The restaurant smelled like bread—proper bread, the kind that crusts and cracks when you break it, the kind that makes you think of warm kitchens and butter pooling in the golden crevices. It was a smell that promised normalcy. A lie. Everything about tonight was a lie, and beneath that scent, a quiet unease simmered, hinting at the darkness lurking beneath the surface.
I had told myself this dinner would be quiet. Just another polite evening with the Grangers, Hermione chattering about school, Richard asking careful questions, Emily smiling like she wasn't quietly assessing whether I was a suitable friend for her daughter. Simple. Easy. A performance I could manage.
The car ride alone should have warned me. Hermione had spent the entire twenty minutes vibrating like a hummingbird trapped in a child's skin, her knee bouncing against the seat, fingers tapping the window. She'd been waiting. Plotting. Her silence was never a good sign.
The moment Richard parked, she twisted in her seat, her hair a storm cloud of brown frizz, her eyes burning with the kind of fierce determination that made my skin prickle. I knew that look. That was Hermione Granger on the scent of a mystery, her gaze sharp and unwavering, and Merlin help anyone caught in her path.
"How did you get it back?" Hermione's voice cracked with a mix of curiosity and frustration, her eyes blazing with determination. "The book—you didn't even tell a teacher, I checked, and Mrs. Thompson said no one reported anything, and the boys who took it wouldn't just give it back, so how?" She leaned forward, the seatbelt straining, her hands clenched into fists. "Did you threaten them? Did you already know them? Were they scared? Were you scared? You didn't look scared. Why didn't you—"
"Hermione." Emily's soft but firm voice cut through the onslaught. Her hand settled on Hermione's shoulder, gentle but anchoring. "Breathe. Let Harry answer."
Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound of a steam engine forcibly derailed. She folded her arms, her entire body radiating impatience. The Grangers didn't know—couldn't say—how much danger lurked in that question. How close she was to the truth.
I flexed my fingers against my knees, feeling the phantom sting of a jinx humming under my skin. The boys hadn't just given the book back. They'd handed it over like it burned, their faces pale, their voices trembling. They hadn't even looked at me, and that silence spoke volumes about the danger I was in.
"I asked," I said, careful, measured. "Nicely."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. She didn't believe me. Of course, she didn't. Hermione Granger had never believed a convenient lie in her life.
Richard chuckled, oblivious, already halfway out of the car. "See? Diplomacy works wonders."
Emily smiled. Hermione did not. She was watching me like I was a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and she was determined to find the rest.
The smell of warm bread and roasted herbs drifted through the open door, mingling with the faint hum of quiet conversation. The restaurant's soft lighting cast gentle shadows on polished wood tables, creating an illusion of normalcy. A normal night. A normal restaurant.
Another lie.
The silverware scraped against porcelain plates like a prison warden's keys rattling against bars. Polite laughter. Nodding at appropriate intervals. Richard Granger asked about my classes with the practiced tone of a dentist making small talk while probing for cavities. Emily's questions about food preferences felt like she was assembling a checklist for a hostage negotiator. And Hermione—Hermione watched me with the intensity of an arithmancer dissecting a faulty equation, waiting for the moment my facade would fracture.
Normality was a straightjacket I wore with practiced ease when required.
The drive back from the restaurant unfolded in a quiet rhythm of headlights and hedges, the sort of suburban calm that pretended nothing sharp had ever happened inside its borders. Richard drove with both hands on the wheel, glancing at the rearview mirror more often than necessary. Emily sat angled toward me in the passenger seat, her coat still smelling faintly of garlic and warm bread, asking gentle questions she didn't need answers to. Hermione talked about school, about a book she'd finished that afternoon, her words spilling fast and bright. They were trying. I could feel it in the way Emily asked if I preferred tea or milk, in how Richard slowed over speed bumps as if the house itself might be fragile.
Their home was neat, well-loved, and human. When Richard showed me the guest room, he did it carefully, like he was afraid the walls might insult me if he didn't soften the blow.
"We can change anything you don't like," Emily said quickly. "Curtains, paint, furniture. This is your space."
The room was small. Functional. A twin bed pressed against one wall, a narrow desk, a bookshelf that held exactly twelve books if you didn't mind bending the spines. The closet door creaked apologetically when Richard opened it, then closed it again with a wince.
Hermione hovered in the doorway, studying my face with concern far too perceptive for a ten-year-old. "It's not bad," she said, as if daring the room to argue.
"It's fine," I replied, and meant it in the way one means a truce.
When they left, Emily paused, hand lingering on the doorframe. "If you need anything," she said softly. Not polite. Not rehearsed. Real.
The latch clicked. Silence settled.
Only then did I allow myself to breathe.
I did not reach for a wand. I had none and had not needed one for decades. Magic stirred at my command, old and disciplined, answering the movements of my hands and the intent behind my thoughts. I placed my palm against the wall, fingers spread, and pressed—not physically, but conceptually.
The room yielded.
