Chapter Text
The sound of the grandfather clock echoed through the mansion's walls, slow and steady, as if marking not time, but the breathing of the place itself.
Harry still stood in the library, motionless before the open book. The words "Those who inherit this name belong not only to themselves, but to the history that shaped them" still haunted him.
He closed the volume slowly, his fingers trembling slightly. The air felt different—cooler, more watchful.
The mansion was watching. He could feel it.
"Sir, you're up too early."
The voice came softly, almost a whisper.
Harry looked up and found Morgrim standing by the door. The elf wore the same dark robe as always, and his big eyes—a deep, tired green—reflected the candlelight as if they held too many memories.
Harry sighed. "I couldn't sleep."
Morgrim approached slowly, his small hands clasped in front of him. "The House feels when the blood awakens. The walls whisper again, as they haven't for a long time."
Harry leaned against the table, staring at the book. "The House... this family... I don't understand. The more I read, the more I feel like I don't want to belong."
The elf studied him for a moment. "Belonging isn't a choice, sir. But understanding... that is."
Harry looked away, the weight of the words hitting him hard.
Morgrim snapped his fingers, and a small stack of books rose from a nearby shelf, floating onto the table. The covers were ancient, darkened leather, marked with seals and symbols Harry had never seen before.
"Books of House Peverell," the elf explained, placing them before him. "Kept since before the Ministry existed. They speak of ancient wizarding culture... of forgotten traditions and the blood magic the founders practiced."
Harry ran his fingers over the covers, hesitating before opening the first one.
The pages were yellowed, and the text was dense, with notes scrawled in dark ink in the margins. Ritual diagrams, runes, and Latin phrases mingled with almost poetic passages.
“Magic is not born of spells, but of intention.And blood is the first oath.”
Harry frowned. “They thought blood… had a will of its own?”
Morgrim nodded slowly. “The ancients believed blood carried memory. Every spell, every loss, every death… everything remains. That’s why the Peverells said their magic was alive—and that each generation must nourish it.”
“Nourish it with what?” Harry asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“With choice,” said the elf. “With sacrifice.”
Harry slammed the book shut, as if the sharp sound could dispel what he’d felt growing inside him. But he couldn't.
The words were in his head, scratching like echoes: choice… sacrifice… blood…
He stood and began to pace around the table. "Dumbledore also spoke of choice. But his choices were always made behind other people's backs."
"And yours, master?" Morgrim asked calmly. "Are they yours… or inherited?"
Harry paused, the silence of the room seeming to close in around them.
He glanced at the elf but didn't answer.
The candle flames flickered—and for a moment, he thought the runes engraved on the spines of the books pulsed, as if recognizing him.
"You may continue reading," said Morgrim, taking a small step back. "But be careful what you awaken. The House listens."
Harry watched him disappear into the shadows near the door.
Then he turned back to the books.
One of them, the smaller one, bore a familiar symbol: a circle, a line, and a triangle—the Deathly Hallows.
He opened it slowly. Inside was a Latin text and an ancient translation:
"The brothers who cheated Death sealed a pact.But the price of cheating is becoming part of what you fear."
Harry closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the words.
It was as if each letter whispered something he already knew—but never wanted to admit.
He was part of this.
Always had been.
And now, House Peverell was waking up.