Dana slept soundly that night. For the first time since being imprisoned in Azkaban, he had experienced such uninterrupted, refreshing rest.
As he drifted deeper, his mind carried him back to his childhood home at 5 Livingston Town. Thanks to the uniqueness of his bloodline, he recognized that this was a dream—and yet, it felt more real than anything he'd experienced in a long time.
He reached out to grip the doorknob with his five-year-old hand—trembling violently, betraying his weakness. The doormat lay perfectly in place, so pristine that even someone with severe OCD would praise it.
The older Dana's heart raced with excitement, longing to enter. But the younger version refused—the small hand pulled away, and the child backed off, unsteady as if his legs couldn't support him.
From behind, the sound of a door creaking open pierced the silence. A warm embrace followed.
"Dana!" came Anna's voice, tinged with sadness.
"You're so sick," she said. "Why are you running around?"
At that moment, the older Dana remembered how gravely ill he had been in childhood—on the brink of death.
In the dream, the younger Dana's voice quavered, "Mom, I'm dying. I don't want to make you sad. If I die in front of you, you—I… I…"
Anna kneeled and gently turned her son to face her. She met his weak gaze with loving firmness.
"Leaving me would make me even sadder," she whispered. "And if you still wanted to leave… why would you come back?"
In that tender moment, older Dana drank in the beauty of his mother's face—her warmth and strength filled him with a rush of emotion. Was this a reward for his revenge on Donna earlier today?
Still shaken, the young boy stammered, "I… forgot a change of clothes."
Anna laughed softly, kissed his cheek, and said, "If you miss Mom, just say it—I don't need some silly excuse!"
She picked him up and carried him inside.
"Don't overthink things, little one. Every child goes through this—just get through it, and you'll be fine."
Older Dana held the memory of that embrace, feeling a sting in his nose—as if the scene were real. Then the dream shifted.
Now, Anna stood at the foot of his childhood bed. The sunlight cut across the room—but she stood in its path, haloed in golden light. She didn't raise her wand to tell him to sleep. Instead, she whispered in a low, resolute voice:
"Sleep, my child. You'll be alright."
She placed a tender hand on his chest as he lay down. Then she began to chant in Latin:
Tempus sine vestigio, fatum est inordinatum…
(Time without trace, fate is disordered…)
As her spell washed over him, the young Dana's eyelids fluttered shut. And at that moment, older Dana's mind jolted awake.
He snapped himself back to the present—lying within Merlin's Secret Treasure, surrounded by the glow of the gerebato magic crystals. No crisis had awoken him. Instead, it was Anna's spell. He knew it.
Divination.
He understood instantly. This was the divination spell found in Merlin's notebook—the one capable of altering fate, but at a terrible cost: over ninety percent of the caster's magic and a tremendous amount of blood essence.
That explained everything. His mother had looked so drained for two long years after his illness. He'd assumed she was ill—but now understood it was backlash from that devastating magic.
Dana closed his eyes, reflecting on memories dredged up by the dream. How had he missed such signs before? His mother's power—before he was five—it had been phenomenal, easily ten times that of Lucius. Without using this divination, even Donna Avery, John Flint, and Sally Avery would have stood no chance against her.
Yet despite such strength, she lay powerless that night—unable to scream for help from the window. Even a powerful witch like her couldn't withstand two wizards and an adult squib as his father was slain by Death Eaters soon after his birth.
He thought of his mother so fragile—dragging her exhausted body to the Ministry of Magic, fighting to get him out of prison. His heart ached.
Avalon.
Even as he sought vengeance, he couldn't forget his true goal. The search for Avalon must continue.
He lay back and wondered—would his dreams of his mother return tonight? But he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. It was past midnight now. Finally, he summoned the familiar parchment:
"The path from Merlin to Avalon."
This time, parchment after parchment emerged, but each bore the same cold verdict:
Path one: destroyed.
Path two: destroyed.
Path three: portal not in original position, searching…
Portal found, beginning summoning…
Suddenly it stopped.
"No more parchment?" Dana frowned. "Why is my Golden Finger acting like a system?"
Had the main account gone offline? Was some AI running this now?
At that thought, new parchment unfurled:
Summoning failed, obstructed by power originating from Avalon.
Portal address: Underground Whitehall, London.
His breath caught. Underground Whitehall? That's where the Ministry of Magic lies—beneath the seats of government, among the Foreign Office, Home Office, Ministry of Defence. Whitehall itself is a metonym for the British executive. The Ministry of Magic lives right beneath it.
The portal to Avalon had shifted there.
Dana thought of the curtained archway in the Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries—that fateful portal where Sirius fell after the Killing Curse.
Could that be the way to Avalon?
Uncertainty, Bone-chilling fear.
No one who entered that portal had ever returned.
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