The outdoor breeze carried the scent of warm sunshine and wild grass.
Under the shade of the sycamore tree stood a girl with messy, waist-length, dark golden-blonde hair. She had very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes, giving her a permanent look of faint surprise. She wore bright orange dirigible plum earrings and a necklace strung entirely from butterbeer corks.
"How did you know I was in the study? The main door and my bedroom are in the complete opposite direction." Damian leaned out the window, genuinely curious.
"I saw a Wrackspurt fly into that room, so I guessed you'd be there." The little girl's voice was airy and drifting, as if she were softly singing to herself.
"A Wrackspurt?"
Luna nodded dreamily. "Wrackspurts... they're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go all fuzzy."
She suddenly blinked, remembering her purpose. "Damian, the Thunderbird egg you gave me is finally about to hatch."
Luna carefully opened the cardboard box she was holding against her chest. Inside rested a heavy, pure gold Thunderbird egg.
The golden shell was now spiderwebbed with deep cracks. Through the fissures, glimpses of shimmering, storm-colored feathers could vaguely be seen.
Damian examined the egg with genuine surprise. "That is truly remarkable."
He had confiscated this Thunderbird egg from a Dark Wizard and given it to Luna as a birthday gift. More than six months had passed, and despite trying countless magical methods, neither of them had managed to coax it into hatching.
Luna smiled cheerfully. "I wrote a letter to Grandpa Newt, and he told me to rub sunflower pollen on the shell every day. He said if I did that for three weeks, it would hatch."
Damian blinked. "Newt Scamander? You mean the famous magizoologist who wrote Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?"
Luna nodded. "Grandpa Newt used to submit articles to The Quibbler. I asked Dad for his contact information and sent him a pair of dirigible plum earrings as a thank you."
That's definitely her style, Damian thought, amused.
Just then, a frantic commotion echoed from the cardboard box. The cracks in the golden shell rapidly widened. Inside, a small life struggled vigorously, its faint, high-pitched cries bleeding through the shell.
A moment later, a sharp, eagle-like beak pierced the gold. A tiny, damp Thunderbird squeezed its way out into the world, shaking its head with a tiny spark of static electricity.
Luna beamed, overjoyed to see the little creature successfully hatch. She pointed up at the thickest branch of the sycamore tree by the garden wall. "We should build a home for it up there."
Damian hesitated. "Why build a nest here? I'm heading back to Hogwarts next week. I won't be around to take care of the little guy."
Luna tilted her head, looking up at him with a serene smile. "I think it will like it here. Besides, I can come over and see it every day."
Damian looked into those pale, silvery eyes, currently curved into happy crescent moons. He softened. "Alright. We'll build it here."
The next morning. London, Westminster, Charing Cross Road.
With a sharp crack of displaced air, Damian Apparated directly onto the pavement outside the Leaky Cauldron.
Despite a teenager appearing out of thin air, the rushing Muggle pedestrians paid him absolutely no mind, their eyes sliding right past the magically concealed pub.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the pub was exactly as he remembered: stuffy, noisy, dim, and delightfully dilapidated.
As he stepped inside, the low roar of chatter paused for a fraction of a second. A few eyes lingered on him before the noise resumed.
Tom, the bald and toothless innkeeper, was wiping down glasses behind the bar. He waved a dirty rag at Damian. "Hey! Black! Good to see you. Fancy a drink?"
Damian approached the bar with a polite smile. "Just a Butterbeer, Tom."
In the wizarding world, Butterbeer was a lightly warming, comforting beverage suitable for all ages.
Tom poured a foaming mug and slid it across the sticky wood. "This one's on the house. Thanks again for that batch of Wound-Cleaning Potion."
Then, the old innkeeper leaned in close. He cautiously glanced around the crowded room before whispering, "Watch your back. Someone's asking after you."
Without missing a beat, Tom straightened up and went right back to wiping his glasses, acting as if he hadn't said a word.
Damian's expression didn't change. He silently took a slow sip of his Butterbeer.
Someone is after me? He carefully mentally scrolled through the list of people he had offended.
Unfortunately, there were far too many to count.
Although he was a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, his grandfather Alphard had been blasted off the family tapestry decades ago. Damian had no powerful family backing to protect him.
When he was sorted into Slytherin, the trouble had truly begun. Many of his housemates were the children of Death Eaters—the very same faction that had murdered his parents. The result was an immediate, vicious cycle of bullying, extortion, and isolation.
Fortunately, Damian's magical talent was terrifying. While his peers were still fumbling with basic jinxes and harmless pranks, he had already mastered a brutal arsenal of offensive and defensive magic.
By the end of his first year, he had physically and magically crushed anyone in his grade who dared bother him. By his second year, he was untouchable.
Slytherin House respected strength above all else. After ruthlessly establishing his dominance, he had even inadvertently gathered a few loyal followers of his own.
He downed the rest of his Butterbeer, set a few Sickles on the counter as a tip, and slipped out the back door into the pub's small, walled courtyard.
The courtyard held nothing but a dented trash can and a few stubborn weeds.
After confirming he was entirely alone, Damian drew a small glass vial from his robes. It was filled with a thick, dark green sludge.
He uncorked the Polyjuice Potion and downed it in one gulp. It burned like battery acid going down his esophagus, leaving behind a nauseating taste reminiscent of overcooked cabbage.
Instantly, his face contorted in agony. It felt as though hot wax was writhing beneath his skin. His eyes, nose, and mouth began to bubble and melt, his facial structure rapidly rearranging itself.
A sickening chorus of pops and cracks echoed through the empty courtyard as his skeleton shifted and stretched.
A few agonizing moments later, Damian had completely transformed into a gaunt, red-haired man with sinister, sunken eyes.
He stretched his unfamiliar limbs, testing a few facial expressions to adapt to the new muscle memory.
Drawing his wand, he first cast a quick Transfiguration spell over his clothes, altering them to fit his new, lanky frame in the form of a ragged black wizarding robe.
Then, he turned to the brick wall behind the trash can. Counting three up and two across, he tapped the specific brick firmly with his wand.
The brick instantly quivered. The surrounding wall began to undulate and fold in on itself, rapidly forming a wide archway that opened up onto a winding, bustling cobblestone street.
Diagon Alley was packed with shoppers. Magical items crammed every shop window: strange alchemical devices, exotic creature ingredients, brightly colored robes, and jars of preserved eyeballs.
Damian blended into the crowd, walking a short distance down the main thoroughfare before slipping unnoticed into a dark side street.
He was heading into Knockturn Alley. He had a batch of illegal potions to sell.
The entrance sat in the shadows near Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Though it was only steps away from the bright cheer of Diagon Alley, the atmosphere here was entirely different.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the air turned cold. A sour, rotting odor hung in the alley. Moss clung to the damp corners of the buildings, peeling plaster revealed rotting brickwork, and raw sewage pooled in the uneven cobblestones.
The street was dim and suffocatingly cramped. The few wizards lingering in the shadows all exuded a palpable aura of danger.
In a shadowed alcove on the right side of the street, a stout, heavily bearded wizard was squatting.
When he spotted Damian's red-haired disguise, the man's face lit up. He scrambled to his feet, his short, bowed legs trembling slightly.
The bearded man darted his eyes around the alley. Seeing that no one was paying them any attention, he scurried forward and muttered, "I've been waiting out here forever. I thought you weren't coming! Do you have the goods?"
Every 100 stones = 1 EXTRA CHAPTER