Date: Wednesday, August 20th, 1986
Time: 9:00 AM
Location: Royal Training and Medical Wing, Lower South Hall, Buckingham Palace, London, United Kingdom
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted high windows of the training complex built into the depths of Buckingham Palace's southern wing. Stone and polished wood framed a space that blended the clinical precision of a royal hospital ward with the aura of an ancient magical sanctum. The air hummed softly with containment wards, diagnostic enchantments, and the deep, protective magic of the Soul-Bond, which had now woven itself into the very walls of the royal residence.
At the center of the ward stood Harry Potter, six years and twenty days old, barefoot on a raised glass-paneled examination dais enchanted with diagnostic runes. Though young, his posture was quietly composed. His body...still small and boyish...was visibly lean and firm beneath the sleeveless white cotton training top and lightweight navy track shorts provided by the royal trainers. The Soulstone of the Bound, warm and pulsing, rested just beneath his shirt's neckline, its soft golden light brushing against his chest in steady rhythm. Though hidden from view, it resonated subtly with the presence of his bound.
Around him, a gathered circle of professionals observed and documented. Healer Alaric Montgomery, senior representative of St. Mungo's Department of Arcane Physiology, tapped his wand against a floating golden scroll as scanning glyphs danced across the glass floor. Beside him, Dr. Florence Halloway, Chief Royal Pediatrician, reviewed the overlay of a magical-mundane interface system, her analog monitor blinking gently beside an enchanted crystal orb. On the far side of the dais, Master Talwyn Varn, physical trainer of the Queen's Own Arcane Regiment, stood with his arms folded across his chest, his presence like a marble statue waiting to be carved into motion.
Behind a waist-high boundary of magical privacy silk stood the Bound...twenty girls, each wearing a variation of light workout attire in cotton and magically enchanted fibers. The Bands of Eternity on their left wrists shimmered faintly, their golden inscriptions reacting to Harry's presence like a compass to magnetic north.
Fleur leaned against the railing, eyes narrowed with quiet calculation. "He's different again. Stronger. Even since last week." Hermione, notebook already half-filled with notes and diagrams, nodded quickly. "It's in the way he stands. His balance is correcting faster than it should for a child his age." Gabrielle, perched beside Susan and Alicia, tilted her head. "It's like his body knows what it's supposed to become."
The glass under Harry's feet shimmered once more, and Alaric raised his wand. "Final reading complete." The golden projection above the dais solidified into a detailed three-dimensional rendering of Harry's current form. The model turned slowly, layers peeling back to reveal musculature, bone density, and magical core flow. A hush fell over the chamber.
"He is fifty-five pounds in total mass," Dr. Halloway said, adjusting her glasses, "with forty-seven pounds in lean muscle and only eight pounds of fat. That's… impossible for his age without artificial enhancement. But we've confirmed: no potions. No magical injections. This is all natural growth."
"It's an accelerated adaptation," Montgomery muttered in awe. "The Soul-Bond isn't just sharing power...it's rebuilding him. Every part of him is tuned for resilience and projection. Look at the density of the muscle fibers...structured like a teenage athlete. But more than that...his core…"
The model zoomed inward to the center of Harry's chest, where the projection of his magical core appeared as a bright, pulsing orb. Glyphs spun around it, forming geometric patterns that grew in complexity as they expanded.
"It's ten times the size of the average core for a child of his age," Montgomery announced. "And it's stable. It's not just absorbing wild magic...it's being trained from within by the bond." A ripple of stunned silence passed through the professionals. Master Varn broke it first. "Then he needs to train like a soldier. Carefully. Gradually. But seriously."
He stepped forward and handed a sealed parchment dossier to Dr. Halloway, who unrolled it for the room to see. A comprehensive training regimen revealed itself...segmented into color-coded schedules, each one tailored for specific magical and physical domains.
"Elongated warm-up and wandless meditation routines," Varn explained, "designed to align body and core. Morning sessions include light weight training with free movement...Veela mobility patterns adapted for child-safe routines. Evenings will alternate between focus drills and cardio conditioning. No static magical output yet...but guided internal regulation."
"I included magical breathing exercises and Veela sensory flow training," Mizukume added from the sidelines. "He'll need emotional resonance control as much as strength. Especially with twenty of us tied to his soul." Penelope touched her Band of Eternity, nodding thoughtfully. "We'll help him practice it. He's not alone."
