Chapter 6: Ashes and Riverlight 

November 1st, 1978 7:00 a.m. — Southhampton

I gasped as I hit the shore, coughing up water and mud. My whole body ached, and I was soaked from head to toe. The river behind me rushed past like nothing had happened, like it hadn't just carried me away from the only home I'd ever known.

I pushed myself up on shaky arms, breathing hard. Everything hurt. My clothes clung to my skin, heavy and cold. My fingers were going numb.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The forest around me was still and unfamiliar. Trees stretched high above me, their dark green leaves barely moving. The air smelled like moss and river water. It felt old—older than Hogwarts, older than anything I could remember. Like the forest had been waiting a long time for someone to show up.

I sat there, staring at the ground, water dripping from my hair. I didn't even notice the compass floating in front of me until it spun slightly in place.

It wasn't glowing.

Just… hovering.

I blinked at it, confused. Wasn't it supposed to do something?

"Press it when it glows," my father's voice echoed in my head.

But it didn't glow.

Of course it didn't.

I let out a shaky breath. My throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. My hands trembled as I wiped at my face, only to realize I was crying.

I wasn't even sure when the tears had started.

"Just great," I muttered under my breath, voice cracking. "When I asked for a second chance, I didn't mean to..."

I couldn't finish the sentence. My voice caught in my throat.

I looked around again, trying to get my bearings, but it was no use. I didn't know this place. I didn't even know what direction to go. All I had were soaked clothes, a bag, a floating compass, and—

Something moved in the bag.

I froze, startled.

I quickly unfastened the flap and looked inside—just in time for a familiar shape to leap out.

"Athena?"

The little black cat jumped out onto one of her glowing blue clouds, her paws barely touching it as she floated in front of me. She looked perfectly fine. Not even wet. Her silver eyes blinked at me, calm and steady.

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, she landed on top of my head and meowed softly.

I let out a small breath—something between a laugh and a sob. I reached up and gently pulled her down into my arms. She immediately curled up against my chest, purring faintly.

"I thought I lost you," I whispered.

Athena didn't say anything, of course. But her warmth helped. Even a little.

I looked down at the compass again. Still no glow.

"Leave Britain. Trust only Arcturus Black and your great-grandfather."

I remembered my father's words. They echoed in my head like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.

I didn't know where I was. I didn't know how far the river had taken me.

I didn't know how long I stood there, holding Athena close. Everything still felt heavy, like the world was pressing in on me. The silence in the forest wasn't peaceful—it was loud. Too loud. Every snap of a twig or rustle of a leaf made me flinch.

Then the compass moved.

I blinked.

It had stopped hovering in place and was now… drifting. Slowly, steadily, it floated away from me, like it had suddenly made up its mind and decided where it wanted to go.

"Wait—what?" I muttered, shifting Athena in my arms.

The compass floated a little faster.

My eyes widened. "Hey—hey! Where are you going?!"

No answer, obviously.

"Stupid thing! Stay still!"

But the compass didn't care. It just kept floating forward like it was on a mission from Merlin himself.

I groaned and took off after it, nearly tripping over my own feet. My soaked boots squished with every step as I pushed through the underbrush, branches scratching my arms and water flicking off leaves into my face.

"Could you not fly off into the middle of nowhere?! That'd be great!"

The compass didn't care. It just kept floating forward like it was on a mission from Merlin himself.

Cassian ran faster, trying to keep up. "Do you even know where you're going?!"

And then—

Whack.

My foot caught on something.

I didn't even see it. Just one second I was running, and the next I was flying forward through the air like a badly-cast levitation spell.

My face met the ground with a loud thud.

Pain bloomed across my forehead as I groaned and rolled onto my back. "Ow…"

Athena hopped off just in time, landing beside me and giving me an unimpressed meow.

I groaned again and sat up, one hand going to my head. "What even—?"

I pulled my hand back and saw blood on my fingers.

"Oh, come on…"

The root—because of course it was a tree root—stuck out of the ground like it had been waiting for me.

