Sometimes I am truly grateful I was not sorted into Gryffindor. Not because I dislike them, but because I know myself. If I were a Gryffindor, I would probably charge into Gringotts alone, wand blazing, cloak billowing behind me like a dramatized hero from a painting. But I am not. I am a Slytherin. I plan, I delegate, and most importantly—I have clones.
That is why I am not tunneling beneath the world's most secure wizarding bank tonight.
Instead, I am enjoying my summer break with my mother, Seryna, in the magical side of Japan. Just the two of us. Felix is off at the dragon preserve, probably covered in soot and shouting at a stubborn Hebridean Black. He said he could not make it. He also said not to burn anything down.
This time with her means more to me than I can admit aloud.
I love my mother. That truth sits quietly in my chest, unspoken but solid. She raised me with poise and steel, taught me the subtle dance between charm and ambition, and gave me more freedom than I think she should have—but she always believed I would make something of myself. I think she still does. Sometimes when she looks at me, I catch that expression in her eyes. A strange mix of pride and melancholy. The kind of look you give a tree that has grown taller than you expected. Beautiful, but no longer something you can shield.
We walk side by side beneath a sky dusted with starlight, the evening breeze gentle, fragrant with cherry blossoms even in the summer.
Japan is beautiful. Its magical spaces are different from ours—less loud, more deliberate. Their magic feels older, quieter, like it listens before it acts. I respect that. That is why I have been filling my inventory with every book, trinket, scroll, and spellwork artifact I can legally acquire. And maybe one or two I cannot. Knowledge is a gift, and their enchantments weave in ways I want to understand.
Earlier today, I showed her my runic bracelet—my pocket dimension disguised as jewelry. She touched it, curious, and gasped when I tapped the glyph and opened a floating mirror-portal midair. The glow lit her face as the interior of my sanctuary shimmered into view.
"You made this?" she asked softly, almost as if afraid speaking too loudly would undo it.
"Designed it," I said. "Modified everything inside. Hogwarts may teach basics, but they do not stop me from learning more."
She ran her fingers along the bracelet's edge like it was something fragile, then glanced at me again. Her smile was slow. Surprised. Moved.
"You always were clever," she murmured. "But this... Timothy, this is genius."
I should have shrugged. But instead, I just looked at her and nodded.
Later, I gave her a ring I had been working on for weeks. Crafted from polished black jade with silver veins, subtle but elegant. A twist of the band and a whispered word would open a portal into a private beach villa nestled beneath an illusionary sky that mirrored any season she desired.
She slipped it onto her finger and blinked at the shimmer that unfolded—a soft archway that revealed waves lapping at pale pink sand, the ocean humming with peace.
She said nothing at first. Just looked at it. Then she turned and kissed my forehead, cupping my face in both hands.
"Thank you," she said. "You think of everything."
"I try," I said, pretending I was not a little choked up.
Tonight, we wandered through the magical night market in Yokohama. It was unlike anything I had seen before. The stalls floated ever so slightly off the cobbled ground, glowing with charm light. Paper lanterns drifted overhead, each carrying an illusion—memories, dreams, or music. One floated by with the image of a couple dancing in the rain, and she smiled as we watched it pass.
The potioneers here blend eastern and western magic in ways that feel like art. I bought a sakura-infused sleep draught for my insomnia. My mother tested an onmyōdō charm that glowed faintly and whispered protective chants in the wind when held close. At one stall, we found brushes that painted with ink laced in stardust. The calligraphy they created shimmered just slightly before drying into permanent beauty.
Then we saw the kimono booth.
The fabric shimmered with life. Not just colors, but movement. The enchantments shifted the hues based on emotion. One robe danced with patterns of koi fish when its wearer felt amused. Another bloomed with ice flowers under stress. My mother hesitated before picking one out. It was soft white at first, plain and dignified. But when she laughed, when she truly let herself laugh at something ridiculous I said about the robes whispering secrets—soft pink plum petals began to unfurl across the fabric in gentle waves.
She gasped. I watched the expression bloom across her face like the petals on the silk.
"I've never seen anything so—" she began.
"Perfect," I finished.
I bought it for her on the spot.
She pretended to protest. Said it was too much. That I should save my money. But she said it with the robe still clutched tightly in her arms, her eyes full of wonder.
We spent hours wandering through that market. Just talking. Laughing. Watching children ride floating carp that glowed like lanterns. She teased me about my hair, said I should grow it out a bit. I told her she should duel the next Ministry official that talks down to her. She promised she already had, just without a wand.
It was a simple evening. Nothing world-shaking. No grand mission. No death-defying escape plans.
Just a mother and her son. Walking through a world of lights. Sharing a moment.
And honestly?
That was enough.
<><><><><><><>
Clone P.O.V. (Cage)
Gringotts.
Vault level seven.
Two goblin guards yawned in perfect synchronization at the far end of the corridor, leaning lazily against polished silver pikes. They were not expecting trouble. No one ever was at this depth. The vaults down here belonged to families with old money and older curses, and even the dragons were scared of the Lestranges' hoard.
Too bad for them.
Trouble had already arrived.