Harry stood still in the center of it all, absorbing the weight of their words...not just the numbers, or the graphs, or the glowing light of the core projection...but the truth within it. "They're saying I'm changing again," he said quietly. "That I'm… growing too fast." Fleur stepped onto the dais, kneeling before him with a steady gaze. "Not too fast, love. Just… fast enough to become who you're meant to be."
Hermione joined her, resting her hand on his shoulder. "We're going to guide you through every step of it. Just like you guide us." Dora grinned and ruffled his hair gently. "And if you need to take breaks, we'll sneak you chocolate and hide you in the library." A soft laugh broke the solemn air, and even Master Varn cracked a smile.
As the model of Harry's body faded from the air, and the parchment scroll of his training plan was copied and archived, the glow of the Soulstone beneath Harry's shirt pulsed once more, in rhythm with the silent vow taking root in every heart present: He would not walk the path alone.
Date: Monday, July 13th, 1987
Time: 10:10 AM
Location: Enchanted Ritual Grove, Royal Magical Reserve Grounds, Windsor Forest, Berkshire, England
The grove was alive with magic older than most nations. Thick-trunked oaks ringed a glade of pristine white stone tiles, polished and inscribed with circular runes etched by the founders of Hogwarts themselves. Morning light filtered through the leafy canopy above, and the warm summer breeze gently rustled the embroidered banners representing the Soul-Bound...twenty in total...fluttering in place as if sensing what was to come.
At the center of the ritual circle stood Harry Potter, barefoot, shirtless, and steady. The Soulstone of the Bound nestled against his chest glowed with a rich golden warmth beneath a thin linen tunic draped across his shoulders. Though only seven years old, his body bore the form of focused strength, a result of over a year of guided training, meditation, and the unwavering love of those bonded to him.
The full Soul-Bound had assembled around him in a wide semicircle...witches to the left, magical beings to the right...all bearing the Bands of Eternity around their left wrists, their golden Veela-script inscriptions quietly gleaming in the morning sun. To one side stood Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, holding a sealed packet of Animagus documentation scrolls for Harry and each of the Bound.
Four senior witches from the Animagus Registry...all clad in violet-blue robes of their office...stood in position, surrounding the ritual array with wands outstretched. Their expressions were grim with focus, knowing this variation of the Veela-Enhanced Animagus Reflection Ritual was new… and potentially unprecedented. The runes shimmered softly beneath Harry's feet, prepared to reveal the deepest truth of his form...not only his natural magical affinity but the creatures his soul could assume.
In the front row of observers, Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Diana, and Lady Amelia Bones sat with proper regal bearing, though even their poised expressions gave way to barely concealed anticipation. At their sides were Marc and Apolline Delacour, holding their daughters' hands, and Henry Greengrass, flanked by his wife and a quietly protective Mr. Granger, whose SAS service uniform made him stand out among the cloaked and robed magical elite. Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall watched from opposite ends of the clearing, wands at their sides, their eyes glinting with unspoken knowledge and growing awe. Amelia lifted her wand high. "Begin."
With a burst of silver light, the ritual circle activated. Ancient Veela script glowed to life across the stone floor as the air grew heavier, electric. The four Registry witches chanted in harmony, and a dome of ethereal magic descended slowly over Harry. The Soulstone at his chest flared brightly in response, casting its warmth outward to the entire circle. And then… it began.
One by one, seventeen distinct forms appeared around Harry in rings of golden illusion, rotating slowly like celestial bodies. Audible gasps echoed throughout the grove as each form shimmered into being, each projection more astounding than the last. "I-I… I don't believe it," whispered one of the Registry witches, her voice unsteady. "Seventeen… not one, not two… seventeen."
"Bloody hell," muttered Dora with wide eyes, "he's got more forms than a Quidditch lineup." The illusions solidified and came to a gradual stop, each glowing with an aura of primal magic. Harry's eyes widened as he turned in place, drawn to each of his Animagus forms by instinct alone. The air grew warmer with each step he took toward a creature, and when he neared one, the magic shimmered and pulsed as if the creature itself recognized him.
Among them stood the Hungarian Horntail Dragon, its black scales iridescent, wings extending proudly from its back...massive and distinct from the forelimbs. It was over four feet taller than any of the Bound, towering in quiet majesty. The dragon's form turned toward Katarina, the magical draconic hybrid, and bowed its massive head, nuzzling her shoulder. She didn't flinch. She smiled. "That one," Katarina whispered, placing her hand on the dragon's muzzle. "He is mine."
Nearby, a graceful, golden-furred Nine-Tailed Kitsune flicked its tails and padded toward Mizukume and Ahri, who stood close together. The magical fox circled them once before resting its head against both girls at once. Mizukume reached out and stroked its fur, tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes. "I can feel it," she murmured. "His soul touches mine here."