Space unfolded with a low, resonant hum, like a cathedral exhaling. The walls eased back without cracking, the ceiling lifting and reshaping itself as reality quietly renegotiated its terms. In seconds, the cramped square became expansive, nearly 700 square feet of calm proportion and measured symmetry. The air felt different, lighter, as if it had more room to think.
I turned to the bookshelf. With a subtle curl of my fingers, wood softened, stretched, and reformed. The cheap laminate darkened into rich oak, then polished itself into two tall bookcases that framed the far wall, their shelves deep and patient, eager for weight and knowledge. Protective wards settled into the grain like sleeping sigils.
The bed was next. I drew my hand through the air, slow and deliberate. The twin frame shuddered, expanded, and flowed outward, becoming an Alaskan king with a solid walnut base and a mattress layered for proper spinal alignment. Linen replaced polyester, cool and clean, the sort chosen by someone who valued sleep as a strategic resource rather than a luxury.
The closet responded beautifully to Capacious Extremis, its narrow mouth opening into a walk-in space that belonged in an old manor house. Rails appeared, drawers aligned themselves, and a full-length mirror settled into place. This suited me nicely.
Finally, the desk.
I reshaped it into a broad mahogany writing desk with the office chair transfigured into something far nicer and more comfortable.
When I finished, the room no longer felt like a child's spare bedroom. It felt like a study. A retreat. A place where a seventy-year-old mind could exist without apology inside a ten-year-old body.
I sat, folded my hands, and waited.
Downstairs, I could hear Emily asking Hermione to help with the dishes, her voice warm, hopeful. Richard laughed at something small and ordinary.
For now, that was enough.
The owl's arrival was perfectly timed—as if the universe itself acknowledged the stage was set. Its talons clicked against the windowsill with the precision of a Gringotts timekeeper.
"About fucking time," I murmured, sliding the pane upward.
The eagle owl swept in like a shadow given form, wings stirring papers on my desk without disturbing a single quill. The package at its leg bore the unmistakable wax seal of the goblin nation—blood-red and stamped with crossed swords.
I rewarded the bird with a strip of dragon jerky (imported from Romania at considerable expense) before it vanished back into the night.
The letter came first. Kharzug's angular script carved into the parchment like blade strokes:
Lord Morningstar,
Contained in the package we sent you are several items that would be better in your possession. I would also like to notify you that your Homunculus has completed all the training and preparations to make his grand reveal as the Lord Morningstar in your stead.
- Books, Journals, and Grimoires from the Morningstar, Black, Potter, Hogwarts, and the Peverell Vaults
- The Peverell Codex (restricted section)
- James Potter's journal
- Lily Evans' journals
- Six sets of formal robes and wizardry wear, and several mundane and expensive Muggle clothing items that have been tailored to fit.
- A pair of golden rimless glasses
- Your parents' wands (recovered from the Ministry evidence locker)
Yours in blood and gold,
Kharzug, Son of Ragnok
Senior Account Manager, and King of the Goblins
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
I exhaled through my nose. The package grew at my touch, expanding into a large wooden crate that I opened with a flick and looked at the things stored inside.
The unpacking was a ritual in itself. Books floated to their designated shelves, organizing themselves by subject and alphabetical order, as the shelves quickly filled up, and the clothes soon followed, heading into the new walk-in closet, being organized and folded as I cast a simple charm to keep them perfect.
Then came my parents' wands.
James Potter's, my father's eleven-inch mahogany wand, rested in the first display case, its shaft dark and polished to a deep, wine-brown sheen. Delicate silver-white spiderweb filigree was etched along the length, subtle at first glance, growing denser toward the grip as though spun inward by careful intent. The handle itself was wrapped in a slightly raised lattice of the same web motif, giving it a tactile, almost living texture that fit naturally into the palm. Balanced and flexible, the wand seemed made for swift, adaptive magic, its core tuned for Transfiguration that flowed and reshaped with the caster's will rather than resisting it.
And of course, my mother's wand was more subdued. Lily Potter's wand measured 10¼ inches, willow polished to a soft, pale sheen that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. The shaft was smooth and elegant, narrowing slightly toward the tip, but the handle told its own story. Carved in gentle relief, lily petals spiraled around the grip, their lines shallow and graceful, warm beneath the fingers as if the wood remembered her touch. Set just above the pommel was a faintly opalescent inlay, not a gem but a living knot of willow, shaped like a closed bud.
I left them in their glass cases and put them on a shelf between my bed and desk, where I could watch them from any angle in the room. If only the two were alive, I wonder how they would have reacted knowing that the Dark Lord was now reborn as their son.
For a moment—just a moment—my fingers twitched.
Dumbledore.
The name tasted like poison on my tongue. Like ashes. Like betrayal.
The old bastard had kept them locked away like museum pieces while he played chess with my life. While he left me to rot with muggles who despised magic. He groomed me for slaughter like a prize pig.
The old man's face swam in my memory—twinkling eyes, grandfatherly smile, that fucking lemon drop perpetually stuck to his beard—as clearly as if he stood before me now.
"For the greater good," he'd told my parents as he sent them to their deaths. "A necessary sacrifice."
