Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Rift in Time
Chapter Text
Harry Potter’s world shattered in an instant, not with the crack of a wand or the hiss of a curse, but with the swirling chaos of time itself. One moment, he was standing victorious in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, the year 1998 etched into his weary soul. Voldemort lay defeated at his feet, the Elder Wand humming with residual power in his grip. The battle had been brutal, claiming friends and foes alike, but it was over. Or so he thought.
In the aftermath, as aurors swarmed the castle and survivors tended to the wounded, Harry had wandered into the Department of Mysteries—or what was left of it. The Time Room, a forbidden chamber of hourglasses and swirling sands, had been compromised during the fight. A stray curse from a dying Death Eater struck a massive time-turner artifact, and before Harry could react, a vortex of temporal energy engulfed him. Colors blurred into a kaleidoscope of emerald and crimson, sounds warped into echoing screams of wind and thunder, and his body felt like it was being torn apart—skin stretching, bones grinding, magic boiling in his veins like liquid fire.
He hit the ground hard, coughing up dust and blinking against the dim light filtering through overcast skies. His scar burned faintly, a jagged lightning bolt pulsing with phantom pain, a remnant of the horcrux connection that had plagued him for years. Pushing himself up on trembling arms, Harry took stock of his surroundings. Cobblestone streets slick with recent rain, flickering gas lamps casting golden halos on puddles, and the familiar bustle of wizards and witches in outdated robes—high collars, flowing capes, and hats adorned with feathers. This wasn’t post-war London. This was… Diagon Alley? But not the one he knew. The shops were pristine, their signs gleaming with fresh paint: Flourish and Blotts stacked high with untouched tomes, Ollivander’s window displaying wands in velvet cases without a hint of dust or war’s scars. No boarded windows, no scorch marks from raids. The air smelled of fresh cauldron cakes, bubbling potions, and the earthy tang of owl feathers, rather than the acrid fear that had permeated his era.
A discarded newspaper caught his eye, fluttering in the breeze like a trapped bird. He snatched it up, his heart pounding against his ribs. The Daily Prophet, bold headlines proclaiming “Muggle-Born Registration Debates Heat Up in Wizengamot.” The date: July 15, 1978.
“Back in time,” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking like dry parchment. “Twenty years… Bloody hell.” He was 21 years old, a battle-hardened veteran of a war that hadn’t fully erupted yet. His parents, James and Lily, were alive—probably just out of Hogwarts, full of life and love, their laughter echoing in halls he could only dream of. Sirius was free, not yet imprisoned in Azkaban’s cold embrace. And Voldemort… Voldemort was at the height of his power during the First Wizarding War, his shadow lengthening over the wizarding world like a storm cloud ready to unleash torrents of blood.
Panic threatened to rise like bile in his throat, but Harry quashed it with the iron discipline forged in the fires of endless battles. He couldn’t afford mistakes. If he was here, he had a chance to change everything—to prevent the horrors he knew were coming: the deaths, the betrayals, the endless nights of loss. But first, survival. Resources. Power. He disillusioned himself with a flick of his wand, his form shimmering into transparency like water rippling over stones, blending into the shadows as he made his way toward the gleaming white marble facade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
The goblins guarding the entrance eyed him suspiciously as he dropped the charm inside the grand hall, their beady eyes glinting like polished obsidian under bushy brows. Whispers followed him—his unkempt appearance, the lightning scar peeking through messy black hair matted with sweat, and the aura of raw power that clung to him like a second skin, crackling faintly in the air. He approached a teller, ignoring the disdainful sneer that twisted the goblin’s thin lips.
“I need a private consultation,” Harry said firmly, his green eyes locking onto the goblin’s with unyielding intensity. “Regarding bloodline inheritances and potential claims. And make it quick—time is gold, as you lot say.”
The goblin, named Griphook from the nameplate etched in sharp runes, raised a bushy eyebrow, his long fingers drumming on the counter like spider legs. “And who might you be, wizard? We don’t entertain vagrants or those who waste our time. Gringotts serves those with vaults, not beggars.”
“Harry Potter,” he replied without hesitation, his voice steady despite the storm within. “But test my blood if you doubt me. I come from… circumstances that require discretion. And I have knowledge that could profit us both.”
Griphook’s sneer deepened, but curiosity flickered in his eyes—a rare spark in the otherwise stoic demeanor. “Knowledge, eh? Wizards always claim such, yet deliver trinkets. Follow me.” With a sharp gesture, he summoned two armored guards, their axes gleaming menacingly, and Harry was escorted down winding corridors lit by flickering torches that cast elongated shadows on walls inscribed with ancient goblin curses. The air grew cooler, heavier with the scent of damp earth, molten metal, and the faint, acrid tang of dragon fire from distant vaults. Cart tracks rumbled beneath their feet, echoing like distant thunder, as they passed doors sealed with intricate locks that whispered warnings to intruders.
Finally, they entered a secure chamber deep within the bank’s labyrinthine depths—walls lined with glowing runes that pulsed like heartbeats in a living beast, shelves groaning under the weight of yellowed ledgers and crystalline orbs that recorded every transaction. The air was thick with the metallic tang of gold and the subtle hum of protective magics. Inside waited Ragnok, the goblin manager, seated behind a massive desk carved from obsidian and piled high with self-scribbling quills and stacks of contracts that rustled like leaves in wind. His armor gleamed with embedded gems—rubies for valor, emeralds for cunning—and his gaze was sharper than a goblin-forged blade, piercing Harry as if appraising a flawed gem.
“State your business, wizard,” Ragnok growled, his voice gravelly like grinding stones. “We do not suffer fools or charlatans. Gringotts is a fortress of finance, not a stage for tall tales.”
Harry sat across from him, unflinching under the scrutiny, his posture radiating the quiet dominance of someone who had faced death and emerged stronger. “Blood test first. Prove my claims, then we’ll talk alliances. I know goblin history—wars lost, treaties betrayed. I offer a path to reclaim what’s yours.”
