The manor's wards dimmed behind him as Void crossed the lane to the Wiltons' cottage. Margaret opened the door before he could knock, a dish towel still in her hands. Her eyes softened, though they flickered once at the new colours threading through his hair.
"You've been busy," she murmured, stepping aside. "Go on—they're waiting in the garden."
Out by the stream, Fred and George were bargaining with a rook over bottlecaps when they spotted him. Fred's jaw dropped."Merlin's socks, look at you! When did you decide to become mysterious and windswept?"
"Unacceptable," George declared. "Absolutely unfair. You've gone and turned handsome while we weren't looking."
Luna, seated cross-legged on the grass with Yue draped over her lap, tilted her head as if studying a painting. "Your eyes are better this way," she said softly. "They look like they were always meant to."
Void inclined his head, letting their words wash over him. His hair caught the light in purple-black strands shot with silver and crimson; his eyes burned deeper than they had a fortnight ago. No glamour—just truth revealed.
"I came to tell you," he said quietly. "I'll be away until term starts. My grandfather wants the time before I go. I'll be back the day before the train."
Fred and George exchanged a look, mischief dimmed by genuine disappointment."That's weeks without you," Fred said."We'll waste away," George added, clutching his chest theatrically.
"You'll survive," Void answered, a shade of dry amusement in his tone.
"We'll do more than survive," Fred promised. "We'll save you a seat—middle carriage, left side, third window."
"Best place for smuggling past Mum's glare," George agreed gravely. "And excellent pastry access."
Luna's gaze lingered on him, serene as the stream beside her. "I'll see you at Christmas," she said. "Not before. The train's for students and their families, and I'm not a student yet. But we'll meet at the break, when the charms are hung."
Something in her tone carried certainty, as though she had already seen it happen.
Void inclined his head again—the smallest gesture, but one they understood.
Margaret called them in for tea, and for a time there was laughter: Fred and George arguing over who owed the rook more trinkets, Luna feeding Yue a strip of smoked fish, Richard raising his mug in mock salute when Void passed by. But when Void rose to go, a hush followed him to the door.
"You'll come back," Margaret said firmly, as if speaking it would make it true.
"I will," Void promised. "The day before term."
He stepped into the lane, the air already shifting with the weight of wards waiting to test him, the keep calling him back to be broken and reforged.
The Healing Chamber
Deep in the fused keep lay a circular room of pale stone, its walls veined with living runes that pulsed like heartbeats. A shallow pool at the centre glowed faint silver, fed by streams of enchanted water from both Merlin's and Morgana's sides of the isle.
Wounds, exhaustion, magical backlash—the pool mended all. Not instantly, but cleanly, without scars. Soul-strain dulled, muscle-tear rewove, magical cores steadied. Yet Red set strict rules: the chamber restores, but it does not excuse carelessness.
It meant Void could be pushed beyond mortal endurance again and again—and rise the next day stronger.
Phase I – Breaking and Building (Days 1–14)
The first two weeks were destruction.
At dawn, Red drove him barefoot over wet grass and jagged stone, lungs burning as wards pressed against his legs like lead. Uphill sprints carried logs whose weight shifted mid-stride, dropping him flat if his grip faltered. He learned to roll on charmed flagstones that bruised without breaking.
Spells came next: Lumos, Nox, Wingardium Leviosa—not until they worked, but until they were perfect, until his wrist no longer twitched and his breath no longer caught. Red hexed him mid-cast, forcing him to finish even while reeling. Protego cracked more often than not; Finite fizzled under pressure. Red only said, "Again," and again Void raised his wand.
At night there was no rest. Red pressed law into his hands: the Statute of Secrecy, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, dusty Wizengamot precedents. Questions came mercilessly."If the Ministry seizes your wand without writ?"Void, teeth clenched: "Demand a receipt. Note grounds. Stall."
Every evening he crawled into the Healing Chamber broken. Every morning he rose steadier.
Phase II – Precision and Endurance (Days 15–28)
"Strength without control is noise," Red told him.
Balance drills on beams thinner than a handspan, slicked with charms so a single misplaced toe sent him crashing down. Climbing sheer walls whose stones shifted under his fingers. Holding defensive stances while stinging jinxes pelted him until sweat blurred his vision.
Spells chained now, one to the next without pause—Stupefy, Expelliarmus, Protego, Impedimenta—not shouted, but woven together like rhythm. Shields no longer shattered; they bent, flexed, redirected. Finite came soundless, stripping charms from the air with a flick.
Evenings brought Hogwarts law and etiquette. The authority of prefects, the caretaker's quiet writ, the peril of pure-blood courtesy ignored. Goblin custom recited until he could not forget it.
