, a dazzling array of Spanish tapas covering the table. The conversation started lightly, with Cassiopeia admiring the vibrant flavors, so different from the heavy fare of British high society.

"This is delightful, Marcos," she commented, savoring a bite of chorizo a la sidra. "A pleasant change from the endless roasts and puddings. You've brought a bit of southern sun to this dreary rock."

"One must have some comforts of home," Marcos replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Even on a dreary rock."

Ariela, feeling more at ease, chimed in. "I think the 'dreary rock' has its charms. The storms are beautiful, in a wild sort of way."

"Spoken like a true Black," Cassiopeia said with a knowing look. "Finding beauty in the tempest. Your mother was much the same."

The light conversation was a carefully woven tapestry, each thread a test, a probe. Marvolo, ever the politician, guided the conversation towards her views on international magical policy and the Ministry's latest trade regulations. His insights were sharp, his observations unnervingly astute for one so young. Finally, Cassiopeia, clearly impressed and tired of the game, set down her fork with a soft click.

"Let us dispense with the niceties, shall we?" she began, her sharp gaze sweeping over them all. "I am here because of Elladora. She was my aunt, but she was also my dearest friend. I will not stand by and allow her daughter to be molded into a simpering society wife by Arcturus’s vapid spouse and her ilk, or be put at risk by the political machinations of others."

"I appreciate your concern, Cassie," Ariela said, choosing her words carefully.

"We are family. And family," she added, with a pointed look at Marvolo, "is everything." She then turned her attention to Marcos. "Most of the Lord’s you met last week are fools. They see a new, powerful bloc of votes in the Wizengamot and they are scrambling to control it. They see your children as assets to be acquired. They do not see the larger currents at play."

"And what currents are those?" Marcos asked, leaning forward, his own interest piqued.

"Grindelwald," Cassiopeia stated simply. "My brother, Pollux, is a fool," her voice sharp with disdain. "He sees Grindelwald's rise as an opportunity for power and prestige. He, along with others like that brute Rosier, are whispering in my cousin Arcturus's ear, trying to convince him that an alliance with Grindelwald is the only way to preserve our world."

"Arcturus is the Leader of the Dark Faction, is he not?" Marcos asked, "but I understand a relatively inexperienced leader, taking over following the death of your uncle a few years back."

"He is," Cassiopeia confirmed. "And he is no fool. He is the most astute political player our family has produced in a century. He leads the Dark Faction because he believes in the strength of British magic, ruled by British wizards. He has no love for a foreign tyrant." Her expression hardened. "But he is pragmatic. He sees the Ministry weakening, catering to Muggle-borns, and he fears our world is dying a slow death. Pollux offers him a quick, violent solution. I am here because you and your family represent a better one. No offence meant, Marcos," she added, her gaze sharp, "I know you are from Spain, but the children are British too. Their birthright is here. It is a British future we must secure."

"None taken, Cassie," Marcos replied smoothly, a faint smile touching his lips. "The Peverells were a British family for nearly a thousand years before circumstance moved the last of us to Spain a few centuries ago. I agree, their future lies here. In Britain."

"Your public declaration against Grindelwald was a bold move, Marcos. A dangerous one," Cassiopeia continued.

"A necessary one," Marcos corrected, his tone turning serious, his easy charm replaced by the steel of a lord. "The survival of our world is more important than the petty ambitions of a few shortsighted fools."

As Marcos spoke, Ariela felt a sudden, sharp spike of emotion from Marvolo through their bond, not his usual irritation, but a humiliating flash of agreement. It was the echo of the crypt, the raw memory of his own shortsighted folly that had nearly unmade him. The feeling was a shard of ice in her mind before it was violently suppressed, buried instantly under occlumency sheilds.

Cassiopeia's smile was a sharp, dangerous thing. "Indeed. That is precisely why I am here. You understand power. My brother and his cronies only understand politics." Her gaze lingered on him, a silent communion of two predators recognizing each other in a room full of sheep. The air between them crackled with an unexpected chemistry. It was a meeting of minds, a shared understanding of the world that went beyond mere politics and into the realm of pure power. "Arcturus is my cousin, but since the death of Elladora he has also become my closest friend. I will not see him led down a path that will see him consumed. With your backing, we can offer him a viable alternative to Grindelwald. We can secure the traditionalist movement for Britain, under British control."

Marvolo, who had been listening with an unnerving stillness, chose this moment to speak. His voice, when it came, was quiet but carried an immense weight. "An alternative requires more than just votes, Ms Black. It requires an ideology. A cause more potent than Grindelwald's simplistic vision of conquest."

Cassiopeia's sharp gaze turned to him. "And what cause would you propose, Heir Slytherin?"

"The restoration of our magic," Marvolo stated, his voice a low, compelling murmur. "Grindelwald seeks to conquer the mundane world. A foolish, short-sighted ambition. The true threat is not from without, but from within. The Ministry, in its attempt to appease the ignorant, have been systematically severing our connection to the very source of our power. They call the olde rituals 'dark', they replace the Sabbats with vapid Muggle holidays. They are bleeding Mother Magic dry." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "We will not offer Arcturus a political alliance. We will offer him a crusade. A return to the olde ways. A movement to restore the symbiosis between our magic and the land. We will make Britain strong again, not by conquering Muggles, but by reclaiming our own heritage. We will strengthen the Statute, not shatter it. A complete separation from the mundane world, allowing our society to flourish, pure and untainted. That is a cause Arcturus Black can champion. A legacy he can build."

The room was silent. Cassiopeia stared at Marvolo, her initial interest now transformed into something akin to awe. This was not the thinking of a child. This was the grand, sweeping vision of a true leader.

"A crusade," she finally breathed, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. "Yes. Yes, that is an alternative Arcturus will not be able to resist." She looked from Marvolo's chillingly brilliant gaze to Marcos's steady one. "It seems Elladora's daughter has fallen in with very interesting company indeed."

"And what of my mother?" Ariela asked, steering the conversation back to its original purpose.

Cassiopeia’s expression softened, the hard, political edge giving way to a genuine, if melancholy, fondness. “Elladora was a tempest,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “She had the Black fire, the passion, the raw power. But she also held a Peverell's heart. She loved your father, Gabriel, with a fierceness that was a force of nature. She chose to leave her family, to leave Britain behind, to travel the world with him, to live a life of love and discovery on their own terms. She kept in touch, of course," Cassiopeia added, a flicker of a smile on her lips. "Her letters were filled with the most extraordinary tales of ancient ruins and forgotten magic. They chose love and adventure over duty. A choice I have always admired, even if I was never brave enough to make it myself.”

The admission was a rare glimpse of vulnerability, a crack in the formidable armor of Cassiopeia Black.

“She was a brilliant witch,” Cassiopeia continued, her eyes distant with memory. “Fascinated by the stars, by the olde magic. She believed, as you do, that there was a power in the world that was deeper and more ancient than anything taught at Hogwarts. She would have been so proud of you, child.”

