Camden, Muggle Inner London.
December 22nd, 1964.
The street outside shimmered faintly, the glamours bending light around the old terraced house at the corner of Albert Row and Inverness Street. No Muggle passerby saw the green-flamed wreath on the door, nor the faint curls of music that floated from the windows—oud and piano in strange, gentle harmony. The wards whispered like silk.
Inside, everything smelled like cinnamon and sandalwood and just a hint of lemon zest from whatever Noor had been brewing earlier. The warmth hit Mizar first, curling around him like a favourite jumper as he stepped in from the icy dusk.
His arms were full—wrapped parcels, paper bags clinking with glass vials and enchanted ribbon.
He set them down on the side table beneath a portrait of his great-grandfather Hassan, who gave a curt nod but didn't otherwise stir. Mizar made his way through the hall and into the main room, where warm firelight danced along ivory walls and the enchanted hearth crackled without need for logs.
Marwan turned from the window, already half out of his winter robes. "Did you get the cardamom honey from that Turkish vendor in Knockturn?"
"And the rose hips," Mizar said, handing over the parcel.
There was one particularly dramatic hatbox containing a self-tying cravat that Marwan had insisted would be just the thing for New Year's at the Greengrass Estate among the parcels.
"I still think you should wear green," Noor called from the sitting room. "Emeralds are better on you than sapphires."
"Our nephew looks good in any colour," Marwan replied, setting down a charmed snow globe on the mantle. "But you're right—green it is."
Mizar rolled his eyes and toed off his boots, leaving them beside the spell-drying rack. "I'm not even the one throwing the gala. Why do I need to look like a prince?"
Marwan gave him a sidelong look. "Because you are one."
That earned no reply.
Noor emerged a moment later in a loose, flowing robe the colour of early dusk, her curls pinned up with gold charms. She looked… different. Not tired, exactly. Just slower. Softer.
Mizar had noticed it more and more these past weeks—her sleeves hanging looser, her magic gentler. Her appetite had changed too, and twice during their shopping trip she'd stopped and pressed a hand just under her ribs. She had waved him off with a smile each time.
Now she lowered herself carefully onto the divan and rested a hand on her middle.
"You're doing that again," Mizar said quietly.
She smiled.
Marwan gave her a glance—wordless, checking in—and Noor nodded faintly.
"Mizar," she said, motioning him over.
He crossed the room, unsure what this was—until she took his hand and placed it gently over her stomach.
It was subtle. Not much more than a swell beneath her robe. But unmistakable now that he was paying attention.
She met his eyes. "We waited until it felt sure. Until the magic settled."
Marwan sat beside her, one arm across the back of the divan. He looked at Mizar with pride.
"She's about four months now," he said. "We wanted to tell you ourselves."
"We don't know if it's a girl or boy yet. We don't want to find out early." She smiled, almost shy. "We just know it's strong. Very strong. I feel it like sunlight in my bones."
Marwan and Noor should have already had a baby in their arms. Mizar recalled his original timeline, he remembered the woman who led the Shafiqs when he was still Harry Potter. Another house that crumbled down as the second wizarding war waged on.
"Do you have names picked out?"
"Some," she said. "But nothing settled. Marwan wants something ancient and poetic. I want something that feels like home. But…"
She glanced at him now, her expression searching.
"I keep thinking you'll know."
He looked down at her hand over his, over the bump. His fingers curled slightly.
"I… once dreamt there was a little girl," he said, careful with every word. "With your eyes. Her name was Fatima."
Marwan broke the silence instead. "That's a rather common name," he said with mild skepticism. "Could be anyone."
Noor silenced him with a single look. A small, amused smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"But if I like it," she said, "and he dreamt it, then that sounds like a sign."
Marwan relented, chuckling. "Then Fatima it is."
They ate late that evening—Mizar took in the feast with quiet appreciation: a wide bowl of molokhia, its deep green surface still steaming; roasted duck glazed in a fig reduction, charmed to never thicken too much; lamb stew, slow-cooked in a tagine that rotated itself with lazy, magical precision; saffron rice flecked with cinnamon and slivers of preserved lemon; and grape leaves that warmed themselves gently just before being eaten, as if aware of their moment. The cups shimmered with raisin-based arak, refilling themselves with a subtle flick of Marwan's wand.
Mizar sat between them at the long dining table, listening and speaking just like his uncle had taught him. Marwan told one of his favourite stories, this one about a sphinx in Cairo that owed a favour to a Shafiq, and how it gifted them a phoenix feather that never burned out. Noor rolled her eyes—affectionately—when he tried to embellish it.
"You've told that story at least twenty times ever since we got married."
"Because it's true," he said with mock indignation. "And one day, I'll find that feather again."
"It's probably in your sock drawer with that wand holster you lost."
"It disappeared, Noor. That's different."
Mizar smiled, laughter warm in his throat. He let himself lean into the ease of it, the realness. He had a family now, and a big one at that.
