I sat cross-legged in the underground greenhouse, swirling my Golden White Flame gently over my shoulders, soothing the deep aches and lingering bruises from the relentless past four weeks.
Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. Four weeks of grueling, day-in and day-out physical training under Dad's watchful eye—push-ups, sprints, wrestling drills, and obstacle runs that made Quidditch matches feel like warm-ups. Surprisingly… it wasn't all pain. There was a strange comfort in the structure. Dad was calmer than expected, firm but fair, always pointing out where I could tighten my form, where I could conserve energy, or when to burst forward with speed. Even while I collapsed from exhaustion, I appreciated the quiet moments where I could see his pride, even if he didn't say it outright.
But deep down… I always felt like Dad was hiding something. A piece of the puzzle I hadn't put together yet.
Outside my own hellish routine, I saw Ron, Hermione, and Harry each slowly growing.
Ron, who once stumbled through spells, was no longer the clumsy shadow of his siblings. His progress, though hard-won, was clear. Less movie-version comic relief and, more the strategic, fiercely loyal Ron that the books hinted at, the one that too many ignored.
Hermione had advanced the fastest in controlled spellcasting, particularly Transfiguration. Her muggle background helped her grasp elemental manipulation, especially water-based spells, with a natural fluidity that surprised even Mom. Watching her control streams of water, twisting them into lances and shields of of water with a small transitions to ice.
Harry… his reflexes improved greatly. Mom drilled him until instinct ruled his body; dodging, parrying, countering spells that had once left him wide-eyed. His raw potential, shaped by discipline, was blooming.
And me… I was learning something I hadn't prioritized before: when not to fight.
On my free nights, I turned inward. I called Blood and Helena out, letting them spar, sword and magic clashing in controlled chaos, while I sat cross-legged in Mana Meditation. Slowly, my mana reserves stretched further. I ensured Blood could swing for hours without fading, Helena could shape wind and fire, shift earth and water, without collapsing my own pool. The improvements weren't massive yet, but the consistency was there. Helena's control over elemental chains grew sharper, and Blood's swordplay adapted quicker, strikes becoming unpredictable and refined.
Time blurred until the fifth week arrived, and with it came Aster. She strode into the training hall with a rare no-nonsense look, pulling me aside. She spoke with a direct tone. "Why did you recommend Grindelwald for the Ministry's new council?"
I could see the edge in her eyes—a rare, almost maternal sharpness reserved for moments when I'd really overstepped.
I answered calmly, "Because I'm the recognized heir by Melesse. I made the call I believed was best."
Aster's jaw flexed, her expression tightening. "That's exactly the problem, Callum. You're the heir, yes. But you're also eleven. You've done more than many adults by your age, I'll grant you that—but politics… politics isn't dueling, or potion crafting, or charming a magical creature. It's war, but slower and nastier."
I didn't flinch, but her words hit. She wasn't wrong.
She pressed on, "So far, I've supported your moves because they were grounded. But this? This is different. You've put the entire Tesfaye name behind a man many consider history's greatest dark lord, short of Voldemort himself."
I swallowed, my hand twitching. If she knew I let Voldemort go… she'd strangle me on the spot. Taking a breath, I nodded. "You're right. I acted rashly. I should've consulted you and Mom first. I let my ambition talk louder than my sense."
Aster's face eased slightly, but her shoulders stayed rigid. "We're family, Callum. I'm glad you can admit when you're wrong, but this doesn't vanish with an apology. Now, we have to clean up the fallout. The international circuits are already buzzing."
With a snap of her fingers, her simple attire shimmered and reformed into a flowing purple-laced formal dress that fit her figure like royalty. Her dreadlocks twisted into a tight, regal ponytail, her posture flawless.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
She adjusted her cuffs. "I'm going to see Grindelwald myself. Interrogation—face to face. The Tesfaye Matriarch has duties beyond managing vaults and properties."
My curiosity flared. "Why… why did Mom give you the title of Matriarch? She's stronger, more accomplished… why not take it herself?"