The words were a balm to Ariela’s fractured soul, a connection to another mother she had never known, but was beginning to understand.

As the lunch drew to a close, the conversation shifted back to the present. "I understand you have been raised abroad, child, and educated by very powerful, very male, perspectives," Cassiopeia noted, her gaze sharp as she looked at Ariela. "That is valuable, but it is incomplete. A woman's power is a different kind of weapon. It is wielded in the drawing room as often as it is on the dueling platform. You must learn both. I will teach you."

"I would be grateful for your guidance," Ariela said, her voice filled with a sincerity that was not lost on the older woman.

When it was time for Cassiopeia to leave, Marcos walked her back to the receiving chamber.

"You have a remarkable ward," Cassiopeia said, her tone losing its formal edge.

"She is a Peverell," he replied simply. "I expect nothing less."

"And your son," she added, her voice a low, intrigued whisper. "He is formidable."

"He has my ambition," Marcos said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"I do not doubt it," Cassiopeia returned, her own lips curving into a smirk. "I look forward to our next meeting, Marcos." Her use of his first name was a deliberate, intimate gesture.

With a final, meaningful glance that spoke volumes, she activated her return portkey and vanished in a swirl of silver light. Marcos stood for a long moment, a thoughtful, almost amused expression on his face. The political landscape, it seemed, had just become infinitely more interesting.

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Chapter Text

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The week following Cassiopeia’s visit was marked by a subtle but undeniable shift in the castle’s atmosphere. The raw, open wound of the crypt incident had begun to scar over, leaving behind a new, harder landscape of understanding between them. Marvolo’s training sessions with Ariela, while still relentlessly grueling, were now tinged with a cold, analytical respect. He no longer treated her as a flawed vessel to be brutally reshaped, but as a rare and volatile weapon that required precise, expert honing. Her unpredictable bursts of life magic were a variable he now accounted for, a wild card he was determined to understand and, ultimately, control.

Their lessons with Marcos also progressed. Ariela, guided by Marvolo’s grudging assistance, had finally mastered the art of shadow-stepping. The terrifying, disorienting void of the veil now felt like a familiar, silent corridor. She could move between any two shadows in a room with a quiet, fluid grace, a feat that brought a flicker of genuine pride to Marcos's eyes.

“Your control improves, Ariela,” he noted one afternoon, as she emerged seamlessly from the shadow of a bookshelf across the library. “You are beginning to trust your birthright.”

“She still hesitates,” Marvolo commented without looking up from his book. “She treats the shadows like a skittish animal she is trying to befriend. She does not command them.”

“And you treat them like unruly servants who will one day rebel,” Ariela retorted, her voice smooth. “Perhaps the correct path lies somewhere between the two.”

Marvolo’s only response was the barest twitch of his lips, an almost-smile that was more unsettling than any sneer.

On Saturday, a week after her visit, the same magnificent eagle owl appeared at the solar window. This time, the note was brief and to the point.

Noon. The Silver Locket. Say ‘Noctua’.

It was a summons. Ariela found Marcos and Marvolo in the study. "I've received a summons from Cassiopeia," she announced, her voice steady and firm, leaving no room for debate. "I will be going." She then handed the short note to Marcos.

He read it, a faint smile touching his lips. “It seems your education in the Black family arts is about to begin,” Marcos said, passing the note to Marvolo, who read it with a disdainful sniff.

“It is a foolish risk,” Marvolo stated, his voice flat. “She seeks to isolate you, to fill your head with her own agenda. You should not go.”

“I disagree,” Marcos countered, his tone calm but firm. “Cassiopeia is a formidable witch with a deep understanding of the political landscape. Her guidance will be invaluable. You cannot be Ariela’s only source of knowledge on such matters, Marvolo. Your perspective is unique. It requires a counterbalance.”

“My perspective is correct,” Marvolo hissed.

“Perhaps,” Marcos conceded with a faint smile. “But a single perspective, no matter how correct, is still a form of blindness. Ariela will go.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument. Marvolo fell silent, but Ariela could feel his possessive fury through their bond, a writhing serpent of displeasure. He was not concerned for her safety; he was furious at the loss of control.

At precisely noon, Ariela stood in her room, the simple silver locket from Cassiopeia’s letter in her hand. “Noctua,” she whispered. The world dissolved in a nauseating swirl of colour and sound.

She landed not in a grand hall, but in a small, discreet, and exquisitely furnished parlor. The room was a study in understated elegance, with dark, polished wood, walls lined with ancient-looking books, and a single, large window overlooking a quiet, manicured London garden. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, sandalwood, and the potent, controlled magic of its owner.

Cassiopeia Black was seated in a high-backed armchair by the fire, a glass of amber liquid in her hand. She looked up as Ariela appeared, her dark eyes sharp and assessing.

“Punctual,” she observed, a note of approval in her voice. “A rare and valuable trait. Please, sit.”

Ariela took the chair opposite her, her posture straight, her hands clasped calmly in her lap, just as Marcos had taught her.

“Welcome to my home, left to me by my great-aunt Iola. Sad story, that. She married a Muggle and was struck off the Black Family Tapestry and disowned as a result. Never had children, so she left me this humble townhouse when she died.” Cassiopeia gestured around the opulent room with a theatrical sigh. "Funny thing about the Blacks, you see. We'll kick you out of the family for doing something we don't approve of, but we'll happily take an inheritance from the one we banished. The hypocrisy is a cornerstone of our House."

Ariela looked around the well-appointed parlor, at the expensive-looking furniture and priceless artifacts. “If this is humble,” a hint of amusement in her voice, “I’d hate to see what you consider large.”

Cassiopeia let out a short, sharp laugh. “Come now, darling, you live in a castle. Anything is humble compared to your home.” Her amusement faded, replaced by a keen intensity. "Now, tell me, child. What is it you truly wish to learn from me?”

The question was a test. Ariela knew the expected answer was about etiquette, about navigating society. She chose the truth instead.

“I want to understand the House of Black,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “My mother chose to leave it. It is a house that creates storms and destroys them in equal measure. I carry its blood. I want to understand the power and the poison that comes with it.”

Cassiopeia stared at her for a long, silent moment. The answer was clearly not what she had expected. A slow, genuine smile, a rare and dangerous thing, spread across her face. “Elladora’s daughter indeed,” she murmured. “You do not ask for lessons in embroidery. You ask for a dissection of the beast. Very well.”

She took a sip of her amber drink, her gaze sharp and appraising over the rim of the glass. “Let me be clear, child. I am not the person to teach you how to simper and bow to the men who think they rule our world. You are a Black. You will bow to no one.” Her voice was like chips of ice, hard and clear. “I will teach you to be a political power in your own right, a queen on the board, not a pawn to be sacrificed. There are, of course, other womanly arts. The arts of seduction, of temptation… weapons just as potent as any curse.” A slow, dangerous smile curled her lips. “But that is a lesson for when you are older. First, you must learn to command a room with your mind, before you learn to command it with your body.”