Later, after the fire dimmed and the plates were cleared with a flick of Noor's wand, Mizar retired to his room. He changed into cotton sleepwear and brushed his teeth with a paste that smelled faintly of mint and crushed starlight.
The room was warm. The walls painted a soft copper, enchanted to mimic the shifting light of the Faiyum sky at dusk. On the nightstand sat a small stone carving of a falcon—his, from when he was eight. He didn't remember packing it.
He crossed to the window and drew the curtains back.
Below, the glamour-shielded street lay empty. Snow drifted down in slow, glittering spirals, but it vanished before ever touching the cobblestones. A memory of winter, not the thing itself.
Mizar pressed his forehead to the cold pane and let his breath fog the glass.
How many things had him being reborn changed?
What did it cost, this delay?
What else had shifted while he lived again?
Zennor, Cornwall, England.
They Apparated just beyond the edge of the wards, the way Marwan preferred. "Homes like this deserve a proper approach," he said, brushing frost off his sleeve. "Let the land recognize your footsteps."
They walked in silence along the narrow path that curved through the wind-beaten moor, where the air smelled like salt and peat and something ancient. Mist gathered low across the grass, clinging to the heather. And then the manor revealed itself—rising from the cliffs like a memory given stone.
Shafiq Manor.
Built of golden sandstone that glowed faintly even in the grey Cornish light, it looked impossibly out of place here. Its domed rooflines and pointed arches softened slightly to suit the wetter climate—an architectural echo of the Shafiq estate in Faiyum. The same fountain shape in the courtyard. The same narrow mosaic tiles lining the entrance. The same double doors carved with the family sigil: a falcon perched above a still pool.
Mizar stopped walking.
"She hated English winters," Marwan said quietly beside him, following his gaze. "My mother. She cried for a week after they moved here before your father and I were born. So your grandfather did the only thing that made sense. He built her this. Said if she had to leave Egypt, she would never leave home."
The wards around the house stirred, sensing them. They didn't resist. They parted with a hum, and the front doors unlocked themselves with a sigh.
Inside, the air was still—but not dead. More like held breath.
Light filtered through stained-glass windows set high above the entrance hall, casting jewel-toned shadows across the tiled floor. The smell of old incense lingered faintly, threaded through with sandalwood and time. Mizar stepped forward slowly, boots quiet on the familiar patterned tiles. His heart beat loud in his chest.
"It feels like—"
"Faiyum," Marwan finished softly. "Yes."
They passed under the arched hallway to the inner atrium, its enchanted ceiling opening just slightly to let in the Cornish sky. There, the central fountain stood dry but intact—its falcon centerpiece still glinting with traces of warding runes.
"No one's lived here since—?" Mizar asked.
"Since your father died," Marwan said. His voice didn't tremble, but it dropped like a stone. "Your mother came once. Walked through the threshold, holding you. She made it as far as Hamza's old study. Then she turned around and left. I didn't push her to try again."
Mizar's fingers drifted along the edge of the fountain basin, tracing the stonework like he was reading a language he used to know.
Marwan watched him, then said, "Come. There's more."
They walked through the house in silence. Old portraits lined the corridors. The drawing room overlooked the cliffs, with tall windows enchanted never to fog. A gallery on the second floor was filled with cloaks and artifacts collected across decades of diplomatic work—ancient wands, obsidian bowls, divining mirrors still covered respectfully in cloth.
But it was the library that caught Mizar's breath.
They entered through a pair of cedarwood doors carved with constellations in Arabic script. Inside, the room soared into a dome of glass and steel enchanted to hold its heat. Shelves climbed the walls, full of tomes in Arabic, English, French, and Old Runes. A telescope rested beside a crescent-moon window that pointed to the sea.
"This was your grandfather's favourite room," Marwan said. "He said it was where you could most clearly see what you're meant to protect."
Mizar stood near the center, letting it settle around him: the echo of footsteps, the dust curled in sunbeams, the heavy hush of history. This was not just a house. It was a legacy turned silent. Waiting.
"I used to think it was a shame your mother never came back," Marwan said, quieter now. "But maybe it wasn't her job to. Maybe it was meant to wait for you."
Mizar looked back at him. "Why show me now?"
"Because tomorrow," Marwan said, "you'll wear green robes and be paraded through a sea of names and alliances. The Greengrass gala. You'll be surrounded by the Fawleys, Shacklebolts, Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Notts. Every one of them will try to guess who you'll become. But they don't get to define you." He met Mizar's eyes. "You do."
A pause.
"You are the rightful heir of this house, Mizar. Not by blood alone, but by spirit. You're the one who sees both sun and fog and still chooses to build something out of it."
Mizar turned back to the room. Towards the falcon crest above the hearth, the dried incense bowls, the stillness that felt like breath held in reverence.
"I'll reopen it," he said. "When I come of age. I'll restore the wards. Fill it with light again."
Marwan's voice was proud but steady. "Then the house will rise again. With you."
They stood there a while longer, saying nothing more.
And outside, though the cliffs howled and the wind battered the sea, something inside the house shifted—just slightly. Like a heart remembering how to beat.