Ragnok’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he nodded curtly. The ritual began with goblin precision, a ceremony as old as the bank itself. A goblin healer, clad in ornate armor etched with heraldry of hammer and anvil, approached with a dagger that hummed with latent power, its blade inscribed with runes of truth and revelation. The healer pricked Harry’s finger swiftly, drawing a bead of crimson blood that hovered momentarily in the air before dropping onto enchanted parchment laid out on the desk. The parchment unfurled like a living thing, absorbing the drop with a hiss, tendrils of ink spreading across its surface in intricate, branching patterns that glowed with an inner fire. The room filled with a soft, ethereal glow as the blood seeped in, igniting lines of ancestry in golden, shimmering script that danced like fireflies across the page. Faint sparks crackled, and the air thrummed with awakened magics, as if the very essence of forgotten lineages stirred from slumber.
Ragnok leaned forward, his clawed hands gripping the parchment’s edges, talons scraping faintly as he traced the glowing lines. His breath caught—a rarity for a goblin hardened by centuries of dealings. “Heir to the House of Emrys—Merlin’s blood, the architect of magic itself, whose spells forged the foundations of our world. Le Fay—Morgana’s line, mistress of shadows and healing alike, a duality that mirrors our own crafts. Peverell, weavers of the Deathly Hallows, defiers of mortality with artifacts that even goblins envy. Pendragon—Arthur’s royal vein, kings of legend whose swords we once forged. And Potter, the recent branch, yet potent. This… this is a convergence unseen in epochs. If true, you carry the weight of history in your veins.”
Harry nodded, his expression calm but his mind a whirlwind of possibilities, piecing together fragments of his fragmented history like a puzzle long unsolved. “It’s true. And I’m from the future—1998. Voldemort rises higher, falls in ruin, but at great cost to all, including your kind. Rebellions crushed, forges seized. I’m here to avert it, to rewrite the tapestry before it’s torn asunder. But I need partners, not servants—equals in this fight.”
Skepticism warred with intrigue on Ragnok’s cragged face, his bushy brows furrowing like storm clouds. “Bold claims, wizard. We goblins have heard such from your ilk before—promises of gold that turn to ash.” He signaled for a vial of truth serum, a goblin brew far more potent than Veritaserum, its contents swirling like liquid night, bitter as goblin ale and burning down Harry’s throat like firewhisky laced with venom. Under its unyielding compulsion, words flowed: tales of the goblin rebellion in the 1990s, treaties broken like fragile glass under wizarding boots, lost artifacts reclaimed unjustly by the Ministry. The goblins listened intently, a council of elders summoned via a ringing bell that echoed through the halls, their murmurs in guttural Gobbledegook rising like a debate in a forge—heated, clanging arguments flying like sparks from an anvil.
Negotiations stretched for hours, a high-stakes chess game of words, offers, and counteroffers. Harry bartered future knowledge with the precision of a duelist—locations of lost goblin forges buried under wizarding estates, strategies to counter Ministry oppression, insights into Voldemort’s disdain for non-humans that would lead to goblin enslavement. “He sees you as tools to discard, inferior smiths for his dark empire. Ally with me, and we’ll forge a new era: exclusive trade in ancient relics from my vaults, shared wards against dark magic that blend goblin runes with wizard spells. Equality, not subjugation—profits shared, respect earned.”
Ragnok countered fiercely, his voice booming: demands for access to wizarding vaults for audits to uncover stolen goblin-made artifacts, reparations for past wars in the form of gold and magical concessions, guarantees against future betrayals. Back and forth they went, Harry’s dominant presence commanding respect, his insights piercing through goblin pride like a well-forged blade. Tension mounted, voices rising, until a breakthrough—Harry offered a blood oath of non-aggression, sealed with a rune carved into a shared amulet that bound his magic to the promise, a pact that would sear his soul if broken.
The chamber fell silent, then Ragnok extended a clawed hand, gripping Harry’s with surprising strength. “You’re no ordinary wizard, Mortem Le Fay—as you’ll be known. Friend of the Goblin Nation—the first in a millennium. Our blades are yours, our vaults open to aid. May our forges burn bright together, and our enemies tremble.”
Gratitude surged through Harry like a warm elixir, solidifying his resolve like tempered steel. But he wasted no time. “The alliance starts now. I need healing—blocks, potions, compulsions purged. Make me whole.”
The healing ritual followed in an even deeper chamber, a sanctum veined with crystal that hummed like tuning forks under the strain of powerful magics, the air thick with the scent of smoldering herbs and ozone. A circle of goblin healers assembled, their chants rising in rhythmic Gobbledegook that vibrated the stones. They detected the intrusions first: Dumbledore’s subtle compulsions—silken webs of loyalty and obedience, woven like invisible threads into his mind since infancy, pulling him toward the old man’s ‘greater good’ like a puppet on ethereal strings. Snape’s potions lingered as oily shadows, dulling his potential and twisting loyalties with subtle venom. Ministry traces clung like leeches on his aura, trackers and dampeners placed perhaps during his trials.
But the core ritual, the true forge of his rebirth, harnessed Harry’s unique physiology—a cauldron of opposites brewing within. Phoenix tears from Fawkes’ healing in the Chamber of Secrets—liquid light, pure and regenerative, shimmering like molten silver in his veins. Basilisk venom from the bite that nearly killed him—dark and corrosive, a venomous shadow that coiled like a serpent, granting immunity through survived agony. The goblins positioned Harry at the center of a pentagram inscribed with Emrys’ symbols on the floor, which glowed with absorbed magic. Vials of amplified tears and venom were poured into a central basin, mixing in a vortex of light and dark that swirled like a storm in miniature.
The chants peaked, a crescendo of power, as energy lashed out like whips of fire and ice—snaking up Harry’s legs, invading his body in a symphony of torment. Skin blistered as if kissed by flames, only to heal smoother and tougher; bones cracked like thunder and reformed denser, unbreakable; muscles ripped and knitted with enhanced density, surging with newfound strength. His magic core expanded violently, a supernova erupting in his chest, flooding him with power that roared like a dragon’s breath, amplifying his reserves to godlike levels. Visions assaulted him in rapid flashes: Merlin wielding a staff that bent reality, Morgana weaving shadows into healing mists, the Peverell brothers cloaking themselves from death’s gaze, Arthur drawing Excalibur from stone amid cheers. The pain was exquisite, a forge’s fire refining him, until it subsided in a wave of euphoria.