The compass hovered just a few feet ahead now, like it had finally stopped to give me a moment. It floated patiently in place, gently spinning.

I glared at it through the pain. "You couldn't give me, like, two seconds of warning?"

Athena pawed at my arm, then gently headbutted my side, like she was saying get up, idiot.

I sighed, wiping at my forehead with my sleeve. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going."

I trudged after the compass, my boots squelching softly in the damp forest floor. The trees were beginning to thin, their shadows stretching longer as the early morning light slipped between the branches. Dawn had only just arrived, casting a soft silver glow over everything, cold and quiet and still.

My head still throbbed. I could feel the blood drying at my hairline, sticky and warm beneath my bangs, but I didn't stop. The compass floated ahead like it was drawn by some invisible thread, slower now, like it knew the forest was ending. Like it was giving me a moment to catch my breath.

I followed it into a small clearing.

The trees gave way to open ground, wet with dew and brushed with mist. I slowed, my breath catching slightly as the world beyond finally came into view.

There, in the distance, through the thinning fog—houses.

Not close. Maybe a quarter-mile away, nestled down in a shallow valley. I could make out rooftops, soft glints of glass, a few porch lights still glowing faintly in the early light.

There were no people yet. No cars. Just the suggestion of a town slowly waking up.

I took a step toward the edge of the trees.

And then stopped.

The town was right there—quiet, waking up, fog still hanging over rooftops—but going down there, like this? Bleeding. Soaked. Three years old.

It hit me all at once just how insanely stupid that would be.

I backed up a few steps, heart pounding.

"You'd stand out like a burning wand in the middle of Diagon Alley," I muttered to myself.

And then… the bigger thought came.

Voldemort.

He had been there.

At the Keep.

Voldemort had been injured. Badly.

And that was exactly the problem.

He was vengeful. Obsessive. Unforgiving. That man had gone after a toddler because of a prophecy once—chased Harry year after year just because he couldn't stand not being the one in control.

I backed up a step and muttered under my breath, "Yeah, right. Like he's gonna leave me alone…"

My fingers clenched tighter around the strap of the satchel.

"Half his army's dead, and he got half his body blown apart, and you think Voldemort's just gonna take that as a loss? He's probably already sending people after me."

I ran a hand through my damp hair, wincing as my fingers brushed the tender spot where I'd hit my head earlier.

"Portkey's a no-go. Dad said the air was sealed, and even if that's lifted now, I don't know where to get one. I don't even know how to Apparate…"

I trailed off for a second, chewing my lip, trying to think.

"Voldemort has spies. In the Ministry. Probably the whole damn Department of Magical Transportation. Maybe even the Aurors. So if I try to use any official way out of the country, they'll find me."

My voice dropped lower.

"Under the pretext of 'finding me.'"

"Arcturus is in London. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. If I remember right. But I don't even know where I am right now, and who knows how far this town is from London."

I looked out at the mist again.

"Maybe a train," I whispered. "Or a boat. Maybe even a plane."

I sighed. "If I can find a train station. If I can pass as someone old enough to buy a ticket. If they don't think I'm some runaway kid."

I looked down at my clothes—still damp, stained with river water and blood—and snorted bitterly.

"I don't even have money."

Athena meowed softly beside me, curling tighter against my hip.

I sat down again in the grass, pulling the satchel into my lap, trying to think. My mind was spinning.

"Think, Cassian. Think."

And then it hit me.

House-elves.

I froze, staring straight ahead.

"Tipsy…"

My chest clenched, the memory crashing over me like a wave.

Her tiny body, crumpled on the stone floor of the ritual chamber. Her eyes wide and lifeless. The warmth gone from her voice. Gone from her hands as she pushed me forward.

Grief flooded me again, sharp and cold.

I bowed my head.

She had died for me.

Protected me until the end.

And I hadn't even had time to say goodbye.

But—my dad had said it. Told me before… before the end.

The Vaerendrals and Fontaines were old families. Powerful families. Families that wouldn't have had just one house-elf. Not in generations of magic and legacy and wards.

There had to be another.

Somewhere.