My magic surged in response to the thought, sending shadows writhing up the walls like ink in water. The temperature plummeted. Frost spiderwebbed across the mirror before I calmed myself and returned things to how they were as I moved to my new desk, sat down, stared at the ceiling, took out a quill and a parchment, and started writing.
The rhythmic scratching of my quill against parchment ceased abruptly when three sharp knocks rattled the door.
I didn't glance up. "Enter."
The door exploded inward with enough force to rattle my transfigured lead crystal inkwell. There she stood—Hermione Jean Granger at ten years old, a storm of frizzy curls and indignation barely contained in an oversized Oxford sweatshirt. The sweater sleeves swallowed her hands whole, but couldn't disguise how her fingers twitched.
Her sensible loafers hit the newly enlarged floorboards—then froze mid-stride.
"That's..." Her voice cracked like breaking ice. Wide brown eyes darted across impossible dimensions—my expanded bedroom now rivaled the square footage of her entire house. The four-poster bed draped in Slytherin-green silk made her nostrils flare. "This violates conservation of mass!"
I set down my eagle feather quill with deliberate slowness. "Newton was a brilliant man." My lips curled. "For a Muggle."
Her face flushed crimson. I watched the calculations race behind her eyes—measured angles, estimated floor space, the way the afternoon light bent impossibly around my enchanted bookshelves. When her gaze landed on the floating candelabra dripping molten wax onto my desk, her breathing shallowed.
"Again," she demanded through clenched teeth. Not a request—a challenge.
With theatrical slowness, I raised my bare hand toward the fruit bowl across the room.
"Accio."
The apple tore through the air fast enough to part Hermione's riotous curls before smacking into my palm with a wet thwack. She didn't flinch—just stared at the fruit with pupils blown wide, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
"Once more," she whispered.
I tossed the apple back into the bowl. "Why don't you try?"
Her hands flexed like she was gripping an invisible steering wheel. "That's absurd. Humans can't—"
"You're a witch, Granger." I leaned forward, watching the words detonate behind her ribs. "Muggle-born, but witch all the same."
The apple trembled. Rolled. With a sound like tearing silk, it launched toward her face—she caught it by reflex, juice dripping between her fingers. Her entire body shook.
"Impossible," she breathed. Not denial—awe.
I slid Hogwarts: A History across the desk. The leather-bound first edition hit the wood with a thud that shook dust from its gilded pages. "Your letter arrives in 2 years, same as mine. Best start teaching the basics before then."
She clutched the tome to her chest like a life preserver. The door clicked shut behind her with finality—then immediately creaked back open.
"I came to..." Her voice wavered. "Mum thought you might want some snacks, so she got some tea and cookies."
My smile showed teeth. "Tell Mrs. Granger that I shall be down in half an hour."
The final click of the door latch echoed like a gavel drop in a silent courtroom. I exhaled through my nose, watching dust motes swirl in the sudden stillness as my wards reactivated with a low hum that vibrated through my molars.
My fingers twitched toward the false floorboard beneath my bed, nails scraping against aged oak until I hooked the hidden compartment. The ledger emerged smelling of dragonhide parchment and something darker—centuries of bureaucratic ink and the faint iron tang of blood oaths.
The glasses from Gringotts slid onto my face with cold precision, their silver filigree runes flaring violet as text began blurring past my retinas at inhuman speeds. Hogwarts' finances unraveled before me—entire vaults of gold siphoned into "defense expenditures" that never reached the students, teachers drawing triple salaries for ghost classes, Dumbledore's personal honey fund dripping with gallons from the school's coffers.
I switched to the Ministry ledger and nearly cracked a tooth. Entire departments existed solely to launder gold into Death Eater vaults. The Wizengamot's voting records showed systematic purges of anyone questioning Fudge. My pulse pounded in my temples as the glasses overheated against my skin.
The quill snapped in my grip. Ink bled across my knuckles like war paint as I drafted the first letter to Hogwarts, though to summarize what I had said:
"The House of Morningstar remembers what was stolen. Expect me at the next faculty meeting to audit every syllabus, every budget line, every wand stroke in my castle. Positions will be... reevaluated."
The Ministry's parchment blackened under my scrawl:
"You've turned our world into a parody of governance. The Imperial Seat demands its throne. Resistance is treason. Treason is fatal."
When I used the Avis charm to summon an owl, the resulting explosion of feathers nearly took out my left eye. A massive black horned owl materialized mid-air, crashing into my inkwell with a shriek that would've woken the dead. It thrashed against my bookshelves, sending Care of Magical Creatures textbooks avalanching to the floor.
"Easy, you great daft—" I caught a talon to the forearm before bringing it down to look at me. The owl stilled, yellow eyes reflecting my own sharp grin back at me. "I shall buy you a whole elk carcass if you deliver these to the Ministry of Magic and to Hogwarts."
Its answering hoot sounded suspiciously like laughter as it snatched the two letters in one claw and punched through the window in a storm of glass shards and night air.
A simple Reparo and Scourgify returned everything to normal as I stared out the window to where it had flown. Soon, the wizarding world was going to flip on its head.