She set down her glass. “The power of the Blacks does not come from our gold, or our name, or even our ancient magic, child. It comes from our understanding of one fundamental truth: everyone is a slave to something. Find what they are shackled to; be it ambition, fear, love, or pride, and you hold the key to their will. Politics is not a game; it is the art of identifying and then tightening the chains that already exist.”

She rose and walked to a large, ornate cabinet against the far wall. From it, she withdrew a silver tray on which sat a single, covered object. She placed it on the table between them. “My father taught me my first lesson with this. Now, I will use it to teach you.”

She lifted the velvet cover. Beneath it was a Pensieve, but unlike Dumbledore’s grand stone basin, this one was a shallow, intricately carved bowl of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the light. The memories swirling within were not silver, but a deep, inky black, shot through with threads of crimson and gold.

“This is not for viewing pleasant memories,” Cassiopeia said, her voice a low hum. “This is for analyzing weaknesses. I will show you a memory of a negotiation between my father and Lord Audrey Crabbe two decades ago. Do not watch the conversation. Watch the men. Watch what they do not say.”

She instructed Ariela to look into the obsidian depths. The sensation of falling into the memory was nothing like the gentle descent into Dumbledore's pensive. It was a suffocating plunge into an inky void, the world dissolving into a whisper before reforming around her.

She was an invisible observer in a dimly lit, oppressive study. The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and old, moneyed leather. A younger, but no less formidable, Cygnus Black II sat calmly behind a large mahogany desk, his fingers steepled. Opposite him, Lord Audrey Crabbe, a bullish, red-faced man whose expensive robes seemed a size too tight, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. They were discussing a marriage contract, a political dance Ariela was beginning to understand was less about love and more about acquisition.

“…my daughter’s dowry is considerable, Black…” Crabbe was blustering, his voice a fraction too loud for the confined space. “A thousand galleons, and the summer villa in Kent.”

“Watch his hands,” Cassiopeia’s voice whispered to Ariela’s. “He clenches his fist when he speaks of the dowry. He is not proud of it; he is insecure. He fears father will see it as his only asset. He leads with his wallet because he knows his blood is thinner than ours. He’s trying to buy respectability.”

“…and the Crabbe name is an old and respected one…” Cabbe continued, puffing out his chest.

“His eyes,” Cassiopeia’s voice instructed. “They flick to the portrait of your great-grandfather, Arcturus I, on the wall. He is comparing his lineage to ours and knows it comes up short. His pride is a fragile, wounded thing. And see the way he grips his glass? His knuckles are white. He is afraid. Afraid of being found wanting.”

The scene played out, and with Cassiopeia’s guidance, Ariela began to see the hidden language beneath the words. Cygnus remained serene, a predator waiting patiently. He let Crabbe talk, letting him expose every chink in his own armour.

“The villa in Kent is lovely, I’m sure,” Cygnus finally said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Though I hear the damp can be quite a problem in that region. So unfortunate for the tapestries.”

It was a seemingly innocuous comment, but Ariela saw Crabbe flinch. His face grew redder. It was a subtle, brilliant jab at the man’s “new” money, a reminder that ancestral homes for those of the sacred twenty-eight didn’t suffer from such mundane problems. The subtle tells, the flicker of fear, the deep-seated envy—they were no longer invisible to her. Cygnus, calm and controlled, used Crabbe’s own insecurities to systematically dismantle his position, gaining every concession he desired without ever raising his voice. By the end, Crabbe had not only agreed to a larger dowry but had also ceded control of minor shares in the Daily Prophet his family held. He left looking not defeated, but somehow grateful to have been accepted into the Black's sphere of influence at all.

When the memory faded, Ariela was back in the opulent parlor, her mind racing. The contrast was dizzying. She remembered Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling, appealing to Slughorn's better nature, his sentimentality. He had used love and memory as a key. This… this was different. This was using shame and fear as a weapon. Cassiopeia would never have pleaded with Slughorn; she would have found a secret he was desperate to keep and used it as a lever. One was a request for aid. The other was a demand for submission. Either way, they were both a manipulation

“You see?” Cassiopeia said, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Magic is a tool, a useful one which separates us from the beasts, but true power is understanding the human heart. That is the first lesson of the House of Black. Learn it, and you will never be anyone’s pawn again.”

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Back at Stonehaven, Marvolo stalked the library, the quiet of the castle grating on his nerves. Ariela’s absence was a void, a missing note in the melody of his senses. He told himself it was merely irritation at Cassiopeia’s interference, but a deeper, more possessive part of him chafed at the idea of her being alone with the other woman, learning things from a source outside of his control.

“She is a distraction,” he said aloud, not realizing Marcos had entered the room.

“Is she?” Marcos replied, moving to a shelf of books on political theory. “Or is she a new and valuable piece on the board?”

“Cassiopeia Black is ambitious and cunning. She will try to poison Ariela against me,” Marvolo stated, his voice a low hiss.

Marcos turned, a book in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she will teach Ariela things that you and I cannot. Things about being a woman of power in a world predominantly run by men. You focus on controlling Ariela, Marvolo. You see her as an extension of yourself. But her power lies in her difference from you. An alliance with a Black who has the ear of the current Lord is an unparalleled opportunity. It could give us a direct line of influence to the heart of the Dark Faction. Do not be so shortsighted. Let our Heiress cultivate her new friend. A serpent in the Lord's inner circle is a powerful asset, not a threat.”

Marvolo fell silent, processing the strategic implications. Marcos was right, of course. It was a logical, calculated risk. But the possessive knot in his gut remained. Logic and strategy were one thing; the primal, undeniable feeling of ownership over his Horcrux was another entirely. His irritation, however, was soon interrupted by Marcos clearing his throat.

"Marvolo," Marcos began, his tone deceptively casual, "I have had enough of you haunting the library like a particularly studious poltergeist. This is a home, not merely a repository for your research. You require your own space."

Marvolo’s head snapped up, a flash of insult in his crystal-blue eyes. Before he could voice a scathing retort, Marcos continued, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I took the liberty of having the elves, with some stylistic input from Ariela, prepare one of the unused studies for you. I believe you will find it suitable."

Intrigued despite himself, Marvolo followed Marcos out of the library and down a quiet, lesser-used corridor. Marcos pushed open a heavy oak door, revealing a room that made Marvolo pause on the threshold.

It was perfect. The walls were paneled in a deep emerald green, almost black in the shadows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of a dark, rich mahogany, already filled with many of the tomes he had claimed as his own, lined two walls. A massive, ornately carved desk, also of mahogany, dominated the center of the room, its surface a pristine expanse of polished wood. Behind it sat a high-backed leather throne of a chair in a matching dark green. A plush armchair upholstered in a patterned green brocade sat before a small, crackling fireplace, and a magnificent crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, casting a warm, golden light over the entire scene. It was a Victorian masterpiece of dark, academic opulence.