The mythical list continued: the radiant form of a Phoenix, wings aglow with ethereal flame; a Mermaid, tail shimmering in sea-glass hues; a Thunderbird, crackling with stored storms; the Nemean Lion, its golden mane and impossible weight reflecting the strength of his human frame; and even a massive Basilisk, its eyes closed in serenity but power coursing through every scale. Last, a proud and thundering Minotaur loomed at the edge of the circle, snorting and calm, its aura that of the steady protector.
Gasps and whispers grew as the Registry witches documented each in stunned silence. Yet more forms remained...less magical, but no less impressive.
The Northwestern Wolf...massive and dominant, standing seven feet at the shoulder...prowled the inner circle. With piercing green eyes and a coat of silver-black fur, it radiated raw presence. Close behind, the powerful outlines of an Indian Leopard, a North American Cougar, a Siberian Tiger, and a Jaguar paced in silence. Three birds of prey soared above the circle...Peregrine Falcon, Great Harpy Eagle, and a snowy Owl...joined by a sleek and lightning-fast Cheetah, which watched from afar, its amber eyes locked on Harry's real form.
Amelia slowly opened the folder she held. One by one, enchanted parchment scrolls unfurled with glowing ink and officially stamped diagrams of Harry's revealed forms. She took a breath and began to distribute matching sets to the Bound.
But the shock came again...when each witch received her Animagus profile… they did not receive one form, but seventeen. Female versions of Harry's own. Hermione, Fleur, Dora, Gabrielle, Susan, Penny, Daphne, Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Cho, Padma, Parvati, Sue Li, Lavender, and Pansy...each one bore the same forms, matching Harry in nature and essence. And each magical creature form connected specifically to those whose blood or nature mirrored them...Elana, Katarina, Ahri, and Mizukume...they too found their bonded soul mirrored in these forms.
"No," Amelia whispered, staring at her own notes. "This ritual was supposed to show one form. Magic does not gift new ones. Unless…", "Unless the magic of the bond itself rewrote what was possible," Minerva finished, her voice reverent. "This is more than reflection. This is resonance."
Harry turned to look at the girls, the air shimmering with the residue of the revelation. "Seventeen… for each of you. One form for each of us." "And the last four," Fleur whispered, stepping forward, her fingers brushing the side of his face, "they'll come when they're ready. When the rest of our bond is whole." A long silence fell over the grove...filled not with fear, but with awe. Harry Potter, age seven, bearer of seventeen Animagus forms, stood at the center of his soul-bound circle. The impossible had occurred...and no one, magical or mundane, could deny it.
Date: Thursday, September 24th, 1987
Time: 2:00 PM
Location: Royal Magical Education Hall, South Wing, Buckingham Palace, London, United Kingdom
The room was a marvel of magical craftsmanship and vision. Once a rarely used council chamber nestled within the South Wing of Buckingham Palace, it had been transfigured and enhanced into a full-scale simulated Wizengamot debate chamber, complete with raised tiers of seating, enchanted voting stones, and a hovering magical display showing bloodline crests, case summaries, and historical references. The rich mahogany walls were inlaid with ancestral runes of justice and honor, shimmering faintly in hues of silver, gold, and deep royal blue.
This simulation chamber had been designed and constructed over the course of six weeks by Elana Hogwarts, with her elegant, ancient magic shaping the foundations; Hermione Granger, whose encyclopedic knowledge of law and order structured the legal simulations; and Daphne Greengrass, whose command of pureblood custom, neutral tone, and icy control made her the ideal arbiter of magical aristocracy. Together, they had created an institution within a sanctuary...a place where Harry James Potter could begin to hone one of his most powerful future tools: his voice.
Harry, now seven years and two months old, sat straight-backed behind a dark wood lectern. Though his body was still young, his presence had begun to shift noticeably. He wore a custom-fitted navy robe lined in silver thread, stitched to reflect both royal and magical heritage. Beneath his robes, the Soulstone of the Bound rested against his heart, hidden but never silent. It pulsed gently with each beat of his heart, reflecting his calm but focused energy. Around him sat the Bound, filling the tiers of the gallery, each wearing robes of their own design...some in traditional House colors, others in custom magical fabrics adapted for training, all bearing the Bands of Eternity on their left wrists.
Elana stood behind the central podium, her presence regal, her long silver-gold hair tied in a high veil-knot that flowed like woven starlight. She raised her hand, and the room stilled instantly. "Begin simulation," she intoned, and the enchanted runes embedded within the floor flared to life.