By month's end, Void could duel constructs for hours without collapse. When Red hurled a question mid-fight—"How do you refuse a handshake without insult?"—the answer came as swift as his spell: "Bow first. Decline politely. Deflect with formality."
Phase III – Subtlety and Stealth (Days 29–42)
"Win before they see you."
Blindfolded sparring against rope-constructs that struck from silence. Crawling beneath wards that lashed at every mistake. Swimming moats charmed to drag him down until he learned to move with calm, not panic.
His magic grew quieter, sharper. Disillusionment shimmered across his skin, clumsy at first, then sleek as glass. Silencio and Muffliato carried him through drills in silence, while Notice-Me-Not blurred his steps into nothing. Red laid glamours within glamours, forcing Void to pierce them like knots until clarity returned.
Even speech became a weapon. Red made him rehearse oaths until phrasing alone determined who was bound. He learned to answer without answering, to phrase truth so it cut deeper than lies.
By the end of the sixth week, his wand—cherry, Thunderbird feather, Avalon's staff woven into its heart—responded like a nerve, alive with a storm's snap, silent yet undeniable.
Phase IV – The Crucible (Days 43–55)
Red pressed harder.
Combat drills multiplied until Void fought three constructs at once, each striking with near-human cruelty. Illusions haunted the grounds—shadows of attackers, apparitions of fear—forcing him to fight without flinch. When Red himself stepped into the circle, cane striking faster than most wands, Void learned pain in its purest form.
Spells became ambushes: hexes hurled across the dining table, curses searing along library corridors, stunners launched as he woke. He learned to cast half-asleep, to shield while rolling, to disarm even when coughing blood. Red escalated to darker magic—cutting hexes that tore skin, binding curses that bit into bone. Void countered, stripped, refused retaliation unless clean.
Deeper still: cursed tomes and wards layered with compulsion. Red whispered, prodded, laced his voice with subtle pulls. Void fought free, refusing to lean on the Lord Rings. Each night, the Healing Chamber rewove him whole. The memory-scars remained—and sharpened him.
Phase V – Sharpening the Blade (Days 56–58)
At the end, the drills stripped to essence.
On the fifty-sixth day, Red set him against illusions of himself—dozens—forcing him to duel his own movements until precision was absolute.
On the fifty-seventh, endurance: twelve hours of alternating duels, law-tests, etiquette trials, and strain without pause. "Most Aurors break at eight," Red noted. Void did not.
On the fifty-eighth, there was only choice. Red stood in the circle, cane steady, eyes cold. "Whose will decides your path?"
"Mine. Always."
The Thunderbird feather flared; the rings pulsed once in unison. Red lowered his cane. "Then you are ready."
Transformation
When Void walked from the Healing Chamber for the last time, three days before the Hogwarts Express, he was no longer the thin boy who had begun.
He was taller; his shoulders broad; his frame lean and defined—muscle tuned for speed, flexibility, coiled power rather than bulk. His eyes were clear and sharp, will unbending. Influence brushed him like waves on rock and found no hold.
His cherry–Thunderbird wand, fused with Avalon's staff, obeyed with storm-precision. His shields held; his counters struck; his silence cut deeper than shouted curses. On his wrist, the bracelet of Avalon hummed, swallowing every trace and foreign charm, leaving him unseen by those who would hunt.
Even his presence had altered. When he entered a room, the air itself seemed to tighten, wards bending their attention toward him.
Red regarded him that final evening, cane balanced against his hand. "You'll walk into Hogwarts a boy among children. But you are not one of them. Remember that. And never let them forget it."
Void inclined his head, eyes steady. He did not need to answer.
Three nights after Void's request for help, the wards stirred and five figures appeared in the study, small and sharp-eyed, each wearing the pitiful rags their kind had been reduced to by most houses.
"Void," Red said simply, cane resting against the desk. "These are the ones I've chosen. Old bonds; discreet bloodlines. They will bind if you will them."
The house-elves bowed low, but Void lifted a hand. "Stand." His voice was calm, steady, carrying weight from more than lungs. "Listen well. You are not slaves here. You are mine—but not as property. As allies. As followers. As my people.
"My people will not wear rags. You will wear uniforms. You represent me. You will carry yourselves as my hands and my eyes, and you will be known by your dress as mine."
One of them, small with enormous ears that quivered at every word, spoke hesitantly. "Master—sir—we can make clothes. Better than wizard-tailors. For us. For you."
Void inclined his head. "Then show me."
The next day, the fitting began. Measuring tapes darted across Void's frame, snapping around shoulders, chest, waist, arms, legs. He stood straight, patient, wand-light glinting off the faint crimson and silver threading his hair.