I looked up, wiping my face quickly with my sleeve.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, I know this is stupid… but maybe it's better than nothing."

And then, for some reason… I remembered a fanfiction.

Some random one I'd read years ago. One of the dozens—no, hundreds—I'd devoured while stuck in a hospital bed with wires in my arm and monitors humming beside me. It was about Harry. Or maybe Draco. It all blurred now.

But I remembered the idea.

Elves.

Bound to old families.

They'd appear when the heir called them—when the Head of the family called them.

My hand slipped into the satchel again, and this time I pulled out the rings.

My father's first—thick and ancient, carved with the Vaerendral crest. Cold to the touch.

Then my mother's—slimmer, elegant, etched with the delicate lines of the Fontaine seal. Still faintly warm.

I held them in my palms, feeling the weight of them.

"The headship rings…"

A weak, tired laugh slipped from my throat.

"I'm really glad I read the Harry Potter books," I muttered, voice shaky. "And the fanfiction. Guess that cancer was good for something after all."

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to push the tears away before they started again.

"Being stuck in that hospital room got boring real fast."

I looked down at the rings one more time.

Then I took a breath.

And another.

And placed both rings—my father's and my mother's—on my fingers. They were too big, but they shimmered the moment they touched my skin, shrinking just enough to fit.

The air shifted around me. Just slightly.

"If there are any elves… still bound to House Vaerendral…"

My fingers tightened around the rings.

"…and Fontaine…"

"…I need help."

I stood still, waiting.

The wind rustled. A leaf tumbled across the clearing. Nothing happened.

No sound. No shimmer. No crack of magic.

Just silence.

I sighed and dropped heavily back onto the damp grass, pulling the satchel into my lap. My fingers shook slightly as I reached inside and pulled out the grimoire—thick, heavy, old as hell. It smelled like parchment and ash and something ancient beneath both.

I flipped through page after page, eyes glazing over.

Potions. Arithmancy. Ancient Runes. Spellcraft. Diagrams of human souls. Notes scribbled in at least four different hands. Some of the ink was so old it had faded to grey.

I felt a headache forming just from looking at it.

"This is all brilliant," I muttered, dragging my fingers down my face, "and completely useless to me right now."

Another page flipped. It was something about leyline stabilizers. The next one was a translation key for four rune languages. The next had potion sequences with fountain-based ingredient ratios.

I slammed the book shut and groaned.

"I just want to know how to summon an elf."

The grimoire shivered in my lap.

I blinked.

It vibrated faintly, then began to glow—soft blue light pulsing from the spine. The pages flipped themselves, turning fast, faster, until they landed halfway through the book.

The light stilled.

I looked down, and there it was—clearly written across the top of the page:

"On the Acknowledgement of Linebound Servants When the Heir Knows Not the Name"

Below it, a block of text appeared, written in calm, old magic—like someone who had lived a long time had taken care to make this simple, because they knew one day, someone like me would need it.

In times of loss and silence, when names have faded and history lies shattered, the rightful Heir may still call those bound to blood and legacy. If the Head bears the rings and carries the name, then the call may pass through magic itself. No name need be known. Only the will.

I leaned in as the glow brightened slightly, revealing the words below—words that felt older than the parchment, and far more alive.

"Invocation."

To summon by blood-right alone, speak thus:

_"I, ___, Heir by blood, by name, by right, and by magic, call thee who are bound to this line. If ye serve still, come forth and answer. By oath, by bond, by legacy… I summon thee."

There was no flourish. No wand movement. Just the words. And the quiet weight of them, like a sleeping promise waiting to wake.

I read it twice more, silently.

Then I stood.

I looked down at the rings on my fingers.

Took a breath.

And another.

And spoke—not to the wind, but to the legacy itself:

"I, Cassian Edric Fontaine Vaerendral…"

"Heir by blood, by name, by right, and by magic…"

"Call thee who are bound to this line…"

"If ye serve still—come forth and answer…"

"By oath, by bond, by legacy… I summon thee."

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

I stood there, breath held, rings glowing faintly on my fingers, the grimoire still warm against my chest.

