The Emrys Estate - Main Library
The Emrys library was not built for a man but for centuries. It had towering shelves that expanded upward almost infinitely, bound not by stone ceilings but by a dome of shifting light that mirrored whatever sky the reader willed. Dawn could break here while midnight reigned outside. Storms could rage in silence, it worked similarlyto the Hogwarts hall ceiling only this one was much more enchanted.
Tonight, Ambrose had summoned a storm. Clouds swirled overhead, lightning flashing faintly across the enchanted sky like thoughts caught in glass.
At the center of the chamber sat a desk carved from dragonbone, etched with wards older than Hogwarts itself. Parchments sprawled across it in tangled layers. Quills scribbled ceaselessly, translating fragments from Egyptian papyrus, Sumerian scrolls, and Greek runes.
But the true weight of the work rested in a tome so ancient its leather cover felt alive with memory. Across its face, letters shimmered faintly in archaic Greek:
"On the Dominion of Horkios."
Ambrose turned its brittle pages with reverence. The diagrams within were not mere spells - they were pacts: concentric circles bound to mountaintops, annotations of lightning strikes marked not as attacks but as responses, invocations not of command but of covenant.
Horkios, the ancients had called him. Wizards remembered him as stormbringer. Muggles rebranded him as Zeus. But within Emrys records he was something else entirely - the first to treat the weather as kin.
Ambrose murmured a line inscribed by an ancestor's hand:
"He who binds the wind binds himself. He who frees it may walk with it."
He raised his wand above a small candle burning at his desk.
"Katagi."
At first, nothing. Then — a flicker. The flame bent sharply sideways, as though tugged by unseen fingers. A thrill coursed through Ambrose's chest.
Thunder rumbled across the enchanted dome.
He released it gently. The flame righted itself. The clouds softened. And across the tome's page, the runes pulsed — faint, approving.
Ambrose leaned back, pulse steadying. It can still be done. The sky remembers.
He smiled faintly as quills kept scratching notes around him. Not command, not domination - conversation. That was the way forward.
---
Hogwarts - Headmaster's office
The storm Ambrose conjured far away seemed to echo faintly in the mind of Albus Dumbledore. In his office, the fire burned low, casting soft shadows on walls lined with whirring instruments.
Across from him sat Nicholas Flamel, cloaked in a shawl of gray wool, his wife Perenelle knitting quietly at his side. Between them glimmered the Pensieve, threads of memory swirling like restless clouds.
They had just revisited Ambrose's visit. The silence that followed was not emptiness but weight.
Dumbledore finally broke it, his voice quiet, contemplative.
"He is unlike any child I have met. Even Tom, brilliant as he was, carried hunger in every breath. But this boy… he feels rooted. He does not chase magic. Magic seems to come to him."
Flamel leaned forward, his ageless eyes alive with excitement. "Rooted, yes. Emrys blood. Do you grasp what that means, Albus? A line older than Merlin's, still intact, still guarding knowledge the rest of us only dream of. If even a fraction of what he hinted at is true… the very bones of our history must be rewritten."
Perenelle's needles clicked softly. Without looking up she said, "Rewriting frightens me less than rediscovery. When truths buried for centuries resurface in youth, the world does not remain the same."
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "He spoke of the Noble Tongues - languages older than Parseltongue, older even than runes. Imagine what that could mean for spellcraft… for peace. If bridges could be built between wizards and the beings we so often misunderstand."
Flamel's eyes gleamed. "Or for peril. Do not forget, Albus: power tempts, no matter how noble the vessel. And yet…" He smiled. "I confess, what reassures me most was not his knowledge but his tone. No arrogance. No demand. He even spoke to the phoenix with courtesy. He earned its trust, rather than seeking it."
Fawkes trilled softly from his perch. Dumbledore smiled faintly at him.
"Even you, my friend, seemed taken by him. You've always been… particular."
Flamel chuckled. "Tell me, then do you fear him?"
Dumbledore turned toward the dark window, pausing before answering.
"No. Fear is not the word. I feel the weight of him. As though I've glimpsed a tide that cannot be stopped. My question is only: will it drown us, or will it carry us to safer shores?"
Nicholas's expression softened. "That is the question indeed. And I envy you, Albus. You will see him grow. Guide him, whether he asks for it or not."
The corners of Dumbledore's eyes crinkled, equal parts weariness and warmth. "Guide him I shall. Not as master. Not as puppet-master. Simply as a traveler who has walked long enough to know where the stones lie."
Nicholas raised his untouched teacup. "Then let us drink, not to safety, but to history awakening again."
Porcelain clinked softly. Two men of centuries sat together in awe - not of power, but of promise.
---
Department of Mysteries
Far below the Ministry of Magic, in the great circular chamber of the Department of Mysteries, a man in midnight-blue robes broke a wax seal he had only ever studied in books: a dragon coiled around a tree.
He unfolded the parchment and read aloud:
"To the Department of Mysteries
By right of heritage and covenant, Ambrose Emrys shall attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the coming year, though he is yet but ten. The Ministry shall not obstruct this, for it was settled long before its founding.