Floating at the heart of the chamber appeared the day's scenario: "Case 72 ... The Inheritance of the Wandless: Should Muggleborns without ancestral magic be granted equal claim to Wand-Right under the revised Blood-Inheritance Act?" Below the headline were floating summaries of precedent rulings, leading opinions, and references to existing bloodline codices.
Daphne's clear voice followed. "The Defense speaks first. Lord Harry Potter, heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter, you may proceed." Harry stood, hands resting on the edge of the polished oak stand, his green eyes scanning the glowing runes. He took a breath. "I speak in defense of fairness," he said calmly, but with growing weight. "Inheritance does not begin with blood...it begins with magic. The wand chooses the wizard not based on bloodline, but on resonance. The right to bear a wand is not an aristocratic ornament...it is a reflection of magical capacity and purpose." In the observation tiers, Hermione beamed proudly. "Yes, Harry. Argue precedent. Push tradition without insulting it."
Harry continued, his voice gaining strength. "The Blood-Inheritance Act of 1657 stated that Wand-Rights were a matter of blooded magic...but it did not define what constitutes a magical bloodline. Later amendments...like the Filch Clause of 1792...restricted rights only after political pressure from collapsing pureblood estates."
There was a ripple of quiet approval from Susan, Penny, and Cho, each nodding from their seats. In the magical creature section, Ahri rested her chin on her hand, watching Harry with a fox-like grin. Mizukume leaned slightly toward her. "He's learning how to bend the room to his pace."
Fleur, arms folded and expression thoughtful, whispered to Gabrielle, "He speaks as if he were born to rule the chamber." Gabrielle smiled and nodded. "He was, Fleur." On cue, Padma Patil stood in opposition, reading her scripted counterpoint. "But if we remove all ancestral metrics, where do we draw the line between magical and mundane?"
Harry tilted his head and replied without pause, "The line was never meant to separate worth. Only to preserve access. But now, we have access. The bonded, the heirs, the new guard. We redefine the line...by drawing it around those who feel the call of magic, not those born into it."
Daphne, ever composed, watched him carefully, her arms crossed and lips unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was slow, precise. "Simulation complete. Review of tone: formal. Argument: strong, emotionally engaged, backed by historical precedent. Recommendation: elevate case strategy to include alliance-building statements and layered policy solutions." Harry smiled faintly and gave a respectful nod. "I'll work on it."
Elana stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're not just learning to argue. You're learning to speak to power. And one day, you'll speak as power. But it must come from here..." she tapped her own chest above her heart, "...never from here alone." Her fingers moved to her brow.
The Soulstone beneath Harry's tunic glowed faintly, as though echoing her sentiment. As the chamber's magic dimmed and the simulations ended, Hermione clapped twice. "That was excellent! Tomorrow, I'll introduce a scenario involving Gringotts inheritance disputes and magical debt." Dora groaned. "Ugh, goblin law. Can I just blast something instead?" "You may not," Penelope smirked. "But you can take the role of magical security enforcement." Katie grinned. "Yes! Dora with the wand and badge!"
As laughter and conversation swirled among the Bound, Harry looked around the chamber...at the space his lovers had built for him, the lessons he was learning, the power that was slowly awakening within him. This wasn't just study. It was preparation.
Date Range: Winters of 1987 to 1991
Location(s): Royal Magical Wing, Hogwarts Castle (Secret Visits), Children's French Veela Court (excluded from this chapter), and the Mind of Elana Hogwarts
Snow had long since blanketed the Scottish Highlands when the first of Harry's hidden visits began. The thick winter cloaks worn by the Soul-Bound girls...fur-lined, House-accented, enchanted against frost...rustled softly as they stepped across the torchlit corridors of Hogwarts Castle, led by one child whose very soul was being shaped by the magic of stone and shadow, fire and memory.
Harry Potter, now steadily growing through his eighth and ninth years, never entered the castle as a guest, not truly. Hidden beneath powerful concealment enchantments cast by Elana Hogwarts herself...his bound and the living soul of the castle...he walked its ancient halls as an heir returning to a home long awaiting his touch. He wore the Soulstone of the Bound around his neck beneath his woolen robes, and the pulse of its golden light seemed to echo in rhythm with the heartbeat of the castle itself.
At first, he had only read the Codex of the Founders, gifted to him the previous winter...a leather-bound relic inscribed with the personal philosophies and reflections of Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. Four different lives, four different souls, all united by a dream so powerful it lingered centuries beyond death. The Codex did more than instruct. It conversed. Its pages moved of their own accord, revealing entries as Harry's spirit matured.