Then—

The air cracked.

Once. Twice. A dozen times over.

Soft pops echoed around the clearing—like sparks of air igniting—and light shimmered in sudden bursts, one after the other, circling me in a wide arc.

Figures began to take shape.

Small. Robed. Familiar.

Eyes wide, ears long, expressions solemn.

Elves.

Fifteen of them.

They appeared in flashes of white-blue magic, like starlight stepping out of space itself.

Some arrived from the west. Others from the east. One blinked into view from high above the trees and drifted softly down. A few looked exhausted. One had dried blood on his sleeves. Another held a set of potion vials still clutched in one hand.

But they came.

Every last one.

I stood frozen, unable to speak.

Athena growled low at first—then went still, curling tighter into my side.

The elves looked around the clearing, their eyes falling on me one by one. They didn't speak right away. Didn't move.

Until the one in the center—tall for his kind, dressed in deep green robes threaded with Vaerendral silver—stepped forward.

He bowed low.

"By the call of blood, by oath and bond… we come."

The others bowed too, almost as one.

A soft hum filled the air, like old magic settling into place after centuries of silence.

The tall elf raised his head.

His face was lined with age, but his eyes were steady—pale silver, almost like frost.

"Master is calling. Master wears the rings. Magic is listening now. House is listening."

I looked around at them—fifteen elves, ancient magic, real and waiting and bound to me now. Waiting for my word.

"You all came," I whispered. "I… I didn't think anyone would answer."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

Master is Vaerendral. Master is Fontaine. Master has blood, has name, has grief. Magic hears grief best.

The others nodded, ears drooping low.

One of them wiped their eyes without lifting their head.

Athena pressed herself closer to my side, her tail curling around my wrist.

I knelt slowly, the weight of everything crashing down in my chest.

"I don't know what to do," I said quietly.

Thornik gave the smallest nod.

"Then Thornik will tell. Elves will help. Always."

Then he stepped forward, folding his long, wrinkled hands before him.

"Master is alone," Thornik said softly. "But Master is not broken. Thornik is seeing it. Thornik is knowing. But… Thornik is needing to hear. What has happened to the House?"

I looked at him.

Then at the elves still kneeling in silence.

The words nearly caught in my throat, but they had to come out. Somehow.

"We were ambushed," I said quietly. "Right after the ritual."

I hesitated. My breath hitched once.

"It was…" I almost said the name, but the word froze behind my teeth. My father's voice echoed in my head—"Never say it. Never give it the power it craves. Never feed the curse."

"It was the abomination."

Thornik's head gave the smallest dip, as if he understood exactly what I meant.

"Vampires. Werewolves. Dark wizards," I went on. "Dozens of them. They were waiting. They knew."

I swallowed hard.

"They didn't stand a chance," I said. "They fought anyway."

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached into the satchel, pulling out the compass first.

"My father gave me this," I said. "He told me to press the button when it glows. That it would show me the way."

I placed it on the grass between us, then reached in again—pulling out the necklace, then the two rings on my fingers, showing them quietly, one by one.

"The Vaerendral ring. The Fontaine ring. My mother's necklace."

"They… they died to make sure I escaped. They knew they wouldn't make it out."

Tears blurred my vision, but my voice held steady, like steel buried in velvet.

"My father said to trust two people."

I looked Thornik in the eye for the first time.

"My great-grandfather."

"And Arcturus Black."

"He told me to press it when it glows," I murmured. "But it's not glowing."

Thornik stepped forward, eyes flicking down to the object.

He blinked slow, long.

"Compass… is tired, Master," Thornik said, voice low, rough. "Magic gone. Used… all up."

I looked at him. "Gone?"

"Yess. Compass used big-magic. Carry Master safe. Through stone. Through dark. Through river-road."

The elf's long fingers twitched once.

"Compass is sleeping now. Magic empty."

I frowned. "Can I fix it?"

Thornik gave a small shake of his head.

"Not now, Master. Compass needs time. Needs place. Safe-place. Then… will drink magic again. Will glow."