When the ritual crescendoed, a shockwave rippled through the chamber, extinguishing torches before they reignited brighter, casting the room in a golden hue. Harry collapsed to one knee, gasping, sweat beading like dew, but rose transformed. He stood taller, broader—his frame chiseled like a warrior king’s from legend, veins pulsing with ethereal light beneath his skin. His senses sharpened to predatory levels: hearing the distant clink of gold coins shifting in vaults miles away, smelling the subtle alchemy of potions brewing in surface shops, seeing the faint auras of magic weaving through the air like threads in a tapestry. His eyes glowed with an inner emerald fire, and he felt invincible, his power surpassing even Dumbledore’s manipulative wisdom and Voldemort’s raw terror combined.
“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely, clasping Ragnok’s hand once more in a grip that conveyed unbreakable alliance, the goblin’s rough palm a testament to centuries of craftsmanship. Ragnok nodded, a rare glimmer of respect in his eyes, perhaps even camaraderie.
From the vaults—cavernous halls stacked floor to ceiling with glittering treasures, echoes of ancient curses whispering faint warnings to the unworthy—Harry gathered the grimoires with goblin escorts leading the way on rattling carts that plunged into the depths. Tomes bound in dragonhide and what might have been human skin, pages yellowed with age and inscribed with inks that shifted like living shadows, humming with contained power. Emrys’ arcane spells pulsed with elemental fury, promising command over storms and earth; Le Fay’s dark arts balanced light and shadow in delicate equilibrium, rituals for binding and freeing; Peverell’s mastery over death hummed with an ethereal chill, secrets of immortality and resurrection; Pendragon’s royal enchantments gleamed like crown jewels, wards for kingdoms and spells of leadership. He skipped the Potter vault entirely; his parents were alive in this time, and accessing it could alert them, unraveling the delicate threads of his plan.
To conceal his identity in this era, Harry adopted a new name: Mortem Le Fay. It evoked mystery and power, a shroud of death and enchantment distancing him from the Boy-Who-Lived legend that hadn’t yet been born, a moniker that would strike fear and awe in equal measure.
Emerging from Gringotts into the bustling Diagon Alley, pockets heavy with galleons that clinked like promises and artifacts that thrummed against his skin with latent energy, Harry dove into a shopping spree with purposeful strides. The crowds parted subtly before his enhanced aura, whispers trailing him like echoes—“Who is that?” “Such power…”—as he navigated the alley’s vibrant chaos.
First, clothes at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The shop bell tinkled merrily as he entered, the air filled with the scent of fresh fabric and sizing charms. Madam Malkin, a plump witch with pins hovering around her like obedient bees, bustled over. “What can I do for you, dear? School robes? Formal wear?”
“Battle robes,” Harry—now Mortem—replied firmly. “Custom. Black dragonhide, supple yet armored, enchanted for self-repair, deflection of minor curses, and agility enhancement. Silk shirts in emerald to match my eyes, trousers reinforced with acromantula thread for durability, cloaks that shift colors like chameleons for camouflage.” He negotiated with goblin-backed authority, flashing a Gringotts seal that made Malkin’s eyes widen. Discounts flowed—20% off for bulk, free alterations—as floating tapes measured him precisely, fabrics swirling in a dance of magic. He left with parcels wrapped in shimmering paper, his new attire fitting like a second skin, exuding dominance.
Next, equipment at Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment. The store brimmed with gadgets: telescopes that pierced illusions, cauldrons that stirred themselves. Harry selected a multi-compartment trunk, bottomless and warded with fidelius-like charms that would hide its contents from all but him, expandable to room size if needed. Potion kits in lightweight mithril cases, complete with vials that resisted shattering and ingredients fresh as if just harvested—mandrake roots still faintly screaming in muffled tones, boomslang skin iridescent under the lights. He haggled over rare herbs, trading a minor goblin artifact—a self-sharpening quill—for a discount, leaving with a satchel brimming with potential.
Books called from Flourish and Blotts, the shop a labyrinth of towering shelves groaning under leather-bound volumes, the air thick with the musty scent of old paper and ink. Harry delved deep, pulling ancient texts on obscure magics: dusty volumes on forbidden curses that twisted flesh like clay or unraveled minds, wards impenetrable as dragon scales that could shield armies from assault, rituals lost to time for animagus transformations or summoning ethereal guardians. The clerk, a bespectacled wizard, eyed him warily but relented under Harry’s firm bargaining, accepting future-knowledge tidbits about rare editions in exchange for reduced prices.
Venturing into the shadowy twists of Knockturn Alley, where the light dimmed and the crowds thinned to hooded figures whispering deals, Harry moved with caution, his senses alerting him to pickpockets and curses. At Borgin and Burkes, the dingy shop filled with cursed objects that pulsed with dark energy, he acquired more tomes—necromancy balanced with light countermeasures, artifacts like a self-filling inkwell laced with truth serum properties, and a vanishing cabinet’s blueprint for study. Haggling was fierce; Borgin drove hard bargains, but Harry’s goblin alliance seal and promise of future trades won concessions.
A magical familiar beckoned from a dimly lit menagerie tucked in a side alley, cages rattling with exotic beasts—fire crabs scuttling, runespoors hissing in triplicate. A shadow phoenix caught his eye, rare and ethereal, its feathers swirling like midnight smoke in patterns of starlight, eyes glowing with otherworldly intelligence. Nyx, he named her instinctively, bonding through a prick of his blood that mingled with hers in a flash of dark flame, a connection that surged through him like cool night wind, amplifying his magic with shadows that could conceal or reveal. The proprietor, a wizened hag, accepted galleons with a toothless grin after Harry demonstrated his power by taming a nearby graphorn with a mere glance.