From Gryffindor, he learned: "Bravery is not the absence of fear, but the will to stand for another when it would be easier to flee." From Hufflepuff: "Loyalty is not blindly given. It is chosen, earned, and in its purest form… freely offered." From Ravenclaw: "Wisdom is the hunger to understand that which humbles us. Intellect without humility is a sword without a scabbard." From Slytherin: "Ambition is the fire of the soul. It can burn a kingdom...or illuminate a future...depending on whose hands carry the torch." But in the end it was not just words, it was action.
Guided by Elana, who could reach him from anywhere within the castle or his mind, Harry began training in Castle Magic...the rituals tied not to wands or spells alone, but to presence, awareness, connection. During holiday breaks and quiet summer intervals, when he wasn't attending Veela ceremonies in France, he stood alone in the Grand Staircase chamber and felt the heartbeat of the school.
"I can hear it," he whispered once to Elana through their mental bond. She responded in a voice only he could hear, one that resonated behind his ribs, not in his ears. "It is not the castle you hear. It is me. And I am the castle, my love."
The others noticed soon after. Hermione, ever the observer, felt it first when she passed a particular corridor and the torches lit without touch. "I didn't cast that," she said, looking around with wide eyes. "It responded to me. Or… maybe to you, Harry."
Then Fleur, during a hidden night visit through the kitchens, watched as the House Elf passage sealed itself behind them. "The wards...they know us now. They remember our scent. Our magic. You've taught the castle to listen." Daphne, eyes narrowed and thoughtful, placed her hand on a carved pillar and whispered, "No… he hasn't taught it. It was waiting for him. He just gave it permission to remember."
With each visit, the connection deepened. Madame Sylvaine Ardent, the Veela historian and Salazar's magical rites expert, had begun personally tutoring Harry in the more obscure rituals hidden within the Slytherin sections of the Codex. It was through her that Harry learned the Whispering Ritual, enabling him to sense the minor enchantments sealed in centuries-old stones. With Elana's silent guidance, he began awakening them...lanterns that only lit for the blood of the Founders, paths that bent around his feet, portraits that bowed their frames as he passed.
The castle responded to him. The halls didn't echo for Harry...they welcomed. The wards didn't test...they wrapped around him like a second skin. Even the portraits spoke in lower tones when he entered a room, aware of his growing connection.
By late 1990, when Harry had reached the age of nine and a half, the signs were undeniable. Doors no longer required passwords...they opened to his hand. Passageways once sealed to all but headmasters opened with no more than his breath. When he placed his hand on the cool stones of the Great Hall, the room fell still. Candles held their flame. Time… paused.
And then, it happened. One evening, walking alone beneath his concealment with Elana whispering through their bond, Harry reached the center of the Founder's Hall. He placed a hand upon the rune-forged crest embedded in the floor and whispered, "I'm not ready. But I want to be."
The magic surged around him, not in flame or sound, but in quiet, soul-deep warmth. The air shimmered, and Elana's voice reached him in full, her tone not as a guide… but as the castle itself. "Then let it be known: The Heir has come home. And I, Hogwarts, remember his name."
The other Bound, even those not present, felt it in their hearts and wrists. The Bands of Eternity glowed. The Soulstone pulsed like a second heart. And though Harry did not yet wear a crown, carry a wand of legend, or sit upon a throne of stone, from that moment forward, Hogwarts Castle itself knew him as something more than a boy. It knew him as Lord Hogwarts.
Date Range: Summer of 1988 to Summer of 1991
Primary Location: Château Céleste, Southeastern France - Seat of the Children's French Veela Court
The Château Céleste stood as a silent guardian among the lavender hills of southeastern France, its alabaster towers wrapped in cascading silks and open-air balconies that shimmered beneath the endless summer sky. Here, magic was not cast...it was lived. Here, the flame of the Veela soul danced with ancient dignity, and by 1988, one boy had been welcomed into that sacred heart as no outsider ever had before.
Harry Potter, still young but quickly growing, had become a constant presence at the Court during summers not spent in training at Hogwarts or in state affairs at Buckingham Palace. Always accompanied by Fleur and Gabrielle, his ever-constant guides and protectors within Veela culture, Harry entered the world of ritual with humility...and a soul that matched the fire of their people.