I stared down at it, turning the compass slowly in my palm.

It felt… hollow now. Like a heartbeat had stopped.

"Father said it would take me where I needed to go."

"And it will, Master," Thornik said softly. "When it wakes."

I stepped closer to Thornik, the compass cool in my hand.

"Is there a place I can go?" I asked quietly. "Somewhere safe. Just for now. Until the compass… recharges."

Thornik's long ears twitched. He raised his hand slowly, and from his palm, a soft blue light began to rise—thin lines and glowing dots unfurling into the air like threads of silk. A faint map hovered in the space between them, ghostlike and humming with old magic.

"Master is having places," Thornik murmured, voice dry and low. "Old places. Some strong, some small. Still hidden. Still ours."

A light pulsed faintly in southern England.

"Vaerendral Castle," Thornik said. "Main seat of House. Sealed. Sleeping. Wards too heavy now. Archive is there. Deep-deep under stone. Castle not waking unless called proper."

Another glow flickered over London.

"One flat in Muggle-side city. Small place. Has hiding charms. Quiet. No wizard looks."

A faint golden speck shivered in the north.

"Townhouse in Highlands. Windy hills. Far from roads. Not strong-warded, but secret. Lonely."

Near Wiltshire, another spark burned dim.

"The keep," Thornik whispered. "Where Master's father did ritual. Place is gone now. Burned. Broken. Nothing left but stone and bones."

Two more dots appeared—one tucked into Diagon Alley, the other farther north.

"Flat above Alley," he continued. "One room. Has silence spell. Old. Not used much."

"Shops too. Three. Potions. Books. Trinkets. Still rented. Still under name."

"One flat in Hogsmeade. Old glass window. Still frosts in summer."

The map shifted east, drifting over the continent.

"Germany," Thornik said. "Flat in Berlin. Hidden wall. Quiet."

"Townhouse in Hamburg. Thick door. Has cold wine room."

"One more in Munich. High roof. Garden grows wild."

Then a darker dot in the Schwarzwald.

"Castle in forest," Thornik muttered. "No elf has gone in years. Dust sleeps there. Wards are lazy. Magic… slow."

Further south, the light pulsed in the mountains.

"Fortress in Swiss Alps. Dug into stone. Once used for hiding. Old war place. Still safe, but cold."

Dots flickered across France.

"Five. Paris. Lyon. Coast. Old wine vault. One under chapel stones."

Then Spain.

"Four homes there. Sun-warmed walls. Empty beds."

And Morocco.

"One vault. Red stone. Quiet wind."

Tunis lit with a soft golden flicker.

"Flat above rooftops. Birds live on rail."

"Egypt," he said. "Two places. One under Cairo street. One near long river. Hidden door."

The map curved westward again, floating across the ocean.

"Caribbean has two," Thornik continued. "Island hill home. Cave under sea rock."

"Flat in New York. Muggle street. Loud above. Silent below."

"Townhouse in Los Angeles. Empty. Still smells of rain."

At last, the lights drifted into the cold north.

"Russia," Thornik said, voice lower now. "Mansion by black woods. Old. Heavy with sleep. Bones in wall sing when snow falls."

The map dimmed slowly, sinking back into Thornik's palm like mist.

"These are Vaerendral places," he said.

Thornik's voice lowered, a new trail of golden lights beginning to rise, gentler than the ones before.

"Fontaine holdings are fewer," he said. "But magic is deeper. Quiet places in—"

I raised a hand, stopping him.

"No," I said. "That's enough."

Thornik fell silent immediately. The glowing trails flickered, then faded away.

I looked down at the compass in my palm, still dark and unmoving. I tightened my fingers around it.

"Take me to the flat in London," I said, my voice steady. "Temporarily. Just until I can either recharge this thing… or get in contact with my great-grandfather. Or Arcturus Black."

My jaw set.

"After that, we leave the country."

Thornik blinked slowly, but said nothing.

I looked up again, meeting the elf's pale, unblinking eyes.

"Can you Apparate us there?"

Thornik's ears twitched slightly, and he gave a small nod.