Aster's smile faltered, a distant look crossing her eyes. She turned her palm upward, magic flaring faintly. "Ask your mother, little heir. And understand… if she won't tell you, it's because she loves you more than the truth could help."
With a flick of her wrist, she vanished in a twist of amethyst flames, leaving me alone with too many questions.
Later that evening, I headed back down into the underground greenhouse, my quiet sanctuary. I inspected the Snake Wood trees, the twin sprouts of ebony and white oak pushing through the enriched soil I'd prepared. They pulsed softly with magic and life, alive but slow.
The Elderwood seed, however… hadn't budged.
Opening my Tome of Rare Extinct Magical Herbs, a reward from the Longbottom quest, I skimmed through the entries.
> "The Elderwood Tree draws life not only from enriched soil but also directly from ambient magic. Planting near leyline fractures, or areas of high magical residue will allow germination. Warning: it passively absorbs life from dying or weakened creatures nearby to accelerate growth."
No wonder it sat dormant. The greenhouse had a balanced sourced ambient magic—not the chaotic, raw magic Elderwood thrived on. The tales of deadly hollows in ancient forests made sense now.
I closed the tome, staring at the dormant seed in my palm. To make it grow I need to take it somewhere wild and untamed. The wood is also very particular. The movies show it being very picky and could kill you if you don't fit it's standards. It's a good type of wood but it's understandable why the elder wand could be used wizards like Dumbledore and Grindelwald. But Voldemort struggled to use it, he was even luckier it didn't kill him.
I pressed my hand to the glass container, the faint pulse of magic answering back.
"Not today," I whispered. "But soon."
At the fortified Ministry holding facility, reinforced wards shimmered faintly over the gray stone walls as Aster Tesfaye's heels clicked against the marble floors. Her purple formal robes billowed slightly, enchanted silk embroidered with thin streaks of gold signifying her rank as the Tesfaye Matriarch. Her golden amber eyes were calm but sharp, scanning every detail as Amelia Bones and Kingsley Shacklebolt awaited her at the checkpoint.
Amelia's posture was rigid, her eyes narrowed. "Lady Tesfaye, I'll ask plainly. Does your family truly intend to back this… man? You would have Gellert Grindelwald elevated to the highest seat of influence?"
Kingsley crossed his arms beside her, tone wary. "This should be voted on. Dumbledore himself should fill the empty seat until a more… acceptable candidate arises."
Aster's lips pressed together in a thin line before she responded evenly, "Dumbledore would never accept such a position."
Kingsley frowned. "Why not? He's one of the most trustworthy, powerful wizards alive."
Aster's golden gaze sharpened. "That's exactly why. Dumbledore understands too well the cost of power. He avoids political authority because he fears the man he could become."
Amelia's jaw flexed. "And yet so many trust him implicitly… a man who stands by and lets rot take root, because 'it's not his place.' That's more concerning than Grindelwald in chains."
"Exactly." Aster nodded crisply. "Dumbledore's restraint doesn't make him harmless. It makes him unpredictable. But we're not here to debate Dumbledore. We are here to understand why the heir of the Tesfaye family backed a man the world labels irredeemable."
With a flick of her hand, the enchanted iron doors parted, revealing the main holding chamber. The moment Aster stepped through, Grindelwald looked up from where he sat, his pale blue eyes twinkling with a curious, aged sharpness. His beard had been trimmed, his posture relaxed despite the shackles around his wrists.
"So… you must be Tesfaye head," Grindelwald said, his voice surprisingly smooth for someone imprisoned. Aster seated herself across from him, crossing one leg elegantly. "How do you know who I am?"
Grindelwald's lips curled upward. "You bear your grandmother's face… and the same controlled ferocity behind your eyes. She was the only witch of her era who earned my respect. She chose neutrality, but unlike the rest of the cowards who claimed it, she had the power to enforce it."
Aster's stare remained cold and calculative. "And yet, your words drip with nostalgia. What are you trying to imply?"