He wore the ceremonial white and gold tunic reserved for male Veela consorts during formal rites...lightweight and sleeveless, tied at the waist with a crimson sash. Beneath his tunic, pressed against his chest and hidden from all but the bonded, rested the Soulstone of the Bound, its warm golden glow reflecting the pulse of his spirit. Around him, the Bound witches moved freely through the courtyard, their Bands of Eternity catching the morning sun as they watched and occasionally joined in the celebrations of their Veela sisters.
It was Fleur who trained him first in the deeper arts: posture, flow, the deliberate grace of Veela body language. She was demanding yet gentle, sharp in her corrections but always with a smile. "You must let your aura speak before your mouth ever does," she would say, shaping his shoulders with her hands. "The words are secondary. Presence is everything."
It was Gabrielle who taught him how to interpret the emotions behind the gestures...when a flicked wrist meant anger masked as grace, or when a step too close during a flame dance hinted at attraction or challenge. She would hum during practice, a soft melodic tune, her voice carrying a harmony only the Veela truly heard. "They will feel your truth," she told him, "before they ever ask for it."
By the summer of 1989, Harry spoke French as though born to it. He could mimic the delicate tones of the southern dialect and match the poetic cadences that Fleur guided him through in early morning speaking lessons by the reflecting pool. The words flowed from him like inherited memory, untouched by hesitation.
"You sound more Delacour than me," Fleur laughed once, breathless after a recitation. "I sound like you, because I learned from you," Harry had replied, his voice quiet but sincere. From then on, during every formal event...whether seated at the dais beside Fleur and Gabrielle, or delivering ceremonial greetings to the minor Courts and foreign dignitaries...Harry's presence stood equal to royalty. He was seen. And by 1990, Veela children across the Château had begun calling him a name whispered first during a sacred fire dance beneath the solstice moon:
"Le Choisi par la Flamme" ... The One Chosen by Flame. It began with a little girl no older than five, her eyes wide and golden as she clutched Gabrielle's hand during a summer celebration. "Il est celui que la flamme aime (He is the one the flame loves)," she had said simply. "The flame chose him."
And so the name grew..."Le Prince Enflammé". The Flaming Prince. First spoken in quiet tones by visiting Beauxbatons officials, then by members of the Veela Coven, and finally by members of the wider French magical community. Not as a title of office, but of spirit. The flame did not crown Harry...it welcomed him. And he, in turn, gave it his all.
By 1991, Harry could step into the ceremonial ring blindfolded and feel the flame paths beneath his feet...intangible lines of old Veela magic that marked sacred ground. He danced with Fleur in perfect sync, no steps missed, the silver fire swirling at their heels. During dream-sharing ceremonies, he stood at the center of the woven dreamweb and guided lost Veela children gently home, his voice calm and warm within the ether.
"I don't understand how I can do it," he once whispered to Mizukume during a twilight ritual. "Because you don't try to control the flame," Mizukume said, her fox ears twitching as she smiled. "You just…are the flame." Harry felt the truth of it in his bones. He didn't command the Veela culture...he embodied its unspoken values: the balance of beauty and power, grace and will, the fierce loyalty and boundless depth of emotion that came from the flame-born soul.
The Soulstone against his chest flared each time he danced, each time he stood in place for another's pain, joy, or transformation. The castle had called him Lord, yes...but here, in this place of warmth and wind and firelight, he was something more. He was family, He was a prince and He was the flame returned to them.
Date: Sunday, July 31st, 1988
Time: 6:15 PM
Location: Royal Magical State Hall, Buckingham Palace, London, United Kingdom
Twilight draped Buckingham Palace in golden hues, the last of the day's sunlight catching on polished marble columns and enchanted glass domes as the Royal Magical State Hall came alive with the gentle hum of arcane energy. The hall...normally reserved for select international summits and ceremonial enchantments...had been transformed under the personal direction of Queen Elizabeth II and her magical advisors. This was no state banquet or treaty signing.
This was Harry Potter's eighth birthday...his formal unveiling to magical society. Wards woven into the chamber pulsed faintly with golden-blue runes, casting a soft radiance upon the gathering of elite guests seated along raised balconies and velvet-clad benches. Among them were select members of the British Wizengamot, a carefully chosen group of royal observers, and distinguished delegates from the three most respected magical institutions abroad: Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Castelobruxo of Brazil, and Mahoutokoro of Japan.
Among all these dignitaries, only two factions knew what to expect: the delegation from Beauxbatons, and the noble representatives of the French Veela Court. The rest...British officials and foreign allies alike...still held onto outdated assumptions, shaped by whispers of Harry Potter's early life. Many expected a frail, quiet child. A wounded symbol. A boy in need of guardianship. They were about to learn the truth. The music shifted subtly, and the tall doors at the far end of the chamber opened without a creak. And there he stood.