"Thornik can take Master," he said. "Flat is ready. Still hidden. Still safe."

I exhaled, slow and even.

"Good."

I reached down, pulled the satchel tighter over my shoulder, and stepped forward.

"Let's go."

Thornik extended his hand, old fingers crooked slightly with age.

I didn't hesitate. I took it.

And the world vanished with a quiet crack of ancient magic.

—————————————

My boots hit the floor with a sharp thud. But before I could stabilize myself, I was thrown off my feet and slammed into the ground with a solid crash.

My hands smacked the carpet first, then my knees and my shoulder. Pain shot up my side, and for a moment, I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, my breath knocked out of my chest.

It was my first time Apparating. And it was nothing like the books said. It felt like I'd been shoved through a pipe that was far too small for my body—stretched, flattened, broken, and then hastily put back together again.

I groaned, pushing myself up with shaking arms. My stomach rolled hard. For a second, I thought I was going to throw up—but I forced it back down and took a few shallow breaths.

Focus. I had to focus.

I blinked hard and looked around, still disoriented, still trying to piece together where I even was.

A flat.

No—a loft, I'd call it. Somewhere modern. Simple, elegant, minimalistic.

The room around me was mostly dark, the curtains still drawn. But it wasn't cold. There was a quiet warmth in the air, the kind that came from old, sleeping wards.

They were in the living room.

Soft carpet under my hands. White bookshelves along the far wall, most of them empty. A low hearth sat unused at one end, dark and cold. Furniture was covered in white sheets, untouched. A thick layer of dust shimmered faintly in the low light, glowing where it caught the sun behind the curtain.

There were runes under the rug.

I could barely see them—but they were there. Faint, etched into the floor. Barely visible unless you knew where to look.

I had just gotten to my feet when I felt a tug at my wrist.

Thornik.

The old elf was already walking, gently pulling me forward.

"Ward-stone follows now," Thornik said, dragging me without pause.

"Wait—what—?" I stumbled along behind him.

The elf didn't answer. He walked straight to the fireplace and reached toward the side of the mantle.

There, tucked into the corner, was a small statue—a dragon, carved from stone, curled tightly around itself.

Thornik pressed two fingers to its snout.

With a soft metallic click, the dragon tilted sideways, and a narrow iron rod slid out from inside the stone.

The elf pulled the rod downward.

The wall beside the fireplace gave a low groan and cracked open.

I stared.

Behind it was a hidden room—no bigger than a closet.

In the center of it, hovering just above a flat stone plinth, was a glowing orb. Pale blue, soft, steady.

"Ward-stone," Thornik said. "Old one. Still strong. Flat listens to it."

I blinked at the orb. My head was still spinning.

"Can they even talk in complete sentences?" I muttered to myself.

"What… do I do?"

"Master must touch," Thornik said. "Say words. Flat will hide again. Magic will hum."

I frowned. "What words?"

Thornik paused, ears twitching slightly. He looked confused.

"Thornik… doesn't know."

I stared at him. "You don't—what?"

The elf nodded slowly. "Yes. Thornik doesn't know. Only Master knows."

My breath caught. "I don't know anything about this!"

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated, on the edge of snapping.

Then I stopped.

The grimoire.

The book had shown me the spell for summoning the elves. Maybe… maybe it would do it again.

I yanked the grimoire from the satchel and flipped it open.

"I need to activate the wardstone," I muttered. "To hide the flat."

The book shivered once in my hands—and then snapped to life.

Pages flipped in a blur of motion, faster than I could follow. The air around it hummed softly, glowing faintly silver-blue.

Then the flipping stopped.

One page. Clear and glowing.

Activation of Ward-Stone was written at the top in neat Vaerendral script.

I scanned the headings. There were different types—barrier wards, anti-tracking, anti-Apparition, anti-portkey, concealment, protection—

My eyes landed on one.

Concealment Wards.

Underneath it: Domus Occulto.

I didn't hesitate.

I stepped forward, raised my hand, and pressed my fingers against the cool surface of the glowing orb.