Stopping inside, his hand trailing over the smooth, cool wood of the desk. He felt a strange, unfamiliar emotion coiling in his chest. The insult of the "haunting" comment still stung his pride, but it was overshadowed by a deeply private sense of being seen. They had not just given him a room; they had understood him. They had looked past the child's form and seen the Lord he was, unnervingly catering to his tastes with a precision that was deeply satisfying.

"It is adequate," he finally said, his voice a low murmur, the highest praise he was capable of giving.

Marcos smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. "I will leave you to it, then." He turned and left the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him, leaving Marvolo alone in his new seat of power.

Marvolo moved to sit behind the grand desk, the leather of the chair cool and solid against his back. He turned his attention back to his own plans, pushing the lingering irritation aside. He unrolled three fresh sheets of parchment. With precise, elegant strokes, he began to pen letters to Abraxas Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Corvus Lestrange. The words for each were a carefully crafted blend of shared ideology and subtle command, designed to continue the groundwork he had laid at the party. The first stones of his new empire had to be laid, and he would not allow a minor distraction to delay the construction.

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The following morning, the atmosphere at the breakfast table was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with politics. Marvolo, still bristling from Ariela’s private tutelage with Cassiopeia, was determined to reassert his dominance.

“I trust your little tea party with the Black spinster was enlightening,” he began, his tone dripping with condescension. “Did you discuss the proper way to curtsey?”

“More enlightening than sitting in a dusty library talking to yourself,” Ariela shot back, feeling a surge of confidence from her meeting. “At least I’m making allies.”

“You know nothing of building a following, of preparing for a revolution. You are making contacts,” Marvolo corrected coolly, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. “I make allies. There is a significant difference. Now, pass the marmalade.”

“Get it yourself,” Ariela retorted, and with a lazy flick of her wrist, she wandlessly levitated the small glass jar just out of his reach.

Marvolo’s eyes flashed with fury. He attempted to summon it, his own magic lashing out, but Ariela countered his pull with a thought, a silent tug-of-war commencing over the breakfast table. The marmalade jar wobbled precariously in mid-air between them.

Marcos, who had been observing this exchange with a thunderous expression, had finally had enough. He slammed his open palm down on the mahogany table. The sound was not loud, but it echoed with a terrifying finality. The magical backlash of his anger caused the air to crackle, and the marmalade jar exploded, splattering sticky orange jam across the pristine tablecloth.

“ENOUGH!” His voice was dangerously quiet, yet it cut through their bickering like a hot knife through butter. He rose slowly from his chair, his light-blue eyes burning with a cold fire that made both of them flinch. “You squabble like ill-mannered first-years. If I didn't know any better I would think you two actually were children, not the powerful wixen you claim to be. You are a Peverell and a Slytherin. Heirs to two of the most powerful lines in existence. And you are fighting over jam.”

He looked from one chastened face to the other. “Your public performance may be one of unity, but behind these walls, you are still at war. This immaturity is a liability. It will be our undoing.” He straightened to his full, imposing height. “Your lessons for the day have changed. Follow me. It is past time you learned to work together.”

He led them away from the familiar grounds of the crypts and the training hall, and up a winding staircase to a small, circular chamber high in one of the castle's turrets. The room was bare save for a single stone pedestal in the center. Upon it rested an ornate silver box, intricately carved with coiling serpents and thorny roses, with no visible lock or seam.

"Your education thus far has been about division," Marcos said, his voice echoing in the stone room, his anger barely contained. "You have learned your individual strengths. Today, you will learn to combine them. This," he gestured to the box, "is an ancestral puzzle box. A memory vault. It cannot be opened by force or a simple unlocking charm. It is sealed with both complex warding and raw, powerful emotion. Your task is to open it. Together."

Marvolo stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with intellectual arrogance. He saw it as a personal challenge, but the memory of his near-fatal miscalculation in the crypt was a fresh, humiliating wound. He would not make the same mistake. He closed his eyes, his magic extending like a set of delicate, probing instruments. Through their bond, Ariela felt his perception—a stunningly complex schematic of interwoven spells. He saw the golden threads of binding charms, the cold blue of concealment wards, and the deep, angry red of a powerful defensive curse, all powered by a shimmering, central core. For ten minutes he stood in silent concentration, his brow furrowed. He analyzed the structure, cataloging every twist and knot, but he made no move to touch it. He recognized the trap.

Through their bond, Ariela felt a wave of his cold frustration, but beneath it, something else flickered—a raw, painful echo of his own past. A phantom feeling of standing alone in the Slytherin common room, the sting of a well-aimed hex from Lestrange, the sneering whispers of 'mudblood' from Malfoy and Avery before they knew. It was the memory of their fawning sycophancy the moment they learned he was the Heir of Slytherin, a loyalty born not of respect, but of fear and ambition. That memory, more than any other, was the source of his profound contempt for them all. It was a visceral reminder that power, not blood, was the only currency that truly mattered. Then came the flash of a girl's face, pale and dead in a bathroom. It was the ghost of Tom Riddle's own grief and remorse, a weakness he thought he had long since carved out of his soul. He violently suppressed it, occlumency shields slamming back into place, but Ariela had felt it. He was not just a monster; he was a man haunted by the boy he had destroyed.

"It is keyed to an emotional resonance," Ariela said quietly, having felt his cautious probing through their bond. "You can't just untie the knots. You have to convince the lock to open."

"The emotional core is a whirlwind of grief and betrayal," Marvolo stated, his voice stiff with grudging admission. "Any attempt to force the wards would be unwise. As I have recently been reminded." The last words were clipped, a bitter acknowledgment of his failure.

"It's your turn, Ariela," Marcos said, a flicker of approval in his eyes.

Ariela stepped forward. Closing her eyes, she didn't try to see the magic. She tried to feel the story. The box was cold to the touch, but its magical echo was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She felt aching grief, so sharp it felt like a knife in her own heart. Beneath it, there was a fierce, protective love, a desperate desire to protect something precious. And woven through it all was a thread of furious betrayal.

"It was made by a woman," Ariela whispered, her eyes still closed. "She lost someone she loved deeply, a child, I think. She created this box to protect their most precious memory, but she was betrayed by someone she trusted. The lock is keyed to her grief. It will not open for someone who does not understand her pain."

Marvolo let out an impatient sigh, though this time it was directed at the puzzle, not at her. "The grief is a weakness, a chaotic element, but it is also the power source for the entire mechanism. To open it, we must bypass the grief and appeal to the other emotions."

"Then try again, but this time do it together," Marcos said, his voice flat. "This is not a test of individual power, but of cooperation."

There was a new, reluctant silence in the room. Marvolo shot a glare at Ariela, his pride clearly wounded, but he did not refuse the command. He had already learned the price of his arrogance. The condescension in his voice as he began to instruct her was brittle, covering the galling realization that he needed her. He needed her illogical, empathetic power to succeed.