Finally, a new wand at Ollivander’s Wand Shop, the narrow store as cluttered as ever with boxes stacked precariously, the air scented with wood shavings, phoenix feathers, and the subtle ozone of core magics. Garrick Ollivander, the ancient wandmaker with silver eyes that seemed to see souls, peered at him curiously through moon-like spectacles. “Ah, a seeker of power. Not your first wand, I sense. Let’s see what chooses you…”
Trials ensued: a holly wand sparked wildly, sending papers flying; yew recoiled as if burned; oak hummed but faded. Then, ebony wood, 13 inches, unyielding as his will, with a core of dragon heartstring that pulsed like a heartbeat in his grip. Power surged through him like a storm unleashed, the shop trembling faintly. “Formidable,” Ollivander murmured, his voice a reverent whisper laced with awe. “For one who commands destiny, who walks the line between light and shadow. A wand for conquerors and kings.”
Laden with purchases that floated behind him in charmed bundles, Harry pondered his next move. Avalon called—a Le Fay sanctuary waiting to be reclaimed. But first, consolidation. Power thrummed in his veins, the future his to shape.
(End of Chapter 1)
Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past
Notes:
As always I do not own Harry Potter. Any suggestions will be taken and valued. To be used in this work or another.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
With his acquisitions secured in his new multi-compartment trunk—wards humming softly like a guardian’s whisper—Mortem Le Fay, once Harry Potter, turned his thoughts to sanctuary. The goblin alliance had granted him coordinates to a forgotten Le Fay property: the Isle of Avalon. Legends wove tales of it as a misty realm, veiled in eternal fog off Britain’s rugged coast, where time danced differently, apples bloomed with immortality’s promise, and healing waters mended the broken. It was a place of power, a nexus of ancient magics that called to his blood like a siren’s song. Using the map provided by Ragnok—a parchment that shifted like living sand, runes glowing faintly—he focused his will and apparated, the familiar tug behind his navel pulling him through the void.
He materialized on a cliff’s edge, sea spray misting his face as waves crashed below like thunderous applause. The island unfolded before him: a paradise cloaked in ruins. Ancient stone circles stood sentinel, moss-cloaked and etched with incantations that pulsed with residual energy, whispering secrets of bygone eras. Overgrown orchards sagged under fruit that glowed with an inner luminescence, their scent sweet and intoxicating, promising vitality. At the heart rose a crumbling castle, its towers piercing low-hanging clouds like jagged spears, walls cracked but defiant, adorned with faded murals of Morgana’s triumphs.
The wards recognized his Le Fay blood instantly, a welcoming hum vibrating through his bones as the mists parted like ethereal curtains, revealing hidden paths lined with bioluminescent flowers. But restoration was needed—this would be his bastion, a fortress against the storms of war. Channeling his enhanced magic, amplified by the goblin ritual, Mortem set to work with purposeful sweeps of his ebony wand.
Stones levitated from rubble piles, fitting together with resonant clicks like puzzle pieces reuniting after centuries apart. Towers ascended, spires reforming with graceful curves, reinforced with unbreakable charms that wove goblin runes into wizard spells—hybrids of durability and illusion. Gardens erupted in explosions of color: vines twisting into arched trellises heavy with blossoms that shimmered in hues of sapphire and gold, orchards revitalized as apples swelled to perfection, their juice infused with healing properties. Protective mists thickened around the island’s perimeter, infused with layered illusions—intruders would see endless stormy seas, hear monstrous roars, or wander in looping mirages until madness claimed them. Wards layered like onion skins: detection spells to alert him, repulsion fields to fling foes, and lethal traps for the persistent, all drawing from Avalon’s natural ley lines for inexhaustible power.
Hours blurred into a symphony of creation, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool breeze, his muscles aching pleasantly from the exertion. By dusk, Avalon stood reborn—a utopia of elven architecture blended with Arthurian grandeur, halls echoing with phantom music, chambers furnished with conjured opulence: four-poster beds draped in silk, fireplaces roaring with eternal flames that cast no smoke.
But a sanctuary needed stewards. Mortem summoned house-elves from abandoned bloodlines—creatures long forgotten in derelict manors, bound by ancient slave bonds that twisted their forms into hunched, ragged servitude. They appeared with pops of displaced air, a dozen in all, eyes wide with desperate hope mingled with fear, their oversized ears twitching, threadbare pillowcases clinging to emaciated frames.
“You are free to choose,” Mortem declared, his voice commanding yet laced with kindness, resonating with the authority of a king unbound by tyranny. “But if you stay, it will be as kin, not slaves.”
Instead of the traditional slave bond—a chain of domination that warped their magic into obedience—Mortem delved into the Le Fay grimoire for a family bonding ritual, a forbidden rite that elevated rather than subjugated. In the castle’s great hall, under a conjured dome mimicking a starlit sky where constellations wheeled in eternal dance, he arranged the elves in a circle around a basin carved from moonstone. Into it, he poured moonlit water drawn from Avalon’s sacred spring, infused with drops of his own blood—crimson mingling with silver—and herbs of kinship: lavender petals for unwavering loyalty, oak bark shavings for unyielding strength, rose thorns for protective love.
Chanting in ancient tongues that rolled like thunder from his lips—words from Morgana’s era, laced with power that made the air shimmer—Mortem invoked the ritual. Tendrils of silver light erupted from the basin like living vines, wrapping around each elf in loving embraces that glowed with ethereal warmth. Their bodies convulsed in transformation: cries of agony echoed like breaking chains as ears shortened from pointed rags to elegant, tapered curves; limbs elongated into graceful, lithe forms; skin smoothed to a porcelain glow, radiating inner light. The pain twisted their features briefly, bodies arching as old bonds shattered like brittle glass, but then came ecstasy—freedom surging through them like a tidal wave, magic blooming unchecked for the first time in generations.
They emerged as high elves—tall, ethereal beings with luminous eyes that sparkled like stars, flowing hair in shades of moonlight and dawn, clad now in conjured robes of silk embroidered with Avalon’s crest. Their magic intertwined with Mortem’s in a web of familial power, loyal by choice, empowered rather than enslaved.
“You are family now,” Mortem affirmed, his dominant presence enveloping them like a protective cloak. “Serve Avalon, thrive in freedom’s light, and together we shall stand against the darkness.”
One elf, Elowen, stepped forward, her voice melodic like wind chimes dancing in a breeze, bowing deeply with grace. “Master Mortem, we are honored beyond words. Our lives are yours, bound by choice, not compulsion.”