- The Emrys Estate"
The parchment trembled faintly in his hands.
"The Emrys…" he whispered.
Around the obsidian table, murmurs rose, arguments broke like waves:
"If it is true-"
"No one dares forge that seal-"
"A ten-year-old? What precedent-"
"What does it mean for us-"
"Impossible-"
The eldest among them, a witch with silver hair bound tight and eyes that had seen decades of secrets, raised her hand. The chamber fell still.
"We do not interfere," she said. "We watch. Always we watch. The Emrys walk again, and history will follow. Let us hope the boy proves worthy of his name."
The parchment was folded into an iron coffer. No more words were spoken. But in the silence, history itself seemed to stir.
---
The Emrys Estate - Main Library
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, stretching the stiffness from his arms. The storm ceiling grumbled faintly overhead, lightning tracing pale veins across the dome of the library. He smirked at the tome in front of him.
"You know," he said aloud, voice wry, "it's almost tragic. Whole temples in your name, statues taller than towers, Muggles singing hymns for centuries… all because they thought you liked throwing tantrums with thunderbolts."
The ink on the page shimmered. Letters crawled and rearranged into words that hadn't been there before:
"Tragic? Tragic is when your wife turns into a swan just to get away from you during an argument. This? This is comedy."
Ambrose barked a laugh. "Comedy? You mean being remembered as a grumpy old man who couldn't keep his toga on?"
The runes flared indignantly. "Togas are breezy, practical garments. And I was not grumpy. I was dignified. Majestic. Kingly."
Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "Majestic? You literally turned into a cow once-"
Before he could continue the book sputtered, letters flickering quickly as to interrupt, like a man choking on his pride. "It was a bull, thank you very much. Big difference. Very noble animal."
Ambrose chuckled. "Yes, very noble. Until you trampled half a farmer's orchard because you sneezed."
There was a long pause. Then, faintly, as though sulking: "…It was allergy season."
Ambrose's grin widened. "Ah, the mighty storm-bringer, laid low by pollen."
The book's runes shifted sharply, bold strokes etching across the page. "Careful, boy. I could call lightning down upon your quills and reduce your notes to ash."
Ambrose leaned forward, tapping the tome with his wand. "And risk erasing your own words? I don't think so. Besides—" he gestured at the ceiling "—I'm the one in charge of the weather in here."
The tome hesitated. Then the runes rearranged with deliberate slowness:
"…I let you win that one. Out of generosity."
Ambrose smirked, lounging back in his chair. "Of course you did."
The tome shimmered again. "Ungrateful whelp. In my day, mortals would build me an entire temple for a single raindrop. You don't even offer me a decent snack."
Ambrose looked at the untouched plate of biscuits on the desk. He slid one onto the open page. "There. Happy?"
The words scrawled instantly: "…This is shortbread. I demanded ambrosia."
Ambrose snorted, flicking the biscuit away before the book could stain it with more sarcasm. "You'll eat what you're given, old man."
The runes glowed, faintly amused. "You sound like Hera."
Ambrose froze. "Low blow."
The tome pulsed with smug satisfaction.
Later, Ambrose leaned closer to a diagram of concentric circles, tracing the pathways of lightning along the edges. "If this is correct, a focused storm ring could protect an entire castle. Imagine Hogwarts surrounded by a living wall of thunder."
The letters crawled across the margin: "Yes, do that. Nothing says 'welcome, children' like being zapped on your first day of school."
Ambrose rolled his eyes. "I said protective, not lethal. It's a shield."
"A shield is just a sword you're too polite to swing."
Ambrose snorted. "Remind me never to ask you to babysit."
The page flared. "I was an excellent babysitter. Ask any of my fifty-six children."
Ambrose blinked. "Fifty-six? At last count? That's - no, I'm not touching that. Absolutely not."
The tome's runes shimmered smugly.
Much later, as dawn crept across the glass dome, Ambrose sighed and tossed aside a snapped quill. His voice was quieter now, tinged with fatigue. "Muggles still draw you as an old man with a beard, waving thunderbolts around like fireworks."
The runes shifted instantly. "At least they gave me abs."
Ambrose nearly choked on his tea. "Abs? That's your defense?"
"You try being carved into marble a thousand times without a six-pack. It's mortifying otherwise."
Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose. "Odin preserve me…"
The letters flickered. "I knew Odin. Awkward fellow. Terrible beard grooming. Never washed his robes."
Ambrose laughed despite himself. "Oh, now you're just making things up."
"Am I? Ask him when you meet him. If he denies it, he's lying."
Finally, Ambrose leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "All right, last question before I collapse. Why storms? Why not fire, or earth, or something easier to explain to Muggles?"
The tome glowed faintly, then scrawled a slow reply:
"Because storms listen, boy. Fire devours. Stone endures. But the sky? The sky answers back. You will see."
Ambrose's smirk softened into a quiet smile. For all the sarcasm and bluster, there were moments when his ancestor's voice cut sharp and true.
"Then I'll keep listening," he murmured.
The tome's runes pulsed once, like a heartbeat, before dimming into silence.