“The lock is a web of seven interlocking charms,” he said, his voice the crisp, clear tone of a scholar presenting a thesis, a desperate attempt to frame this as a purely academic exercise. “The central anchor is the defensive curse, powered by the emotional core of grief and betrayal. It is futile to attack it directly.” His eyes unfocused as he analyzed the magical schematic in his mind. “However there is a flaw in the design. A weaker strand in the second layer of the binding spells. It resonates not with the grief, but with the love. It is inefficiently woven.”

“The love,” Ariela whispered, understanding. She closed her eyes again, pushing past the overwhelming storm of sorrow and rage, searching for the quieter, warmer echo of fierce, protective love. She found it, a gentle, glowing ember beneath the ashes of the creator's pain.

“Guide me,” she said to Marvolo.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the idea of relying on her clearly galling. But his desire to solve the puzzle, to prove his own intellectual superiority by directing the operation, won out.

“Focus your empathy on that feeling of love,” he instructed, his voice low. “Direct it to the upper-left quadrant of the box. There is a knot of concealment wards there. It should respond to that specific emotional frequency.”

Ariela took a deep breath. She reached out with her magic, not as a force, but as a vessel, carrying the pure, undiluted feeling of a mother’s love she had sensed in the echo. She gently pushed it towards the spot Marvolo had indicated. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, melodic click, they both felt a single layer of the complex wards dissolve.

Marvolo’s eyes widened slightly. He had understood the theory, but to feel it work, to feel her raw, intuitive magic mesh so perfectly with his analytical deconstruction, was a new and unsettling experience.

One by one, they worked. He would identify a structural weakness, a sequence, a magical thread, and she would channel the corresponding emotion from the box's echo into it; a flicker of hope to unravel a binding charm, a shard of righteous anger to neutralize a defensive curse, a wave of sorrow to unlock a concealment ward. It was a slow, exhausting process, a true fusion of his analytical mind and her empathetic soul.

Finally, with a soft sigh of released pressure that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, the box sprang open.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay a single, enchanted silver locket, shimmering with a faint, gentle light. It contained a memory, a moment of pristine, untainted joy between a mother and her child, now safe from the ravages of time and betrayal.

A giddy, triumphant laugh bubbled up out of Ariela, a sound of excited, heartfelt relief. Forgetting herself, forgetting who he was, she threw her arms around him in a spontaneous, celebratory hug. “We did it, Mylo!” she exclaimed.

Marvolo went completely rigid, his small body as stiff and unyielding as a statue. He was so unused to casual, affectionate physical contact that his every muscle locked in protest. The warmth of her, the softness of her robes, the scent of her hair, it was an overwhelming, alien sensory input. For a split second, Ariela felt a flicker of something other than revulsion from him; an aching loneliness, the ghost of the orphan who had never been held. It was there and then it was gone, crushed by a violent wave of self-loathing and a desperate need to reassert control. The Voldemort persona recoiled as if burned.

Realizing what she had done, Ariela pulled back, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. The shared moment of victory shattered, replaced by a thick, awkward silence.

A mixture of confusion and utter disdain was painted all over Marvolo’s face. “What,” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom, “in Salazar's name is a 'Mylo'?”

“It's your new nickname,” she retorted, a flicker of her old defiance returning as she tried to cover her own awkwardness. “Marvolo is too long.”

“Call me that again,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, his eyes flashing with a promised pain born not just of anger, but of a panicked need to reject the emotion she had just made him feel. “And I will Crucio you until you beg for the silence of the grave.”

A cheeky, utterly unrepentant smirk bloomed on her face. She simply gave him a small, knowing look, a silent challenge that maddened him more than any words could have.

They had, for the first time, created something together, instead of just trying to destroy each other. And the silence that settled between them was no longer one of mere hostility, but of a new, complex, and deeply unsettling understanding.

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Chapter Text

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The first of May arrived with a surprising burst of warmth, the stubborn winter finally releasing its grip on the island. The air was soft, carrying the scent of salt and damp earth, and the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. It was Beltane. It was Ariela’s eleventh birthday.

Earlier in the week, Marcos had sent a message to Cassiopeia via his own imposing Spanish Imperial Eagle ‘Vanth’, inviting her to join their private family celebration that evening. It was, he had explained to Ariela, a gesture of trust and a clear signal of their new alliance. Cassiopeia’s affirmative reply had arrived within the hour.

For the first time in her life, Ariela awoke on her birthday with a sense of quiet anticipation rather than dread. There were no chores to do, no Dursleys to deal with, no sense of being a burden. The thought was so foreign it was almost disorienting. She was just stretching, the morning sun warm on her face through the large solar window, when a soft pop announced Lethe’s arrival. The little elf was beaming, her large eyes shining with excitement as she levitated a silver tray towards the bed. On it was a tall stack of fluffy pancakes, drizzled with honey and topped with a generous pile of fresh, wild strawberries. "Happy Birthday, Mistress Ariela!" Lethe squeaked, her ears wiggling with joy. A genuine smile spread across her face, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.

After finishing her breakfast, Ariela dressed and made her way down to the main parlor. She found Marcos and Marvolo waiting for her, the room filled with an unusual, festive energy.

“Happy Birthday, Ariela,” Marcos said, with a warm smile. He moved to a corner of the room where two large objects stood covered by a silk sheet. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the sheet away.

The first gift was a broomstick. It was a sleek, almost black wood polished to a mirror shine, with a handle of what looked like woven silver. The bristles were a shimmering, ethereal white. “The Silver Arrow,” Marcos explained. “A custom model from a master broom-maker in Madrid. Currently the fastest and most responsive broom in the world.” Ariela knew, with a faint pang of nostalgia, that it probably wasn't as fast as the Firebolt she'd had in her past life, a gift from a man she still mourned. But looking at the beautiful, elegant craftsmanship, she couldn't wait to give it a try.

Beside it was a small mountain of gardening supplies. There was a set of elegant, self-cleaning tools with carved wooden handles, and a collection of potted plants, their leaves and flowers shimmering with faint, magical auras. "And for your other passion," he added, his eyes twinkling. "A selection of rare magical flora. Some medicinal, some less so. I trust you'll know the difference."

Ariela ran a hand over the smooth, dark wood of the broom, a true smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Marcos. They're perfect." She knelt to examine the potted plants, her fingers brushing against a leaf that shimmered with a faint silver light. It was in this moment of quiet joy that Marvolo chose to interrupt, his presence a sudden, intense weight in the room. He held a small, exquisitely carved wooden box. He placed it on a nearby table without a word, his expression a carefully constructed mask of indifference, but Ariela could feel his sharp, focused attention on her through their bond. He was not merely presenting a gift; he was making a statement.

Ariela looked at him, then hesitantly opened the lid. Coiled on a bed of soft emerald fabric was a snake. It was dainty, no longer than her forearm and slender, its scales a stunning pearlescent white that shimmered with all the colours of the moon, and its eyes were two chips of brilliant, sapphire blue. The snake lifted its head, its gaze intelligent and curious, not menacing.