Grindelwald made a lazy shrugging gesture, his wrists rattling lightly against the cuffs. "Nothing. Just an observation. Generations ago, I sought your grandmother's allegiance and was denied. Yet two generations later, the combined blood of Tesfaye and Dawn produces… Callum. A boy that comes to me of his own will, without coercion. Fascinating, isn't it? Fate has a poetic sense of humor."
Aster's expression didn't budge, though her pupils sharpened. "You speak of fate as though you know what will happen."
Grindelwald's smile widened slightly. "I gave your grandmother a prophecy. Did you know that?"
Aster's face faltered for a split second, an involuntary flicker of recognition.
Grindelwald continued smoothly. "One of the reasons I left the Tesfaye family alone was that prophecy. What point was there in allying with those who may one day burn down everything I built? That's if they don't destroy themselves first."
Aster leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. "What did you tell Callum to earn his support?"
Grindelwald sat straighter, face suddenly serious. "Nothing beyond the truth. You've seen the letters, Lady Tesfaye. I advised him to leave me buried here, to chase guidance from Dumbledore. He refused. His stubbornness… well, it mirrors the Tesfaye line well."
"And the council seat?" Aster pressed.
Grindelwald chuckled. "I've heard whispers but little concrete news. My knowledge is limited in this charming cage. But I am not ungrateful. This cell is infinitely kinder than Azkaban. No soul-sucking parasites in my face on the daily."
Aster's magic pulsed faintly, golden flames crackling in her pupils. "Then tell me plainly, Grindelwald… what do you want?"
Grindelwald's voice lowered, stripped of slyness. "I want to help Callum succeed. I don't understand why he chose me, but I see something in him. He's more than a boy. He's a pivot point in history. And if I can shape him into something better than me—someone that doesn't repeat my sins—perhaps there is still hope."
Aster's voice cut through the room like tempered steel. "Are you trying to save your soul?"
Grindelwald's eyes dimmed, but his smile lingered. "No, Lady Tesfaye. I lost my soul a long time ago. I'm talking about saving the world from more monster's like me."
The chamber fell quiet.
At Tesfaye Manor, in Desmond's private study, the air was thick with weightier concerns. Desmond poured steaming tea into two obsidian cups, his hands steady as stone. Samira sat across from him, her posture regal, but her jaw tense.
Desmond sipped once before speaking. "Aster will see through him. She always does."
Samira's response was immediate. "It's not about whether she sees through him. It's about what Callum is becoming… about the fire we're letting him wield."
Desmond nodded grimly. "You and I always knew this wouldn't be a normal childhood."
Samira's knuckles whitened as she gripped her cup. "That doesn't mean I can't wish for it. We've pushed him further than any child should be pushed."
Desmond's tone dropped, quiet but unwavering. "And would you chain his potential, Samira? Or guide it until he surpasses us all?"
Samira breathed deeply, her flames dimming behind her gaze. "Guide it… but I fear what it may cost."
Desmond's golden eyes glinted, the weight of generations pressing on his shoulders. "Then we make sure he's not alone when the cost comes due."
The light from the enchanted fireplace crackled softly, casting elongated shadows along the rich mahogany walls of Desmond's private study. Samira sat perfectly still in her high-backed chair, her grip tight around the delicate handle of her tea cup. The fragrant blend of wild hibiscus and ginger swirled in her cup, untouched. Her golden amber eyes remained distant, fixed on the dancing flames.
With a deep breath, she finally broke the silence, her voice softer but resolute. "Desmond… bring me the prophecy."
Desmond, lounging comfortably on the leather sofa, stiffened. He turned his head slowly, the sharp edge in his jawline tightening. "Samira… you listen to that thing almost every day. You've recited it from memory since Callum's first sign of magic. It won't give you any more answers now than it did before."
Samira set the tea down with a quiet clink, her fingers trembling slightly. "Please… I need to hear it again."
Desmond's gaze held hers for a long moment, searching for a hint of hesitation. Finding none, he sighed heavily and stood up, rolling his shoulders back as he crossed the study toward the far wall. There, carved into the woodwork, was a low-lying chest sealed with age-old runes.