Harry James Potter, age eight, 4 feet 8 inches tall, 70 pounds, lean and lightly ripped with the beginnings of a warrior's shape carved into his frame. His dark hair was combed neatly to the side, and his emerald eyes glinted with a calm clarity. He wore a tailored magical silver and navy dress uniform, bespoke to the royal style, its lines sharp and precise. Three embroidered sigils shimmered across his chest in silver thread: House Potter, the Peverell Crest, and the Crest of Hogwarts, each pulsing faintly in layered magic.
Beneath his uniform, the Soulstone of the Bound glowed beneath the fabric...a soft, ever-present thrum of golden light that many would sense but not see. It beat like a second heart, a declaration without words. Those who understood enchantment...who had studied magical bonds and soulcraft...began to stir in their seats.
Behind Harry, in perfect synchronicity, entered the Bound. Twenty-one young girls...witches and magical beings alike...stepped forward in radiant ceremonial gowns, each a reflection of elegance and power. Their dresses, individually crafted but united by design, shimmered with the colors of their essence...Veela silver-fire, phoenix-gold, deep arcane sapphire, and midnight rose. Each one wore their Band of Eternity on the left wrist, the Ancient Veela script softly glowing in response to the Soulstone's presence.
Hermione moved with the poise of a diplomat, her eyes keen and shoulders square. Fleur and Gabrielle, radiant and ethereal, seemed almost to glide, their Veela heritage lighting the air around them. Dora's expression carried confidence and mischief in equal measure, her hair a proud royal purple. Daphne, Penny, and Susan...pureblood nobility in full bloom...walked like born rulers. Katarina, tall and regal, stood at Harry's left, her hybrid aura tangible like coiled strength. Ahri and Mizukume, fox-like and graceful, stepped just behind Gabrielle, silent but felt. The rest...Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Cho, Lavender, Parvati, Padma, Pansy, and Sue Li...formed a radiant wall of presence behind them, each with their own grace and purpose.
The hall, moments earlier alive with hushed conversation, fell into absolute silence. Not a word. Not a murmur. Just breath held...and awe. Whispers broke through the air only moments later. "He's…not a boy." "What kind of child walks like that?" "That uniform…those sigils." "That presence. Is that…royal magic?"
Lord Greymount of the Wizengamot leaned toward his neighbor and muttered, "He carries magic like a grown lord. That is no symbol. That is a force." A scholar from Mahoutokoro, robes lined in sakura silk, bowed her head slightly. "That boy… he is trained. And more than that...his aura is stabilized. That only happens with true soul harmonization."
A dignitary from Castelobruxo, long skeptical of British magical systems, frowned but did not look away. "He has bonded souls around him…twenty-one, if I'm reading the core echo properly. And they are synchronized."
But it was the Beauxbatons representative, Madame Laroux, who smiled knowingly and turned to a stunned English observer. "Le Prince Enflammé," she said softly. "We told you he was not what you expected." The Veela Court members...some with silver hair and eyes that glowed faintly like Fleur and Gabrielle's...stood quietly, eyes shining. The youngest among them...those of the Children's Veela Court...offered tiny curtsies and nodded in recognition. To them, Harry was not a prince of politics, but of flame and bond.
Harry paused at the center of the dais, surrounded by the girls who had become his soul's family. He turned slowly, facing the assembly, and then bowed...not low like a child, but firm and measured like a sovereign acknowledging his court.
"I thank you all for coming," he said, his voice neither rehearsed nor innocent. It carried depth, shaped by ceremony and confidence. "Today is not a performance. It is a beginning. I stand not as the child you imagined, but as the one shaped by bond, trial, and choice. And I do not stand alone."
As he turned slightly to gesture to the Bound, the Soulstone pulsed visibly through his uniform, a golden light that warmed the air around him. The Bound stepped forward in unified grace, standing shoulder to shoulder behind him. Together, they were not a curiosity. Not a scandal.
They were a court. They were a legacy in motion, and Harry Potter, at eight years old, was no longer a name whispered behind closed doors. He was the rising flame the magical world had only just begun to see.
Date: Thursday, August 4th, 1988
Time: 11:30 AM
Location: Horse Guards Building & Parade Grounds, Westminster, London, United Kingdom
The sun was high and brilliant above the parade grounds of Horse Guards, casting long shadows beneath the white stone arches and bronze memorials that flanked the wide-open space. The summer crowd had gathered as it always did...tourists snapping photographs, children pressed against cordons, soldiers in full ceremonial dress guarding the perimeter of tradition. But beneath the surface, this was no ordinary day.