“It is a Moonstone Serpent,” Marvolo said, his voice a low, proprietary murmur. His tone was casual, but the possessive undercurrent was unmistakable. “A rare, magical breed. Its venom is deadly, but when properly prepared, has excellent healing properties. It is a rather empathic breed and will bond to a single master. A useful companion.” He paused, his blue eyes locking with hers, and the full weight of his intent crashed down on her. “And, of course, you can speak to it.”

The unshakable message was deafening. This is a gift only I could give you. This was not just a pet; it was an initiation, a conscious echo of the first, unintentional gift he had given her all those years ago. The gift of Parseltongue, burned into her soul when his magic made her his. Now, he was sharing the most sacred, secret part of his identity—his Slytherin lineage, the serpent tongue—willingly. It was a deliberate act of possession, a reinforcement of a bond he had no intention of ever breaking. It was his way of saying, "This part of me now belongs to you, just as you have always belonged to me."

The tiny serpent slithered from the box and onto her hand, its scales cool and smooth against her skin. It coiled around her wrist like a living bracelet, its sapphire eyes blinking up at her. As she looked into its intelligent gaze, she felt a flicker of fierce, possessive pride from Marvolo, a surge of satisfaction as he watched her interact with a piece of his world.

§Hello, beautiful,§ Ariela hissed softly, the sound strange, yet familiar from her own lips. §Do you have a name?§

The serpent tasted the air with its forked tongue before replying, its own hiss a soft, melodic whisper. §I do not have a name, Speaker. I am simply me.§

A fresh wave of grief and affection washed over her as she remembered one of the few true friends she had ever had, a girl who saw the world in a different light, who had believed her when no one else would. In that moment, giving this creature her name felt like a quiet act of loyalty, a way to keep a piece of her best self alive in this new, dark world. §Then I will call you Luna,§ she decided, her voice soft with memory. §My name is Ariela.§

§Luna,§ the serpent hissed again, seeming to test the sound. §I like this name. I am yours, Mistress Ariela of Life and Death.§

She looked up at Marvolo, her heart a confusing mix of shock, joy, and gratitude. He had seen her, truly seen her, and had given her something that was uniquely, perfectly hers. Overcome with a rare, impulsive burst of affection, she launched herself at him, wrapping him in another brief, fierce hug. "Thank you, Mylo!" she whispered, before darting away and strategically positioning herself behind Marcos's tall frame, a human shield against the murderous glare she knew was being directed at her back.

Marcos chuckled, breaking the tense silence. “So,” he said, placing a calming hand on Ariela’s shoulder. “What is your pleasure for the day, Ariela? The day is yours.”

A wide, genuine grin broke across Ariela’s face. “I want to fly,” she said, her eyes shining as she looked at the Silver Arrow. “And then I think I’ll do some gardening.”

A soft pop announced Lethe’s arrival, the little elf practically vibrating with excitement. “Gardening, Mistress Ariela! Lethe will fetch the gloves! Oh, Lethe is so happy!”

The rest of the day was a happy blur of simple, uncomplicated joys. The Silver Arrow was a revelation. It lacked the raw, brutal power of the Firebolt, but it responded to her thoughts with an effortless grace that felt like an extension of her own body. She soared over the island, the wind whipping through her hair, Luna coiled securely around her forearm, hissing her delight. §The world is a rushing river below us, Mistress! The wind has a sharp, salty taste!§ For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Ariela flew not to escape or to fight, but for the absolute freedom of it. She looped and dove, the cries of the gulls a distant song, the churning sea a beautiful, chaotic tapestry below.

Later, covered in dirt and grinning from ear to ear, she knelt in the courtyard garden. Lethe was a whirlwind of helpfulness, bringing her cool drinks and chattering happily about the magical properties of the plants Marcos had gifted her. There was a patch of Silver-Lace Fern, whose fronds chimed with a soft, melodic sound when the wind blew, and a pot of fiery Dragon's Tongue flowers that warmed the air around them. As Ariela worked her fingers into the rich, magical soil, she could feel the life force of the plants, a quiet, humming conversation that settled a deep-seated ache in her soul. Luna slithered through the flowerbeds, her white scales a stark contrast to the dark earth, hissing her observations about the scurrying insects and the strange, sweet scent of the blossoms. It was a day of peace, a day of life. A day that was truly, completely hers.

As dusk began to settle, casting long, purple shadows across the island, Marcos led them to the clifftop stone circle. The air here was different, charged and alive. Cassiopeia was already there, a dark, elegant silhouette against the vibrant orange and pink of the sunset. She stood with her hands clasped before her, her posture one of quiet reverence as she observed the preparations. She inclined her head to Marcos in greeting, her sharp eyes holding a flicker of deep respect for the ancient traditions he was upholding.

A great lowset bonfire of oak and birch logs was already built in the center of the circle, waiting to be lit. Wreaths of sweet-smelling hawthorn and dark, glossy ivy were draped over the standing stones, and on the flat central altar, offerings had been laid out: a silver goblet of honey mead, a bowl of rich, yellow cream, and freshly baked oatcakes studded with berries.

“Beltane is a fire festival,” Marcos explained, his voice carrying over the sound of the crashing waves below, a deep and resonant counterpoint to the sea’s rhythm. “It is a celebration of life, of passion, and fertility. Tonight, the veil between our world and the world of the Fae is at its thinnest. This is not a time for petitions or bargains. It is a time for joy, for giving back. We do not ask for anything; we give our own energy to the land, and in turn, we are purified by the fire, our magic cleansed and revitalized for the coming summer.”

He gestured to the bonfire. With a single, silent flick of his wand, he sent a spark of white hot magic into the heart of the woodpile. The flames erupted with a sudden, explosive roar, soaring towards the darkening twilight sky, painting the ancient stones and their faces in a flickering, primal light. The heat was immense, a living, breathing beast that smelled of burning oak and sacred birch. The magic in the air intensified, a heady, intoxicating perfume of power, blooming wildflowers, and ozone that made Ariela's skin tingle and the air taste of honey and lightning.

Marcos began a simple, powerful chant in a language that felt older than words, a song of welcome to the summer, of thanks to the earth. His voice was a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in harmony with the stones, the fire, and the sea itself. He then stepped forward, and with a graceful, effortless leap, he jumped over the bonfire. For a moment, his form was wreathed in flame, but he landed on the other side untouched, a faint smile on his lips.

Marvolo went next. His movements were precise, controlled, his expression one of intense focus as he prepared to leap. For a soul that had only known ambition, rage, and fear for at least the last twenty years, what came next was utterly alien. As he jumped through the searing heat, the chaotic, untamed pulse of the life magic from the fire slammed into him. It was not the cold, orderly power he was used to commanding; it was a raw, vibrant, and messy energy. And for a single, shocking moment, he felt something that was not ambition, not a desire for control, but a flicker of simple, exhilarating joy. The sensation was so foreign it was frightening. He didn't analyze it, didn't try to categorize it. For that brief, suspended moment in the heart of the flames, he simply felt it, and was intensely, aware of its utter unfamiliarity.