Placing his palm flat against the oak panel, Desmond muttered in crisp Latin, "Veritas ante omnia"—May the truth come first.
The runes shimmered in golden light before the lock clicked open. He knelt, carefully lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in enchanted velvet, rested a small crystal orb. Wisps of swirling silver smoke drifted lazily within it, shifting and curling in patterns that no ordinary eye could follow.
Desmond cradled the orb, feeling the ancient pulse of its magic before carrying it back to Samira. Before placing it in her waiting hands, he hesitated.
"Samira," he said lowly, his voice calm but firm, "remember what happened to the Greek gods when they misread prophecies. Remember the Norse myths—Frigg and Baldur. Prophecies rarely speak in straight lines."
Samira's jaw tensed, her back straightening as her expression hardened. "I won't make their mistakes," she whispered, a flicker of iron determination in her tone.
Desmond's lips pressed into a thin line. "For Callum's sake… I hope you're right."
He placed the orb gently into her palms. Samira's fingers closed around it like it was both a lifeline and a curse.
The orb pulsed once, sensing its master's desire, and the smoke inside parted. A soft, ethereal voice filled the room, ancient and layered, echoing from forgotten time.
> "Ancient blood reborn in the Dawn as fire…"
"Will shine brighter than the Giant Slayer and the Wisest King…"
"The true Mother of Fire will bring the flame of the New Dawn into the world."
"The Mother shall grow the flame, until it consumes the world"
"Burning down the old…"
"Or the Mother shall seal the flame forevermore…"
"To continue the order of those who came before."
The words were slow, deliberate, and every syllable sank like a stone in the room's atmosphere.
As the final words whispered into silence, Samira's body trembled. A single tear traced down her flawless cheek, followed by another, and then another. Her grip tightened around the orb until her knuckles turned white.
Before Desmond could speak, her body shook with restrained emotion. Desmond moved quickly, kneeling by her side, wrapping his strong arms around her shoulders and pulling her into a firm embrace. She sobbed quietly into his chest, her fists balled tightly against his ribs.
"I won't let it happen," Samira choked through tears. "I won't let that prophecy take my son. I won't let him be the flame that burns the world down."
Desmond rested his chin against her hair, holding her close. His voice was quiet but filled with conviction. "We'll stop it together, Samira. Whatever the cost… we'll guide him, protect him, and make sure that prophecy doesn't choose his fate."
Samira's sobs quieted, but the weight of their shared burden pressed heavier than ever. In the silence that followed, only the crackling fire and the faint pulse of ancient magic remained.
Tokyo, Japan
Tokyo was bustling, the warm breeze of early summer carrying with it the scent of grilled food, blooming flowers, and the tang of the distant sea. Crowds moved swiftly along the sidewalks, their energy palpable beneath the towering skyline and neon-drenched alleys. Amid the flowing tide of life, Tom Riddle walked with measured, casual elegance.
His jet-black hair, tousled gently by the wind, gave him the effortless air of a brooding model, accentuated by his attire: light-washed jeans hugged long legs, a dark green tee-shirt clung lightly to his lean frame, and a slightly baggy black button-up shirt draped over it, the top button undone, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. A simple canvas backpack hung off one shoulder.
Men and women alike turned to steal glances, intrigued by his beauty—both cold and magnetic. Tom Riddle smiled, but it was the kind of smile that hinted at a secret only he was in on.
He strolled past convenience stores, vending machines, and blinking crosswalks until the savory scent of caramelized soy and grilled fruit led him to a quaint fruit stall tucked between two ramen shops. An elderly Japanese woman, small and warm-eyed, stood behind the counter.
Tom inclined his head and spoke in fluent, courteous Japanese:
("Hello, Obāsan. How are your spirits today?")
The woman looked up and her smile widened instantly.
("Ah, Tom-kun! How are your studies going?")
Tom returned her smile.
("Quite well. May I buy some apples today?")
She chuckled, already gathering a paper bag full.
("No need for money, dear. You've helped me so much already.")
Tom's face didn't change, but there was a glint in his eyes.