With Avalon secured, Mortem returned to Diagon Alley the next day, seeking additional finery to complement his new status. Madam Malkin’s shop bustled with mid-morning activity—witches and wizards flitting between racks, measuring tapes whizzing through the air like enchanted serpents—but a private fitting alcove in the back offered seclusion for those of discerning taste. As Mortem perused luxurious fabrics—silks enchanted to repel curses and hexes, velvets woven with subtle protective threads that shimmered under the shop’s glowing lanterns—melodious voices drifted from an adjacent curtained section, drawing his attention like a magnet.
Three women, strikingly similar in their aristocratic bearing yet distinct in demeanor, examined an array of gowns with critical, appraising eyes: the Black sisters—Narcissa, Bellatrix, and Andromeda. Narcissa, at 23, embodied refined elegance, her platinum hair cascading in perfect waves like a silken waterfall, her blue eyes cool and assessing as she held up an emerald robe that matched the hue of Mortem’s gaze. Bellatrix, 27, exuded wild ferocity, her dark curls framing a sharp, beautiful face twisted in a mischievous grin as she toyed with a daring black ensemble edged in silver, her laughter ringing out like a challenge. Andromeda, 25, bridged the two with poised rebellion, her features softer but her eyes sparkling with defiance as she fingered a sapphire dress that flowed like water, her posture hinting at unspoken independence.
Their presence was electric, an aura of pureblood allure that filled the space. Perhaps it was fate, or the whispers of goblin networks already spreading tales of the enigmatic Mortem Le Fay, but as he selected a midnight-blue cloak lined with dragonhide, Narcissa’s gaze locked onto him through a gap in the curtains. Her lips curved into a seductive smile, slow and deliberate, like a cat spotting intriguing prey.
“Well, if it isn’t the mysterious Mortem Le Fay,” Narcissa purred, her voice smooth as velvet, stepping partially into view with the emerald robe draped over one arm. She tilted her head, allowing a lock of hair to fall artfully across her shoulder, her eyes tracing his form with unabashed appreciation. “Rumors of your… impressive acquisitions in Gringotts have reached even our ears. Shopping for conquests, perhaps? Or merely attire to match that commanding presence of yours? You carry yourself like a king from old tales—does the fabric do justice to such royalty?”
Bellatrix, never one for subtlety, leaned against the alcove frame, her dark eyes sparkling with flirtatious challenge, a husky purr in her tone as she crossed her arms to accentuate her curves. “Oh, Cissy, don’t undersell him. Look at those shoulders—broad enough to carry the weight of ancient houses, I’d wager. You’d look devastating in black, Mortem—dangerous, untamed. Much like us Blacks. Care to model for us? We promise to be… appreciative critics. After all, a man who befriends goblins must have stories that could make even our dark family blush.”
Andromeda chimed in from behind, batting her lashes playfully over Bellatrix’s shoulder, her tone laced with teasing allure and a hint of genuine curiosity. “Careful, sisters—he might think we’re here to ensnare him with our charms. Though, with eyes like emeralds that pierce right through a girl’s defenses, who could resist a closer look? Tell us, Mortem, does that power of yours extend to unraveling family secrets, or is it reserved for more… intimate pursuits? You seem the type to uncover hidden desires with just a glance.”
The air in the shop crackled with their seductive banter, flirtations weaving like intricate spells—Narcissa’s subtle compliments lingering on his physique and aura, her fingers brushing the fabric as if imagining it on him; Bellatrix’s bold winks and playful jabs at his dominance, her body language open and inviting, leaning closer with each quip; Andromeda’s coy suggestions of shared mysteries, her smiles warm yet edged with rebellion, drawing him into their circle with effortless grace. No physical contact breached the boundaries, but their words painted vivid pictures, building a tension thick as fog over Avalon, hints of vulnerability peeking through their facades.
Mortem met their energy with his own dominant charm, a smirk playing on his lips as he held up the cloak for their inspection. “Ladies of House Black, your reputations for wit and beauty precede you. If conquests are on the menu, perhaps it’s I who should beware—three sirens in one shop could ensnare any man. But tell me, what brings such formidable witches to Malkin’s? Seeking robes to match your unbreakable spirits? Or perhaps garments that hide the fire within?”
Narcissa’s eyes lit up with amusement, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she stepped closer, the emerald robe swishing softly. “Unbreakable? Flattering, but even steel bends under pressure. We’re here for the obligatory galas—pureblood pageantry at its most stifling. But you, Mortem… your name evokes Morgana herself. How does one claim such legacies without the weight crushing them? Share your secret, and perhaps we’ll reveal how we endure our own gilded cages.”
Bellatrix tossed her curls, circling him with predatory grace, her flirtation bold and unapologetic. “Cages? Don’t be dramatic, Cissy. Though Lucius does seem a dull key for yours. Mortem, you look like you’d shatter locks with a thought. Those hands—callused from real power, not parlor tricks. Tell us, have you tamed dragons, or just goblin hearts? We’d love to hear tales that quicken the pulse… or perhaps demonstrate your strength sometime.”
Andromeda laughed lightly, her fingers twirling a strand of hair as she leaned in, her tone playful yet probing. “Bella, always so forward. But she’s right—you radiate freedom we envy. Our family weaves webs of tradition, dark pacts that bind tighter than any spell. If you’ve broken free from your own shadows, enlighten us. Your voice alone commands attention; imagine what else it could inspire. A alliance, perhaps? Or something more… exhilarating?”
The dialogue flowed like a river, deepening amid the fluff of fashion critiques—Narcissa suggesting a silver trim to accent his eyes, Bellatrix proposing edgier cuts for a “warrior’s edge,” Andromeda advocating flowing designs for mystery. Hurts surfaced gradually: Narcissa’s subtle sighs over arranged fates, Bellatrix’s masked fury at being molded into a weapon, Andromeda’s quiet yearns for autonomy. Mortem responded with empathy, his words a balm—promising paths beyond their legacies, his dominant assurance kindling hope. Flirtations peaked: Narcissa’s lingering eye contact, Bellatrix’s teasing dares, Andromeda’s coy invitations to “explore forbidden magics together.”
Parting with exchanged owl addresses and vows of future rendezvous—“Perhaps a private fitting next time,” Bellatrix winked—Mortem left with alliances budding, romances simmering.