Then it was Ariela’s turn. She took a running start, her heart pounding. The events of the day, the freedom of flight, the peace of the garden, the simple kindness of a birthday breakfast, had filled a void inside her she hadn't known was there. As she sailed through the shimmering curtain of heat, a strong wave of Beltane’s blessing surged through her, answering the call of the fire. The flames around her flared, burning a brilliant, impossible gold for a moment, and the scent of a thousand blooming flowers filled the air. She felt a connection, not just to the fire, but to the joyous, vibrant energy of a living, breathing world. She landed on the other side, laughing, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, feeling more alive, more whole, than she had in years.

Cassiopeia watched from the edge of the circle, her arms crossed, a flicker of stunned admiration in her sharp, intelligent eyes. She had seen displays of raw power before, but this was different. This was pure, instinctual life magic, a force of nature that could not be taught or replicated. She looked at the laughing, radiant girl, and then at Marcos, a silent, appraising glance that spoke volumes. The Peverell line was far more interesting, and far more powerful, than she had ever imagined.

After the ritual, they returned to the Great Hall, which had been transformed. The usual long, formal table was gone, replaced by comfortable armchairs and low tables set before the roaring hearth. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the sweet perfume of the flower garlands they now wore in their hair. The heady magic of Beltane lingered, infusing the feast with an infectious joy. Laughter came more easily, and the wine, a rich Spanish vintage that Marcos had produced with a flourish, flowed freely. Both he and Cassie, usually so controlled, seemed to be overindulging, their cheeks flushed with warmth from the fire and the drink, their usual sharp edges softened by the celebratory atmosphere.

Even Marvolo seemed to shed some of his predatory intensity, allowing himself a small piece of honey cake. But his attention, and Ariela’s, was soon drawn to the less-than-subtle dance happening between Marcos and Cassie. Their earlier, careful flirtation had, under the influence of the wine and the lingering Beltane magic, become something far more open, their witty repartee now laced with a genuine, unguarded warmth.

“You surprise me, Marcos,” Cassie said, her voice a low, melodious purr as she leaned closer. “I had not pictured the formidable Lord Peverell as a man who celebrated the olde ways with such passion.”

“And I did not picture the pragmatic Cassiopeia Black as a woman who would travel to a remote island for a simple bonfire,” he returned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Unless, of course, the company was a sufficient lure.”

“The company is intriguing,” she conceded, her gaze holding his over the rim of her glass. “As is the wine. Spanish, I presume?”

“From my own estate,” he confirmed. “Pazo Peveral. Perhaps you would allow me to give you a tour someday.”

“Perhaps I would,” she replied, her slow, dangerous smile losing its sharp edge, replaced by something softer, more genuine. “If the tour proves to be as interesting as the vintner.”

The air between them was thick with an unspoken energy, a palpable chemistry that was both fascinating and weirdly unsettling to Ariela. They were two powerful, solitary predators who had, it seemed, found an equal. She saw the way his gaze lingered on the curve of Cassie’s lips as she spoke, the way Cassie’s hand brushed his as she reached for her glass.

Marvolo watched them for a few more moments, his expression unreadable, his eyes narrowed in intense focus. He was observing a power dynamic he had never truly paid any attention to before. It was not the fear-based loyalty of his followers, nor the grudging respect of a rival. It was a voluntary, mutual alignment, a genuine connection that hummed in the air between them with an energy as potent as any curse. To him, an emotional display of this nature was still fundamentally illogical, an inefficient use of time. But for a fleeting moment, as he watched them, he felt a strange, hollow echo in his own chest—the ghost of the lonely orphan who had only ever known connections forged from fear and necessity, never from choice or affection. It was a feeling he could not categorize, could not control, and therefore could not tolerate. With a final, dismissive glance that was a shield for his own profound confusion, he rose from his chair.

“I have research to attend to,” he announced to no one in particular, and without a backward glance, he swept from the room, leaving the two adults to their verbal sparring. Ariela, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips, called after him. "Night, Mylo! Thanks again for Luna!" She chuckled to herself as she saw his shoulders stiffen with irritation at the nickname. She felt a quiet satisfaction in seeing her stoic guardian so clearly captivated, and with another soft "Goodnight" to Marcos and Cassie, she too excused herself, leaving them alone by the fire.

"They are remarkable children," Cassie murmured, watching Ariela leave.

"They are," Marcos agreed, his gaze warm. He then turned that warmth upon Cassie, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "Pero los niños se han retirado, mi hechicera, but the children have retired, my enchantress. And the night is still young." He rose and offered her his hand. "The wine is better in my study. It's more private."

"Is it?" she purred, placing her hand in his. The contact sent a jolt of energy through them both, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in the evening's tone. He led her from the Great Hall, his hand warm and firm around hers. In the quiet intimacy of his study, with the fire casting long shadows on the walls, the pretense of polite conversation fell away.

A sly grin spread across Marcos's face as he saw the hunger in Cassie's eyes. He drew her closer, not with force, but with a magnetic pull of his magic that she answered with her own. The shadows in the study deepened, swirling around them, and the very air crackled with the pressure of their combined auras. "Beltane is a festival of passion, querida," he murmured, his voice a low, husky timber that vibrated against her skin. "It would be a shame to let such potent magic go to waste."

"Indeed," she whispered back, her eyes dark and glittering as she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "There are other rituals to honor the day."

***Sexual content warning***

Marcos's breath caught as Cassie's words hung in the air, thick with unspoken promise. He raised his free hand to cup her face, his thumb tracing the full curve of her lower lip. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his touch, and he felt a surge of desire so strong it nearly took his breath away.

"You're right," he murmured, his voice low and rough with need. "The oldest and most sacred of Beltane traditions."

Slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished, he leaned in and captured her lips with his own. She tasted of wine and honey, and he couldn't help but deepen the kiss, his tongue delving into the sweetness of her mouth.

Cassie's hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as she pressed herself against him. He could feel the softness of her breasts, the warmth of her body through the thin material of her robes, and it made him ache to touch her, to feel her skin against his own.

With a low growl, he broke the kiss and began to pepper hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. Cassie's head fell back, exposing more of her creamy skin to his lips and teeth. He nipped at her pulse point, soothing the sting with his tongue, as his hands slid down to grip her hips.

"Marcos," she gasped, her voice high and needy with desire. "Please..."

He looked up at her, his eyes dark and intent. "What do you need, mi amor?" he asked roughly. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," she breathed, her fingers tangling in his hair. "I want to feel you. I want you to make me scream with pleasure until I forget my own name."

A shudder ran through him at her words, and he knew he couldn't wait any longer. He needed her, needed to claim her, to make her his in every way possible.

"I want that too," he growled, his hands sliding down to cup her ass. He lifted her effortlessly, guiding her legs around his waist as he carried her over to his desk. With one sweep of his arm, he cleared the surface, sending papers and quills flying to the floor.