The elves conjured fabric in both wizarding tradition and their own craft—thick robes embroidered with sigils, high collars, sweeping hems. Void regarded them, then shook his head.
"Too old," he said flatly. "Too heavy. Awful to wear." He touched a stiff collar. "I will not walk Hogwarts' halls as a relic."
Red's cane tapped once. "And what do you propose?"
"Modern," Void told the elves. "Formal when it must be, but cut clean. A single-breasted jacket with notch lapels, flap pockets, and a two-button front. Black, tailored, sharp. Something I can wear under robes without weight dragging at me. Clothes that show I belong to no House but my own."
They began to smile—strange, small, but real. Fingers flicked, fabric shimmered, and a jacket appeared: clean lines, deep black, structured but fluid. One tugged the sleeves; another adjusted the lapels; a third transfigured the cloth into something softer yet stronger than wool.
Void slipped it on. It fit across the shoulders perfectly, falling in sleek lines. He rolled his shoulders, lifted an arm, turned his wrist—the fabric moved with him, no tug, no stiffness.
"Yes," he said. "This. Robes overtop if needed. But this is mine."
They bowed, not in subservience but in shared pride. "We will make more," they promised. "Uniforms, too. Like the elder," one added, nodding toward Red. "So all will know who we serve."
"Good," Void said. "You are my people. You will stand as such."
Red watched the jacket settle, a faint smile hidden in his moustache. "Hogwarts won't know what's walked through its doors," he murmured.
The Uniforms of House Emrys–Le Fay
Within days they returned to the great hall, each dressed in new garb of their own making, crafted to Void's specifications and steeped in their enchantments.
The base was a deep-black tunic and trousers, tailored sharp but built for movement, cut close without impeding a step or stretch. Over this they wore a single-breasted jacket echoing Void's: notch lapels, two-button front, flap pockets—armour disguised as elegance.
The fabric shimmered faintly in torchlight: a weave of charmed wool and spider-silk, soft as breath yet proof against blade and spell, resistant to stain, enchanted to repair minor tears.
Across the left breast, embroidered in silver and crimson, gleamed the seal of Emrys–Le Fay: the rowan rising at the centre; the serpent coiled at its roots, forming a triskelion; the owl to the right, the raven to the left; the triskelion encircling all beneath faint stars and a crescent moon.
It was not mortal embroidery; the threads pulsed with enchantment—glowing softly when light touched them, dimming to shadow when stealth was needed.
At the cuffs, thin silver piping marked their loyalty. A small waist-chain held tools and pouches charmed to carry more than their size. Their boots were supple dragonhide, dyed black, whisper-quiet on stone.
They looked less like servants and more like a company of sworn retainers—the Household of Emrys–Le Fay.
The Binding Ceremony
They assembled before Void in the council chamber, five in number, jackets gleaming with the seal. They stood straighter than any house-elves he had seen, as if his command had already reshaped their posture.
Red gestured with his cane. "Names, then, for your lord."
"I am Tallen," said the first, bowing. "Keeper of kitchens and hearths. Your table will never want.""I am Maru," said the second. "Ward-binder and scribe. I will tend your seals and tally your ledgers.""I am Silvie," said the third, bowing low. "Seamstress and handmaid. Cloth and needle are mine; I will see your house clothed.""I am Bren," said the fourth, ears twitching. "Gardener and brewer. Your glasshouses and potions will live under my care.""I am Darrin," said the fifth, voice quiet and steady. "Watcher of halls. I will guard the doors no one else sees."
Void inclined his head. "You are mine—but not as slaves. You are my people, bound to me and to this isle. Your hands are my hands; your work, my work. You will wear the seal of Emrys–Le Fay because you represent me. And in this house, no ally bows without reason."
They knelt nonetheless, not from compulsion but by choice.
Void raised his wand. Cherry wood glowed, Thunderbird feather thrummed. He traced the isle's seal in the air—rowan, serpent, owl, raven, triskelion—and pressed it down until it sank into the stone. The hall answered with a low, resonant hum.
"I bind you," he said, voice carrying like law, "to this isle, to this house, to me. Not as chattel, but as oath-bound. You will be safe under my wards; your names known to its stones; your work sheltered by its crest. Betrayal will unmake you; loyalty will exalt you. So I say it. So it is."
Silver fire flared and vanished into their jackets; the embroidery woke and shone. The elves gasped softly as the wards wrapped them, acknowledging rightful stewards.
Red tapped his cane once, satisfied. "Now they are yours. And the isle knows it."
Void regarded them a moment. "Rise. You are not less. You are mine."
They stood, shoulders squared, uniforms gleaming with the house seal—not servants, but sworn retainers of Emrys–Le Fay.