Dawn brought renewed purpose. Mortem delved into the grimoires gathered from Gringotts, pages turning under his command in the castle’s library—a vaulted room lined with shelves that expanded infinitely. Ancient spells unfurled before him: Emrys’ elemental manipulations that could summon tempests or earthquakes; Le Fay’s shadow weaves for invisibility and illusion. But one ritual captivated him—the animagus transformation, enhanced by Pendragon’s draconic lore, promising not just form but essence.
Preparation consumed days. In Avalon’s alchemical chamber, walls etched with runes that hummed like heartbeats, Mortem gathered ingredients: basilisk venom from his veins, tempered with phoenix tears for balance; shavings from a dragon scale artifact, pulsing with fiery energy; herbs steeped under three full moons—mandrake for change, wolfsbane for control, asphodel for rebirth. The potion brewed in a cauldron of goblin silver, bubbling with iridescent hues, its fumes carrying visions of scaled beasts soaring through ancient skies.
The ritual commenced in a secluded glade ringed by stone circles, under a starless night where Avalon’s mists formed a protective dome. Mortem chanted incantations from the Pendragon grimoire—words in Old Welsh that vibrated his core, drawing ley line power like roots tapping earth. He drank the bitter draught, a firestorm igniting within: body convulsing as scales erupted across skin in emerald waves, bones elongating with cracks like breaking thunder, muscles ripping and reforming denser. Pain lanced through him like dragonfire, visions assaulting—Arthur battling wyrms, Morgana taming beasts with whispers. Wings unfurled in phantom bursts, tail lashing, jaws elongating into a maw of fangs.
Agony peaked, his scream morphing into a roar that shook the trees. When it subsided, he shifted fully: a massive emerald-scaled dragon, wings spanning the glade like sails, fiery breath scorching the air in controlled bursts, eyes glowing with predatory intelligence. The form felt natural, power surging like a river unbound.
Adopting traits permanently through the ritual’s depth—enhanced speed blurring movements like gale winds, eagle-like eyesight piercing miles through fog, immense strength to shatter boulders with a swipe, stamina for tireless flight, rapid healing sealing gashes in seconds, and magical reserves swelling like an endless ocean—he became a force of nature incarnate, the dragon’s essence woven into his human form.
Empowered, Mortem soared over Avalon, testing limits—diving into seas, breathing flames that danced harmlessly on wards. This was transcendence, a key to reshaping fate.
(End of Chapter 2)
Notes:
As always please leave a comment and if I made any spelling mishaps or grammar issues please let me know. I am the only one writing and editing and it takes time that I’m not always focused on.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Whispers in the Dark
Chapter Text
With the dragon’s essence coursing through his veins like liquid fire, Mortem Le Fay felt the world anew—every breath a surge of power, every step a claim on destiny. Avalon thrummed with his presence, the high elves attending to the isle with reverent efficiency, their transformed grace a testament to his benevolence. Elowen and her kin moved like whispers through the restored halls, tending gardens that bloomed eternally and wards that hummed with unbreakable vigilance. Nyx, his shadow phoenix, perched on a nearby spire, her feathers absorbing the dawn light as if drawing strength from the shadows themselves. But isolation wouldn’t suffice; the war’s tendrils reached even here, coiling through rumors and reports from goblin spies. Political threads needed weaving, alliances forged in the crucible of influence before the storm broke fully.
Disguised as the enigmatic Mortem—his features subtly altered with Le Fay illusions, a glamour of shadowed nobility that sharpened his jawline, deepened the emerald glow in his eyes, and added an air of ancient mystery to his already commanding presence—he attended a neutral gathering at the Prewett estate. The sprawling manor, nestled in the rolling hills of Wiltshire and warded against eavesdroppers with layers of ancient family charms that shimmered like heat haze, was masked as a high-society soiree. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting golden light over polished marble floors etched with protective runes. The air was scented with fine wines from enchanted vineyards, blooming night jasmine from the sprawling gardens outside, and the subtle undercurrent of pipeweed from discreet corners. Pureblood elite mingled in flowing silks and tailored velvets, laughter tinkling like fragile glass, but undertones of strategy permeated like a heady incense—whispers of the escalating war, allegiances shifting like desert sands underfoot.
Mortem navigated the opulent crowd with dominant poise, his aura drawing eyes and ears like moths to an unquenchable flame. Conversations parted before him as if by unspoken command, wizards and witches assessing the newcomer whose unprecedented goblin friendship and whispers of mysterious power were already becoming legend in the hushed circles of wizarding society. His midnight-blue cloak, selected with the Black sisters’ flirtatious input still fresh in mind, swirled around him like living shadow, enhancing his enigmatic allure.
First to approach were the Potters: James, boisterous at 18 with messy black hair that mirrored Mortem’s own hidden lineage, clad in casual yet elegant robes that belied his pureblood status, laughed heartily over a goblet of aged firewhisky. Beside him stood Lily Evans, vibrant at 18 with fiery red locks cascading in loose waves and sharp green eyes that sparkled with intelligence and quiet defiance, her Muggle-born heritage a bold statement in this rarified crowd. They were engaged in a lively debate on Muggle rights near a roaring fireplace, the flames dancing in hypnotic hues of orange and gold, casting flickering shadows on tapestries depicting ancient wizarding battles.
“Mortem Le Fay,” James greeted with a wide grin, extending a hand in a firm, enthusiastic shake that spoke of his Quidditch-honed strength. “Heard you’ve got the goblins eating out of your palm—bloody brilliant! Most wizards can’t get past their sneers without losing a finger or two. What’s your secret? Bribery with dragon gold, or did you arm-wrestle Ragnok himself?”
Mortem clasped his hand steadily, his grip conveying unyielding strength without aggression, a subtle assertion of dominance that made James’s eyes widen slightly in respect. “No bribes or brawls, Potter. Respect and mutual gain forge stronger bonds than gold or force. The goblins remember slights longer than wizards forget their alliances—centuries of grudges etched in their ledgers. In these shadowed times, we need friends who wield hammers as deftly as wands, allies who see value beyond wands altogether.”