"Domus Occulto," I said.

The moment the words left my mouth, the wardstone flared with light. Magic rushed through the walls like a silent wave—almost invisible, almost undetectable.

Most wizards wouldn't have felt it at all.

But I did.

I saw it.

Words etched in light flared across the walls and floor, swirling in elegant, ancestral magic—activated wards lighting up in runic script. The air tingled. The flat shivered, just slightly, like something old was waking up.

My mage-sight—part of the Vaerendral bloodline—let me see every line of magic as it pulsed and sank back into silence.

The flat was alive now. Hidden.

Thornik, quiet beside me, nodded once.

"Flat is hiding now."

I nodded too.

The moment my hand left the wardstone, the light faded. The soft blue glow died down, like someone had blown out a candle. But the magic stayed, humming faintly under the floor, in the walls, like the whole flat was breathing again for the first time in years.

I stepped back into the living room.

Behind me, the hidden door clicked shut.

A second later, the wall just… sealed. Smooth, flat, ordinary stone. Like it had never opened in the first place.

I stood there for a second, just staring at it. My chest felt tight.

Thornik was still in the middle of the room. He hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. The place was still half-covered in sheets, the furniture outlined in dust and soft shadows. Light bled through the curtains like it was too tired to try.

I looked around at the flat.

And I realized how quiet it was.

"…Thornik," I said, my voice a little hoarse, "can you clean the place up? And… make breakfast or something?"

He didn't answer right away, but I didn't wait.

"I'm gonna take a shower. Then I'm going to sleep. Wake me if anything happens."

"Thornik knows," he said simply. "Thornik will clean."

I nodded and turned away.

The hallway was small. Narrow. Clean in that untouched kind of way. Three doors on each side. One at the end. I opened the first.

Kitchen.

Second.

Bathroom.

I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and dropped the satchel onto the tile floor. It hit with a heavy thud. Athena jumped out like she'd just been waiting. She padded silently across the floor, tail flicking, and leapt up beside the sink, curling herself into a corner of the counter like it was her throne.

I didn't say anything. I just started peeling off my clothes.

They were wet. Muddy. Torn in a few places. Bloodstained. The fabric stuck to my skin like it didn't want to let go. My limbs ached from the impact earlier. My fingers were trembling a little, but I kept going.

One piece at a time.

When I reached the mirror, I looked up.

And froze.

There it was again—that face. That child's face. Mine, but… not. Still three years old. Still too small. Still wrong.

I raised a hand and touched my cheek. Soft. Too soft. I didn't look like someone who'd just watched their parents die.

But I felt like it.

And that made it worse.

I turned away from the mirror and walked to the bathtub. Turned the knob. Let the water run. The sound was comforting in a distant sort of way—gentle, steady, almost like rain.

I stepped in, sat down, and let the warmth rise around me.

For a second, I thought maybe I could just… shut down. Sleep. Let the heat take it all away.

But the second I closed my eyes, she was there.

My mother.

Lying on the stone floor.

Eyes wide and empty. Her mouth open like she had one more word left in her. Blood pooling under her. Her body still warm, though now lifeless.

And then my father—his back to me, spells slamming against wards, dueling like a man already dead.

The abomination.

Snakeface.

Voldemort.

And then everything went black.

I couldn't stop the shaking.

I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and tried to breathe.

Tried to stay calm.

But I couldn't.

The tears started silently—just a few. Then more. And more. My chest hurt. My ribs felt tight. Like if I tried to take a deep breath, everything would snap.

I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt the warmth on my face mixing with the steam.

It all hit me at once.

I didn't get to say goodbye.

Didn't get to do anything.

I just watched.

And then I ran.

I buried my face in my arms, and the sobs came harder.

I didn't want to cry.

But I couldn't stop.

There was just too much.

Too much noise inside my head. Too much pain in my chest. Too many memories from two lives crashing together. I'd died once already. From cancer. Alone. Quietly. Now I was here, in this world, and I thought I'd get a second chance. I thought I'd get to live.

But what was this?

Was this living?

Running?

