The house stood on the edge of the world.
Nestled in a forgotten fold of the Scottish Highlands, shielded by enchantments so old they pulsed faintly through the air, it was a relic of another age—one where magic wasn't governed by laws or titles but flowed like instinct, unbound. The place had no name, no signature on any magical registry. To most, it simply didn't exist.
But the phoenix knew the way.
Elise stepped cautiously through the ivy-draped threshold. His boots clicked gently against the ancient stone floor as warm air pressed around him, scented with old wood, parchment, and the faintest trace of cypress and ash.
The creature—Aethon, whose plumage shimmered in a hue deeper than flame, redder than ruby—perched solemnly on the mantle, talons wrapped around a scorched beam as if it had done so a thousand times before.
The room felt lived in—recently. Cups still sat on the shelves. Curtains swayed gently though no wind passed. It was as if time had hesitated here, waiting for someone's return.
Elise drifted toward the oak chest beneath the arched window.
It opened with a whisper.
Inside: a locket engraved with an unfamiliar crest—a raven in flight, encircled by twelve stars. Beneath it lay aged parchment, velvet-bound journals, sealed scrolls bound with silver thread. One journal drew his eye. A blue ribbon peeked from the side.
When he opened it, ink flared like magic awakening.
Entry 17 – The Night of the Eclipse
"They called me an anomaly. They said I didn't belong in the world they had built—one of structure, balance, obedience. But magic doesn't follow their boundaries. Magic follows will. And that is what they fear."
He turned the page.
Entry 18 – The Council's Warning
"They want my power… or they want it caged. Dumbledore believes I'm safe in the Highlands, that the wards are strong enough. But they are not. The Council sees beyond wards. They see through time."
"If something happens to me, I pray Aethon carries what I could not give—my voice, my memories. My child must decide, one day, what they believe. And who they become."
A soft cry pierced the air—Aethon.
The phoenix glided from the mantle and landed beside Elise, its eyes burning with a kind of wisdom that was painful to look at directly. The locket around Elise's neck glowed in response.
A memory surged from the core of the room.
It wasn't a vision—it was a truth, trapped in the house's foundations.
He saw her.
His mother, in silhouette, standing before the World Council. Twelve robed figures watched her from thrones carved in obsidian. They called her "Anomaly" like a slur. One raised a wand. Another cast a chain of runes.
But she never begged.
She only looked past them. Toward something—someone—unseen.
"You may try to end me. But what I carry cannot be destroyed. It can only change."
Then came the fire.
Not from her—but from behind her.
Aethon screamed and burst through the Council chamber in a flash of living flame. The vision blurred. Elise staggered back.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Later, as twilight fell across the Highlands, Elise sat beside the fireplace in the ancient house, pages of the journal open across his lap. He'd lit the hearth with a whisper of wandless magic—one he hadn't known he could do. The room responded like it remembered him.
He had read for hours.
He now knew her name.
Selene Vaelith.
A name erased by the Blake family, scrubbed from the records when she married into the noble Slytherin line. A name buried because of shame… or fear.
Her family had been old blood—older than Hogwarts, older than the Ministry. Magic woven not from institutions, but from the primal roots of the earth. She was not merely powerful. She was something they didn't understand.
And that was why she died.
But she had not died alone.
She had poured her last will into Aethon—the last phoenix of her lineage, a creature that now served as vessel and guardian both. Not all her magic had vanished. Not all her voice had faded.
Elise closed the journal and stared into the flames.
So many lies.
So many half-truths from his father. From his House. From the wizarding world itself.
But now he understood.
He was not just the heir of the Blake family. He was also the son of Selene Vaelith—the last Anomaly, the flame they failed to extinguish.
And whatever was coming—whatever the Council still feared—it began with her.
Outside, snow had begun to fall. Aethon soared once around the house, wings casting long shadows across the hills, before perching atop the chimney.
Elise stepped outside, pulling the cloak tighter around him. He looked up, toward the stars, and saw a faint light shimmer across the sky.
A comet, or something like it.
But in his heart, something else stirred—a pull, a whisper.
Not prophecy.
Possibility.
And this time, he would choose what it meant.