Lily tilted her head curiously, her gaze assessing him with the precision of a potion master measuring ingredients, a subtle smile playing on her lips that softened her sharp features. “Friends like that could indeed turn the tide against the rising darkness. But tell us, Mortem—rumors swirl like Polyjuice vapors about your ancient bloodlines. Emrys? Le Fay? Peverell and Pendragon, even? How does one claim such legacies without the Ministry breathing down your neck like a dementor on a bad day? They’re quick to label anything potent as dark magic, especially if it threatens their control.”
Mortem leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, resonant rumble that commanded undivided attention, the firelight reflecting in his enhanced eyes like embers in a forge. “The Ministry’s vision is as narrow as their corridors, Miss Evans—blind to true power, seeing only threats where potential allies stand tall. I’ve navigated their bureaucratic labyrinth with goblin precision: blood tests sealed away in vaults deeper than their suspicions can delve, claims filed under wards they couldn’t breach with a thousand curse-breakers. But why hide in the shadows? This war demands we reclaim what’s rightfully ours, dust off the ancient tomes and artifacts gathering cobwebs. Voldemort preys on our divisions like a basilisk on the unwary; unity, true unity beyond their petty politics, is our sharpest weapon.”
James nodded thoughtfully, swirling his firewhisky in the goblet, the liquid catching the light like molten gold. “Unity, eh? That’s what the old man’s Order keeps preaching, but it’s all cloaked in secrets and half-truths, innit? Dumbledore’s ‘greater good’ feels like invisible strings pulling us along. You’ve got a solid point—goblins could bolster our defenses, provide intel the Ministry’s too corrupt to uncover. Ever thought of sharing that alliance with like-minded folk? We could use edges like that.”
“Sharing requires trust, Potter,” Mortem replied evenly, his eyes locking onto James’s with an intensity that conveyed both challenge and invitation. “Prove yours through actions, not words, and perhaps we can forge something enduring. But beware the manipulations that lurk in the guise of benevolence. The greater good has a habit of sacrificing the young and the brave on its altar. I’ve… glimpsed echoes of possible futures where that’s the bitter cost, where heroes fall to schemes they never saw coming.”
Lily’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of intrigue mingling with cautious skepticism, her fingers tightening around her own glass of elf-made wine. “Echoes? You speak like a seer with a crystal ball, or perhaps someone who’s delved into forbidden temporal magics. Intriguing, and a touch unnerving. If your alliances truly extend to protecting the vulnerable—like Muggle-borns caught in this pureblood storm—then count us more than intrigued. James and I are trying to build something real, beyond the old ways and their prejudices. But how do we start? A joint operation, perhaps?”
Their dialogue flowed deeper, strategies unfolding like a Marauder’s Map revealing hidden passages. Mortem shared veiled insights—non-specific warnings of betrayals drawn from his future knowledge—without breaching his temporal veil. “Start small: a shared ward network, goblin-crafted to detect dark marks. But question everything—the Ministry’s incompetence leaves gaps Voldemort exploits.” By conversation’s end, a tentative alliance was sealed with clinked goblets and promises of owl correspondence, the Potters’ youthful energy kindled by his resolve.
Mortem moved on, the crowd’s murmurs following him like a wake. The Longbottoms awaited near a lavish buffet table laden with enchanted delicacies—pastries that refilled themselves with a wave, fruits that glowed with inner vitality, wines that warmed the soul without clouding the mind. Frank Longbottom, tall and resolute at 20, with the bearing of a seasoned Auror in crisp, dark robes adorned with subtle protective embroidery, stood beside Alice, equally steadfast at 19, her warm smile belying a warrior’s heart honed in the field, her hair tied back practically.
“Mr. Le Fay,” Frank began, his voice steady and measured like a well-cast spell, offering a nod of respect as he set down his plate. “Your name’s on every lip from Diagon Alley taverns to Ministry corridors. Befriending goblins? That’s no small feat in these divided times. Alice and I are Aurors—we’ve seen the front lines, the blood and the betrayals. How do you propose we leverage such unconventional ties against You-Know-Who and his followers?”
Mortem met his gaze evenly, his posture exuding quiet authority that made the air around them seem charged. “Directly and decisively, Longbottom. The goblins craft wards that are unbreakable by wizard standards, weapons that bite deeper than any curse, and armor that turns aside dark magic like rain on dragonhide. But it’s not merely tools they offer—it’s intelligence. They know the hidden vaults where dark artifacts fester, the underground networks Voldemort covets for his smuggling. Ally with me, and we share that bounty: maps of secret passages, early warnings of raids, even goblin scouts in the shadows.”
Alice leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharp and probing like a hawk spotting prey, her fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table’s edge. “Intriguing proposition, Mortem. But trust isn’t handed out like free samples at Honeydukes—it’s earned through fire. The Ministry’s riddled with spies and sycophants, corrupt fools taking bribes while good folk bleed out on the streets. How do we know you’re not just another layer of deception, a clever mask for darker ambitions?”
“The Ministry’s rot runs deep indeed,” Mortem agreed, his tone laced with shared disdain, bashing the institution with calculated precision. “Pockets lined with pureblood gold from families like the Malfoys, blind to the dark tides rising right under their pompous noses while they debate trivialities in the Wizengamot. I’ve no love for their bureaucracy, nor for snakes like Severus Snape—that greasy traitor who brews potions laced with loyalty to shadows rather than light. Mark my words, his allegiance hides daggers sharper than any blade, ready to strike at the opportune moment. To prove my intent? Join me on a raid against poachers supplying beasts to Death Eaters; witness goblin aid in the thick of it, unfiltered.”
Frank exchanged a meaningful glance with Alice, their bond evident in the silent communication. “Poachers, you say? We’ve got leads on a ring in the Forbidden Forest—unicorns and thestrals vanishing. If your goblins deliver reliable intel or reinforcements, we’re in. But what of Dumbledore? His Order’s been our backbone, guiding us through the fog.”
“Dumbledore’s backbone bends only to his own enigmatic will,” Mortem countered smoothly, his voice a velvet blade cutting through illusions. “His greater good philosophy is a noble cloak for manipulations, puppeteering lives like pieces on a grand chessboard where only he knows the endgame. How many have fallen to his secrets, sacrificed for a vision they never fully understood? Stand with me for a straighter path—no hidden strings, just transparent partners fighting shoulder to shoulder.”