Behind enchanted viewing blinds atop the Horse Guards Building, high-ranking Royal officials, select magical observers from the Magical SAS, and Queen Elizabeth II herself stood watching silently. Beside her, Amelia Bones, in full black robes lined with silver Ministry braiding, held a clipboard marked Scenario Alpha-Gold: Royal Magical Simulation...Hostile Extraction & Counter-Assassination Protocols.
The goal was simple in theory: simulate a live assassination attempt on the heir of the Soul-Bound...Harry Potter...while he and his Bond moved through an unaware civilian crowd. The Royal Magical Response Teams and Long Guard were to react without revealing the magical world, neutralize the hostile "actors," and extract the principal and all twenty-one soul-bound girls without a single casualty or exposure. What unfolded, however, was far more than a test.
At precisely 11:33 AM, Harry Potter stepped onto Horse Guards Parade through the north arch flanked by two Muggle royal attachés. He wore a formal short-cut navy jacket with silver trim, fitted charcoal trousers, and polished black shoes. The House of Potter crest was stitched on his breast in shining thread, and just beneath the jacket's silk collar, the Soulstone of the Bound radiated a subtle but constant glow. His gait was relaxed...but with intent.
The Bound followed. Clothed in light summer dresses and tailored walking robes...each color-coded subtly for identification by the Royal Guard...they formed a loose arc around Harry, moving with the ease of practiced training. Though blending with the crowd, their Bands of Eternity flickered momentarily in the morning sun, barely visible to the untrained eye.
"I still don't like doing this in front of this many people," Susan murmured, fingers flicking a protective charm just beneath the hem of her sleeve. "I'm watching sectors three and four," Dora whispered, eyes scanning a distant café. "There's a shadow too still on that awning. Could be one of the actors." Fleur stepped slightly to Harry's left. "Stay fluid, mon cœur. Let them come. We dance better when the music begins." Harry nodded quietly, lips unmoving. "I can feel them watching. Both the crowd… and the ones beneath it."
At that exact moment, a shimmer in the crowd signaled the breach. Simulated "hostiles"...former Royal SAS operatives disguised in layered glamour and armed with enchanted training rounds...broke from the edges. Two dove toward the left flank, one aimed for Harry directly from the far vendor line, and a fourth, cloaked, flared a red signal wand from the rooftops.
What happened next was studied for years afterward. Katarina intercepted the forward charge with a body-pivot worthy of a war-bred predator. The attacker's feet never touched the ground again. Ahri and Mizukume flickered through the air in silver-blurred foxfire, redirecting hostile focus and confusing targeting spells. Daphne and Penny locked arms with Padma, cast synchronized shielding runes across the southern exit, and absorbed three stun curses mid-spin.
Gabrielle, Lavender, and Angelina formed a rotating defensive wall around Harry, their spells linked like a living barrier. And Hermione, holding a compact mirror linked to the Royal Command rune, gave the signal: "Long Guard, go."
In an instant, The Long Guard...clad in charmed dress uniforms over dragonhide, runic plates glowing faintly beneath illusion glamours...emerged from invisibility across rooftops, shadows, and crowd pockets. Spells laced with crowd-quieting charms and time-slowing wards cascaded outward in a cone, muffling panicked cries and freezing the simulations in a stasis net that kept the public unaware. Within twenty-nine seconds, all threats were contained. Within thirty-five, Harry and the Bound were in a secure formation and walking toward the South Gate under a cloaking dome. By forty-eight, the simulation was called a flawless extraction.
High above, Amelia dropped her clipboard. "Not a scratch," she whispered. "Not one breach. Crowd concealment remained stable the entire time." Queen Elizabeth said nothing at first. She watched as Harry, flanked now by Dora, Fleur, Hermione, and Gabrielle, exited the field with the kind of composure most adult officers could only aspire to. Then she turned to her aides.
"Begin immediate review of Magical Response protocols. The Long Guard is to be upgraded. The Bound's formations are to be modeled for magical embassy and sovereign escort planning. And I want a permanent magical detachment assigned to Horse Guards." There were no arguments.
Below, Harry adjusted the collar of his uniform, glancing down briefly at the Soulstone glowing gently beneath it. "They didn't come for me," he said softly. "They came for all of us." Gabrielle slipped her hand into his. "And they never even got close." As they returned to the palace for debrief, it was no longer a question of whether the world was ready for Harry Potter and his Bound. The question was whether the world could ever be prepared.