He laid her down on the smooth wood, his body covering hers as he claimed her mouth in another searing kiss. His hands roamed over her curves, caressing and kneading, as he ground his hips against hers.

Cassie moaned into his mouth, her hands fisting in his hair as she arched up against him. He could feel her heat through the layers of their clothing, and it made him wild with need.

"Patience, mi amor," he chuckled, breaking the kiss to nuzzle at her throat. "We have all night, and I intend to take my time with you."

Marcos made quick work of her robes, nearly tearing them in his haste to get at the supple skin beneath. Cassie shimmied out of them and kicked them aside, baring herself fully to his hungry gaze. Taking a step back Marcos admired her naked form, his eyes dark with lust. "Exquisite," he breathed reverently, drinking in every dip and curve. "A perfect Beltane offering."

"Marcos, please," she begged, her voice high and desperate. "I need you now."

He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her body, his hands sliding over her hips, to caress the soft skin of her thighs. Cassie whimpered and writhed beneath him, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark and gleaming with lust. "Patience, mi amor," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. "I want to taste you first."

With that, spreading her thighs he ducked his head, his tongue delving between her folds to lap at the sweetness he found there. Cassie cried out, her hips bucking up against his face as he feasted on her like a man starved.

He could feel her growing closer to the edge, her thighs trembling on either side of his head as he drove her higher and higher. Just when she was teetering on the brink of release, he pulled back, leaving her gasping and bereft.

"Marcos!" she wailed, frustration and need warring in her voice.

He rose up, grinning wickedly down at her. "Not yet, mi amor," he purred. "I'm not done with you yet."

And with that, he began to strip, revealing inch after inch of tanned, muscular skin to her hungry gaze. Cassie drank in the sight of him, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded with desire. When he was finally naked before her, his cock hard and throbbing, she reached for him with shaking hands. "Please," she whispered. "I need you inside me. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. With a low growl, he captured her mouth in a searing kiss as he positioned himself at her entrance. And then, with one smooth thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely.

They both cried out at the sensation, their bodies joining in the most intimate way possible. Marcos set a fast, hard pace, driving into her again and again as she met him thrust for thrust.

The desk creaked beneath them, the sound mixing with their moans and cries as they lost themselves in the heat and passion of the moment. Cassie could feel her release building, coiling tighter and tighter in her belly as Marcos pounded into her.

"Marcos," she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "I'm so close. Don't stop."

He answered her with a growl, his hips snapping forward as he drove into her even harder. And then, with a scream of ecstasy, Cassie came undone beneath him, her body shaking and convulsing with the force of her release.

Marcos followed a moment later, spilling himself deep inside her with a roar of completion. They collapsed together on the desk, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of their passion.

For a long moment, they simply lay there, their hearts pounding in tandem as they caught their breath. And then Marcos lifted his head to smile down at her, his eyes warm and tender.

"That was..." he began, but he seemed at a loss for words.

"Magnificent," Cassie finished for him, grinning up at him with a wicked gleam in her eye. "But I seem to remember something about honoring Beltane all night long."

Marcos laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Minx," he murmured, nuzzling at her neck. "You're insatiable."

"You started it," she retorted, nipping playfully at his chin. "And I intend to finish it."

She rolled them over so that she was straddling his hips, his softening cock still nestled inside her. She grinned down at him wickedly, already feeling the stirrings of renewed desire.

"Ready for round two?" she purred, rocking her hips slowly against his.

He groaned, his hands coming up to grip her waist. "Insatiable," he repeated, but there was no denying the heat that flared in his eyes at her movements.

And so the fires of Beltane burned long into the night, and not just on the clifftop.

***End of Sexual content***

The next morning, Ariela and Marvolo were seated at the breakfast table in a rare, comfortable silence. Ariela was absently stroking Luna, who was draped over her shoulders like a living necklace, while Marvolo was already engrossed in a book on ancient curses. The quiet was broken by the sound of two sets of footsteps descending the grand staircase.

Marcos and Cassie entered the dining room together. Cassie’s usually immaculate hair was slightly tousled, and she wore the same emerald robes from the night before, though they looked a little… rumpled. Marcos, for his part, had a relaxed, self-satisfied smile on his face that Ariela had never seen before.

“Good morning, children,” Marcos said, his voice unusually cheerful.

Cassie shot him a look that was pure, predatory satisfaction before her gaze settled on Ariela. “A belated happy birthday, Ariela. Your mother would have been so proud of the witch you are becoming.” Catching Ariela’s cheeky grin, she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"So," Ariela asked, her voice laced with amusement. "Does this mean you're our new mummy?"

Marcos choked on the coffee he had just poured himself, while Cassie let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter. "Merlin, no, child. I have no intention of taking on the role of a mother. I am far too selfish for that." Her eyes glinted mischievously. "Think of me more as a wicked aunt. The kind who teaches you all the things your parents would rather you didn't know."

Marvolo looked up from his book, a flicker of something almost like humor in his own eyes. "A bit late for that, I'm afraid," he murmured, his voice a dry, cutting whisper. "She's already had two very proficient, if morally questionable, tutors in that regard."

Cassie’s laughter rang out again, genuine and surprised. She looked at Marvolo, her expression a complex mixture of appraisal and bafflement. “And you, Marvolo,” she said, her voice losing its teasing lilt and taking on a tone of genuine, if grudging, respect. “You are a conundrum. I don’t quite know what to make of you, but it was fascinating to meet you properly.”

With a final, lingering look at Marcos that was full of unspoken promises, she strode to the fireplace, tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames, and was gone in a flash of green fire.

The silence she left behind was thick and telling. Marvolo stood for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He had been assessed by one of the most formidable witches in Britain and had not been found wanting. The grudging respect was a far more valuable prize than fawning admiration. Still, the entire evening's display of emotion had been grating. He gave a sharp, decisive nod to himself.

“I find myself in need of dueling practice,” he announced abruptly, the words clipped. “The idleness of the evening has left me with a surplus of energy.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Ariela alone with Marcos.

Marcos watched him go, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He then turned to Ariela, his eyes twinkling. “So,” he began, his voice laced with humor. “‘Mylo,’ is it?”

Ariela giggled, a light, carefree sound that felt wonderfully out of place in the grand castle. “It’s half a joke, half an endearment,” she confessed, her cheeks flushing slightly. “He’ll insist on everyone calling him ‘My Lord’ one day. It’s my way of mocking him for it.” She paused, her expression turning more thoughtful, more serious. “But it’s also true. He is mine, isn’t he? Just as much as I am his. My Marvolo.”

The smirk faded from Marcos’s face, replaced by a look of almost startled understanding. He looked at the girl before him, no longer seeing just a powerful ward, but a queen who was beginning to understand the nature of her own domain. The bond between them was not one of master and servant, or even of rivals. It was something far more complex, a tangled knot of destiny he was only just beginning to comprehend. And in that moment, he knew that the future of the wizarding world rested not on one of them, but on the strange, dangerous, and unbreakable balance between the two.

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