The dialogue deepened into tactical discussions: shared ward schematics for family homes, intel exchanges on suspected Death Eater sympathizers, strategies for bypassing Ministry red tape. Frank outlined Auror protocols, Alice added insights on field combat, while Mortem contributed goblin tactics—ambush formations inspired by underground warfare. By the end, the alliance was forged with firm handshakes, the Longbottoms’ unyielding honor binding them as surely as any oath.
Mortem glided onward, the estate’s opulence fading into background as Ollivander wandered the fringes like a ghost from another era. The ancient wandmaker, with silver hair flowing like moonlit rivers and eyes like polished moons that seemed to peer into souls, sipped delicately from a flute of elderflower wine, his robes whispering faintly of wood shavings and latent magic.
“Ah, Mortem Le Fay,” Ollivander murmured as Mortem approached, his voice a reverent whisper that carried the weight of centuries, setting down his glass with deliberate care. “Your wand—ebony with dragon heartstring, 13 inches, unyielding—sings of conquests yet to come, of destinies entwined with fire and shadow. But you seek more, do you not? Cores that resonate with your… draconic essence, perhaps? The heartstring hums louder in you now, as if awakened.”
Mortem nodded, intrigued by the old man’s uncanny perception, leaning against a nearby column carved with Prewett heraldry. “Insightful as ever, Mr. Ollivander. My form demands harmony beyond the ordinary—amplification without discord. What hidden lore do you hold for such unions? Cores from beasts of legend, perhaps, or weaves that blend wizard and creature?”
Ollivander’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and arcane knowledge, his fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air as if testing wand woods. “Lore aplenty, young heir. Phoenix cores for rebirth and healing, unicorn for purity and steadfast light—but dragon for raw, untamed power, echoing your inner flames. Yours already amplifies tenfold; imagine variants with basilisk fang infusions or shadow phoenix plume. Share your goblin ties— their forges could temper such creations—and I’ll craft prototypes, wands that channel flames without scorching the wielder, that bend reality to your will.”
“A fair exchange,” Mortem agreed, his tone appreciative yet commanding. “But warn of the dangers lurking—the Ministry’s prying eyes, Dumbledore’s subtle reach into artifacts of power.”
Ollivander chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “The old fool collects wands like he hoards secrets, all in service to his greater good. But that good hides control, manipulations veiled as wisdom. An alliance with you? It would be a breath of fresh, unbound magic in these stagnant times. Consider it done—send word via owl, and we’ll begin.”
Tips on rare cores exchanged—veela hair for allure-infused spells, thestral tail for deathly precision—sealing their pact with a nod, Ollivander vanishing into the crowd like mist.
The Prewetts, the fiery twins Gideon and Fabian at 25, cornered him by the moonlit gardens, their identical red hair aflame under the floating lanterns, robes bearing faint scars from recent skirmishes, exuding the energy of warriors born.
“Le Fay!” Gideon boomed, clapping Mortem’s shoulder with brotherly force, his voice carrying over the murmur of guests. “Heard you’ve tamed the goblins like wild hippogriffs. Bloody need that edge for our raids—Death Eaters hit harder than bludgers these days.”
Fabian grinned wickedly, leaning on his twin’s shoulder, his eyes alight with mischief. “Aye, brother. Spill it—how’d you win over those grumpy gold-hoarders? Spells to charm their axes? A vault full of gold, or did you out-drink ’em in their own halls?”
Mortem smiled faintly, unshaken by their exuberance, his presence grounding their fire. “Negotiation and respect forge alliances stronger than any spell or steel, Prewetts. Goblins value equity—offer them trade in lost artifacts, promises of sovereignty, and they respond with loyalty fiercer than their rebellions. Join me, and goblin blades will arm your fights, runes shielding your backs.”
Gideon laughed heartily, punching Fabian’s arm. “Tempting as a Nimbus broom! But Dumbledore’s our guide—his plans keep us one step ahead, even if they’re twistier than a Cornish pixie path.”
“Plans that often leave you exposed on the front lines,” Mortem interjected smoothly, his voice cutting through like a well-aimed spell. “Puppeteering from afar, sacrificing pawns for his endgame. The Ministry’s no better—corrupt fools debating while you bleed. And Snape? That greasy bat’s a traitor in waiting, brewing loyalties to darker masters.”
Fabian sobered, rubbing his chin. “Harsh, but echoes what we’ve grumbled in private. If your goblins mean real support—scouts, weapons—count us in. But prove it: next raid, bring the goods.”
“Done,” Mortem affirmed. Debate ensued: tactics shared, bashings voiced against institutional failings. Alliance kindled with toasts, their fire matching his dragon heart.
Greengrass, a neutral merchant with shrewd, calculating eyes hidden behind spectacles, discussed rare herbs in a quiet alcove. “Le Fay, your goblin connections—source of exotic ingredients for potions? Mandrake variants, phoenix ash?”
“Indeed, and more,” Mortem replied. “Alliance opens trade routes closed to wizards. But beware dark pacts—Voldemort’s influence creeps into markets.”
“Neutrality’s my shield,” Greengrass countered. “But your offer intrigues—let’s talk terms.”
Shacklebolt, Kingsley at 25, the undercover Auror with a deep, resonant voice like rolling thunder, confided Ministry leaks in a shadowed balcony. “Le Fay, your rise is noted. Goblins plug holes the Ministry ignores?”
“Yes,” Mortem said. “Together, we stem the corrupt tide—intel untainted by bribes.”
Dialogues wove a web of support, alliances solidifying like Avalon’s unbreakable wards. As the night waned, Mortem departed, his network a growing force against the encroaching dark.
(End of Chapter 3)
Notes:
Constructed Criticism is always welcome along with ideas.
ColoradoSailor on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Dec 2025 04:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
LeadedFiend on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Dec 2025 10:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Calzie1999 on Chapter 3 Tue 16 Dec 2025 12:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
LeadedFiend on Chapter 3 Tue 16 Dec 2025 01:16AM UTC
Comment Actions