Bleeding?

Losing them?

I wanted to scream.

But I didn't. I just curled tighter and sobbed like a broken thing.

I felt Athena shift.

When I looked up, she wasn't on the counter anymore.

She was floating.

Tiny blue clouds had formed under her paws, holding her gently as she stepped through the air and landed at the edge of the bathtub.

She didn't say anything. Didn't move much.

She just sat there, tail curled around her legs, watching me with those strange, silver eyes.

She meowed.

Soft. Small.

Like she was saying, I'm here.

I blinked at her through tears.

"…This is too much," I whispered, voice cracking. "It's too much…"

I sniffed and wiped my face with one shaking hand.

"I wasn't ready. I didn't even get to breathe. I just woke up and… and they were already dying."

My voice broke again.

Athena tilted her head, ears twitching.

I let out a shaky breath and lowered my forehead to my arms.

And then, just like that… I heard her voice.

My mother's voice.

Soft. Clear. Just a memory—but it filled the whole room like a song.

"Dors, mon petit trésor…"

I sucked in a breath. My eyes stung again.

"Ne crains pas le noir…"

The tears returned, slow and steady.

"La lune veille sur toi…"

I looked at Athena.

She didn't move.

She just stayed.

"…Et maman est là…"

I pressed my face back into my arms and cried until there was nothing left in me.

Athena didn't move, but she was there. She was here.

And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, I felt like I wasn't completely alone.—————————————

I must've fallen asleep not long after the bath. I don't remember getting out of the water, or drying off, or pulling on the oversized clothes I found in the bag. My body moved automatically—soft fabric, numb fingers, and the sensation of simply going through the motions.

The bed wasn't made, but I didn't care. I found a bedroom that looked clean enough, threw the sheets back, and collapsed onto them. Face down, eyes closed.

Sleep came quickly.

Too quickly.

And then, the nightmare hit.

It wasn't just one thing. It was everything.

The screams. The fire. The Keep crumbling to pieces.

My mother's body, her eyes still open, her mouth frozen mid-breath. Blood in her hair.

My father—fighting like a man already dead. Spells crashing against the wards, his voice faint, calling my name.

And him.

The abomination.

Standing there, in the dark, as if he belonged in the shadows. Like death had always been his friend.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was trapped, watching them die again and again.

I woke up screaming.

My whole body jerked forward. My throat was raw. My hands were clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms.

It took a moment for me to remember where I was.

London.

The flat.

Safe—for now.

My chest was still heaving. I sat up, gasping for air, my body still trembling from the intensity of the nightmare.

Then, without warning, Thornik appeared with a soft crack. No sound, no warning. Just there, as if he'd been waiting for this moment.

He was holding a small bottle in his hands.

I flinched when I saw him.

He walked forward and handed it to me without a word.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice still hoarse and ragged.

"Calming drot," he answered simply. "Master is needing."

I stared at the bottle for a moment. The liquid inside was cloudy—kind of green, kind of gray, like old pond water.

I didn't care. I took it, drinking it in one go.

It was awful.

Like drinking old, moldy socks. With a hint of toothpaste.

I gagged, wiping my mouth, but I forced it down.

Within seconds, I could feel it working.

My heartbeat slowed. My hands stopped trembling. The fire that had been burning in my chest dulled to something more manageable.

It didn't take away the grief. That was still there, but quieter now. It was buried under something heavy, but it still lingered, sharp and deep.

I didn't feel better.

Just… empty.

Like there was a hollow spot inside my ribs, where everything used to be. Now, it was just silence.

The silence of the flat pressed in on me. No voices. No footsteps. Just me. Just the echo of everything I'd lost.

I looked at Thornik and mumbled, "…thank you."

He nodded once. Then, without a word, he disappeared with a soft pop.

Gone again.

I lay back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The sheets were warm, but I wasn't.

My fingers curled into the blanket, and I whispered into the stillness of the room, not really expecting an answer.

"…Shouldn't be surprised, after all."

I blinked slowly, my eyes heavy again.

"Loneliness was always our greatest companion."