Cage pressed himself flat against the enchanted stone ceiling, invisible in a way that would make any Invisibility Cloak jealous. His body had reshaped into the exact texture and color of the ceiling tiles, the runes etched into his flesh like decorative patterns. His eyes, now slim slits in the grout lines, blinked once.
"Okay," he whispered, grinning like he had just found an unclaimed pyramid. "Time to steal a little aristocratic trauma."
With a soft, syrupy squish, Cage peeled himself off the ceiling and slid down one of the pillars like melting candle wax. The goblins heard nothing. One was picking at something in his teeth. The other was humming what suspiciously sounded like a sea shanty.
Cage landed silently, now reshaped into a perfect replica of a cleaning elf's mop bucket. It even squeaked realistically when he shifted forward.
Once behind the vault pillar, he re-formed into his regular self. Mostly. His hair was longer now, wild, windswept. His eyes burned with manic glee. His coat was entirely too dramatic for stealth, flaring every time he moved, even though there was no wind. Classic Cage.
He tapped his temple with one finger. "Plastic Man body, baby. Density shift, check. Magical signature mimicry, check. Entrance code—ah, we are improvising that part."
He turned toward the Lestrange vault door. Massive. Grim. Decorated with writhing silver vines and enchanted wolf skulls that growled faintly at anyone who stared too long.
"I do love a challenge," Cage muttered. He placed his palm against the center rune.
Instantly, the vault flared with defense wards. The skulls howled. A hiss of steam rose from the floor.
Cage smiled wider.
Then he split.
Half of him stayed in place, arm still on the vault. The other half retracted like silly putty and slithered up the wall, forming an exact replica of one of the Lestrange cousins from an old Ministry gala.
The skulls paused. Sniffed.
The false Lestrange smiled with exaggerated charm. "Hello, darlings. It has been simply ages."
The skulls blinked.
Then, slowly, the vault's perimeter runes dimmed.
The door hissed open.
Cage slid inside, reforming just in time to strike a dramatic pose against a leaning column of cursed chalices.
Inside, the Lestrange vault was chaos.
Gold, armor, relics of dark magic, illegal potions, and an unhealthy number of ornate mirrors filled the chamber. Each item screamed trapped soul or family curse. A suit of armor coughed ominously as Cage passed.
He flexed his fingers.
"Alright. Priority one. Retrieve the cup." He scanned the room. "Secondary objective—do not touch anything that whispers."
Something to his left whispered. He pointed at it with a frown. "Hey. None of that."
He stepped over a creeping tiara and approached a pedestal in the center. Floating above it, gently rotating, was Hufflepuff's cup. Small, polished, deceptively innocent.
"Oh, you beautiful little horcrux of horror," Cage whispered, voice dripping with reverence. "You look like something a cursed grandmother would give her favorite sociopath."
He reached for it, then paused.
"Wait. Traps."
His hand extended, fingers growing thinner, longer, needle-like. He shaped his entire arm into a mechanical claw, mimicking a Gringotts lockpick armature. The precision was absurd.
"Do not set off the fire. Do not trigger the duplicates. Do not—"
His arm snagged the cup.
Immediately, the pedestal melted. Not dramatically. It just slouched into molten wax.
"Oh no," Cage said pleasantly. "That is never good."
The room moaned.
The treasure began to twitch. Then shift. Then swell.
"Okay! Plan B!" Cage yelled, vaulting backward as the armor pieces nearby exploded into motion. Three swords zipped toward him like angry bees. He flattened sideways, turned his arm into a curved shield, and shouted, "No refunds!"
The swords clanged off his arm. A cauldron launched itself from a shelf. He turned into a spring and bounced it away with a rubbery squeal.
All while still holding the cup.
"Timothy is going to owe me so many snacks for this," he grunted, dodging a ghost mirror that tried to eat his shadow.
The exit was now swarming with floating spears.
He had an idea.
It was a terrible idea.
Which meant it was perfect.
Cage took a deep breath, then launched himself upward. Mid-air, he shouted, "Disassemble!" and his entire body broke into dozens of miniature cubes, each still alive, each humming with magic.
The spears could not track him. He zipped between them, reforming on the ceiling, now upside down and clinging like a spider.
"Vaults," he said with a sigh. "Never simple."
One of the goblins outside the vault finally noticed something was off. He leaned in and saw Cage crawling upside down, clutching a glowing cup, muttering to himself.
The goblin blinked. "What in—"
Cage waved.
Then launched himself through the air, turned into a flying carpet, and soared right over the guards.
Alarms blared.
The vault behind him howled as the door began sealing shut.
Cage hit the exit hallway running, then molded himself into a rolling barrel. He bounced off the walls, barreling toward the exit at top speed, yelling as he went, "National treasure! National treasure!"
By the time the goblins re-coordinated, all that remained was a series of very confused scorch marks, a single cup pedestal turned to soup, and one very furious Lestrange portrait screaming profanity at the wall.
Outside, in the shadowed alley behind Gringotts, Cage reformed. He was humming.
The cup was in his hand.
He raised it skyward like a trophy.
"And that," he whispered with a grin, "is how you rob a death cult with flair."
He tapped his temple and sent the memory stream directly to Timothy.
Mission complete.
He turned to the wall, reshaped into a pigeon, and flapped away.
Cage never used the same exit twice.
Not because he had to.
Just because it was fun.