The sun had climbed higher, casting shifting patterns of light through the thick branches of the oak trees. The crisp morning air had begun to warm, but Nero barely noticed.
He remained seated on the stone porch, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his fingers idly tracing patterns against the rough stone.
His gaze was distant, his thoughts an intricate web of calculations and introspection.
Dumbledore had left, securing something or someone for their next move, but Nero knew better than to let himself sit idle. Reflection was as much a weapon as any spell, a way to sharpen his understanding of the game he now played.
And what a game it was.
His grandfather had taken his first step, a monumental stride, shaking off the chains of stagnation that had bound him for decades.
Grindelwald.
The name alone carried weight, history, blood.
An unthinkable move in the eyes of the world, yet it had also been necessary for Dumbledore.
A gamble that only those with vision, with resolve, would ever dare take.
And Nero agreed with this gamble.
But as much as it was Dumbledore's choice, Nero knew he had been the unknowing catalyst.
The moment he chose to trust Dumbledore, to speak truths cloaked in foresight, and the moment Dumbledore chose to believe, the course of history shattered.
Canon was no more. The story he once knew had cracked.
Fate still whispered, but the lines no longer matched the script he remembered.
This was uncharted territory. There would be no grooming Harry as a martyr, no final duel preordained by prophecy. Dumbledore wouldn't let that happen. Neither would Nero.
They would unveil Voldemort's new version of Horcruxes, take the matter into their own hands, and crush him themselves.
The very thought of it sent something sharp through him.
Not quite satisfaction, but something close. A sense of control. A sense of purpose.
Dumbledore had once resigned himself to the path that had seemed inevitable, the path that had once defined canon.
But now? Now, he had seen another way.
And Nero? He was the anomaly that had made this possible.
His presence had set this all into motion. His choices, his defiance of the story meant to unfold. Would this make things better? Worse? He didn't know, and the unknown was a double-edged blade, thrilling and dangerous in equal measure.
But one thing was certain.
This was a completely new story now.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned back against the wooden column of the porch. The past few years had been a test, a constant evaluation of his place in this world. He had learned tirelessly, ensuring his own strength, maneuvering, growing, adapting.
And yet, every time he took a step forward, the past reached out with its grasping hands.
Dumbledore. Grindelwald. Jonathan.
His fingers curled against the rough stone. His father. A specter that had loomed in the periphery of his thoughts ever since their encounter. Jonathan Ravenclaw had been obsessed with Grindelwald in his youth. He had sought him out, hung on his every word, believed in his vision.
And now, decades later, that same man had become a monster.
A father who had looked upon his son and seen nothing but a tool. A man who had spoken of strength, of survival, of a world that crushed the weak beneath its heel.
Had Grindelwald seen what Jonathan would become? Or had he only seen a boy filled with admiration, hungry for knowledge?
What had that pursuit turned him into?
The pieces were aligning.
Grindelwald had spoken of balance, a universal law dictating that no force could rise unchallenged. That for every great power, an opposition would form.
Jonathan had sought out Grindelwald.
Grindelwald had waited for Dumbledore.
Dumbledore had called upon Nero.
Lines intersecting. Fates colliding.
His thoughts drifted, shifting from cold calculation to something far more human.
Cassandra. His mother. A name that carried weight, though the woman herself had been nothing more than a distant warmth, extinguished before he could ever understand it.
Powerful. Formidable. And yet, in the end, she had fallen. Killed by the very man she had once loved.
Or had she?
Jonathan had claimed responsibility, but Nero knew better.
There were still gaps in the story. Still shadows that refused to be illuminated.
His thoughts shifted again, this time to those who had walked into his life by choice.
Ember. Lilith. Alaric.
Each of them was a force in their own right. Each of them were shaping their own path, standing beside him with their own convictions.
Not by fate, or because of a prophecy.
But by choice.
And choices were everything.
He exhaled, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. His mind was a battlefield of thoughts, but clarity had begun to settle over him.
Then, a clear, ringing note cut through the silence.
Nero's gaze snapped toward the sky just as a burst of golden flame ignited above the porch. Fawkes.
The phoenix circled once before descending gracefully, landing on the wooden railing beside him. The familiar warmth radiated from the bird's presence, a soothing hum filling the air as Fawkes let out a soft, melodious sound.
Nero tilted his head. "Back already, huh?"
Fawkes cocked his head in response, his dark eyes gleaming with something knowing.
Footsteps echoed from beyond the trees.
Nero straightened, his expression sharpening as he turned toward the sound.
And then, emerging from the shadows of the woods, Dumbledore stepped into view.
But he was not alone.
Nero's silver-blue eyes flickered with recognition, his smile fading as something unreadable passed through his gaze.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly.
"Grandpa," he drawled, voice edged with exasperation but laced with something deeper. "Are you sure you don't want to stand still for a bit?"
Dumbledore merely smiled.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
50 chapters ahead on Patreon (Suiijin): Chapter 226: The Ghost and the Heir