("But you have a living to make, don't you?")
He placed the correct yen into the metal tray, despite her protests, and offered a gracious nod.
("Thank you very much. Have a wonderful day.")
With that, Tom Riddle walked off, the bag of apples swinging casually in his hand, his smile fading as quickly as it had come.
He weaved his way through the quieter side of the city, entering a residential district filled with stone gardens and traditional houses. The kind of neighborhood untouched by time, where ancestral shrines stood behind wooden gates and koi ponds whispered stories of old.
Tom passed through a simple iron gate, then along a smooth pebble path that cut through a beautiful Zen garden. Finally, he arrived at a guest house nestled behind a larger, traditional home. Sliding open the shōji door, he stepped inside, slipping off his shoes neatly at the entry.
Sinking into a cushion by the low table, he bit into one of the crisp apples. Juice ran down his lip, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, his expression darkening.
"That filthy Muggle woman…" he muttered in flawless Japanese.
"Either she thinks I need her pity or she's more gullible than I gave her credit for."
His eyes flicked up to the wall directly across the room—a patchwork collage of floating parchment, enchanted clippings, and magically tacked notes. One section was dominated by glowing headlines from magical newspapers:
"European Ministry Faces Collapse After Mass Resignations"
"Harry Potter made the heir the Black Family"
"Callum Tesfaye Dawn: The next Dumbledore of the New Age?"
Tom's gaze narrowed on Callum's name.
He turned toward a stack of tomes cluttering his desk—ancient Japanese manuscripts, spell books, and bound tomes. The subjects varied: binding contracts with Yōkai, the evocation of flame kami, ritualistic absorption of shikigami, and spirit-forged curses. He ran his hand over one open page etched in inkbrush detailing the Rite of Borrowed Names, a powerful but dangerous pact with shadow spirits.
"I should've killed him…" he whispered to no one in particular. "Had I met him in my prime, I would've crushed him beneath my heel and taken the Philosopher's Stone for myself."
He paused and flexed his fingers, watching the faint shimmer of residual magic dance across his palm.
"But I can't complain," he said, his lips twisting into a cruel smile.
"Next time, Mister Dawn… it won't be so merciful. I'll kill you slowly. Methodically. And I'll make you regret every breath you ever took."
A soft knock interrupted the spiral of thoughts. Tom didn't look away from the wall.
"Come in."
The shōji door slid open and a tall Japanese man stepped in. He was handsome—sharply dressed in white jeans, a red shirt, and a loose white jacket, sleeves rolled up in casual symmetry with Tom's own.
"Tom," he said with a slight bow, "I've gotten permission. You may attend Professor Tesfaye's lecture today."
Tom's expression shifted to a calm, pleasant smile. "Thank you, Akira," he responded in perfect Japanese.
Akira nodded. "It's the least I can do. You've taught me so much about European spellwork. Honestly, I'm beginning to think you should be the one lecturing."
Tom shrugged modestly, "How could I not? After you so graciously let me rent out your guest home."
Akira chuckled. "You'll like Professor Tesfaye. Her views on multi-cultural magical theory are brilliant—especially how she blends magical traditions to create seamless ritual work."
Tom's eyes shimmered with a sudden gleam. He stood, grabbing his coat and tucking his wand into his belt. "I've heard whispers… that she's one of the few Arcane Sorceresses still alive. That her family harbors a flame magic the world's forgotten."
Akira's face turned serious. "Yes. Some priestesses in Kyoto tried replicating it. But they needed multiple contracted spirits just to scratch the surface of that power."
Tom's grin returned, subtle and icy. "Fascinating… I do hope she's as open-minded as you."
"You're practically a genius, Tom," Akira said as he turned to leave. "What more could you possibly need to learn?"
Tom gestured to the piles of books and ancient tomes behind him. "Plenty," he replied. "Knowledge is a kind of immortality."
He reached down and tossed an apple to Akira, who caught it midair.
"Shall we go then?" Tom asked, the wind catching his shirt as he stepped onto the porch.
Akira smiled, biting into the fruit. "Of course."