Avalon - Epilogue - Part One

Epilogue – Part One

He appeared no worse for wear from his duel with Myrddin, and though Arthur had not expected to see Harry again, he was pleased the man had come to Camelot, even if he was to be the bearer of bad news.

Three moons had gone by since the last of the magicals had left the castle, and the muggles that had been displaced by the goblins had returned home with the assurance that it was safe to do so.

For Arthur, it had been an odd period of change, with odd things happening up and down the country, but despite all of it, he was happy his friend was here.

The aftermath of the battle had been quite something, and when Arthur had been able to emerge from the castle itself to see what remained of his lands, it had seen him informed of all that had transpired.

Myrddin.

The man had often spoke of his misgivings and suspicions of Harry Potter, but to invite a known enemy into Britain in an attempt to kill him was unforgiveable, especially since many others had been targeted too.

Even so, Arthur had mourned the man that had been his mentor for many years. For all of his flaws, he still owed Myrddin a great debt and had seen him suitably buried.

Not that he would ever be able to forgive him for his transgressions. Britain had not been the same since, and worse off for the absence of the magicals, though it was now like they had never even been here.

Only a matter of days after the battle against the goblins, Arthur had woken up to find the land outside of Camelot had somehow been healed; the scars littering the ground, the pools of blood, and even scorched trees had been repaired; a final gift from those that had undoubtedly saved his kingdom.

Ever since, however, there had been no magicals in Camelot, and no incidents of unpleasantness between them and his own kind up and down the country.

“I will continue ensuring all is well between us but will be doing so much more methodically and discreetly. The Wizard’s Council have appointed me to the position in an official capacity, and when the time is right, another will replace me and my men, who will continue keeping watch where needed. Unless there is something like another rebellion, or a direct threat to you, you will hear nothing from us, just the way it should be.”

Arthur nodded his understanding as he approached and offered his hand.

Harry readily accepted it, and the two shared a brief embrace.

“Thank you, Harry, and I am sorry for everything Myrddin did. His vision…”

“Was admirable,” Harry broke in with a sigh, “but an impossible one, and his actions much less forgivable.”

“They were,” Arthur agreed. “So, what happens now?”

“I will return home, live my life, and if you are fortunate, you will never have need to see or hear from me again, but there is one request I have of you.”

“Of course.”

“One day, in the future, a young man will visit you. He will wish to speak with you, and have quite the tale to tell, but I can assure you what he will speak will be the truth. His name is Maxim, and he is a fine man.”

Arthur frowned in confusion and could only look on as one he considered to be among the greatest of men transformed into a crow before flighting out of the nearby window.

“That was fifteen years ago, father.”

Arthur nodded as he petted the head of the dog sitting dutifully beside him. Bercelet had been found in the woods during a hunt as a pup, and the king had taken him for his own companion.

“A little more than fifteen years,” he sighed wistfully. “I have not seen Harry Potter since, but received one letter from him only recently, informing me of a potential uprising by another of his kind, one he promised to quash himself.”

“The older people still tell his story,” Leonard said with a shrug. “They speak of how he killed a dragon and saved Camelot.”

Arthur nodded.

Leonard had reached his tenth name day only a moon ago, was his first son to his second wife, Eileen, a former handmaid now queen of his kingdom.

Then there was Maxim.

Arthur smiled fondly at the thought of the man, and though his appearance and learning he’d fathered him with Gwyneth during much simpler times, the two had become as close as could be given the odd circumstances of their relationship.

Hook had done a fine job raising him, had taught him how to be a man, and Arthur couldn’t be more grateful.

At first, he’d been quite furious that he’d been kept from him and had not even known of his existence, but he’d come to understand the reasoning behind it.

Guinevere would not have taken kindly to the babe, and nor likely would Myrddin.

Given the actions of both when he’d known them, there was no telling whether or not his first son would have been safe.

Still, he was glad to have met him, and although he’d surrendered his position as Arthur’s heir the moment Leonard had been born, he still visited from time to time when he wasn’t travelling and even brought news of Godric’s Hollow with him.

“I expect that will change in a generation or so,” Arthur mused aloud. “Harry said he and his actions would be forgotten by our kind in only a matter of years, and it seems as though he is right. What he did for us is something I will never forget, nor will those that saw it, but the more time that passes, and the more of us pass on, the stories will become little more than whispers, unbelievable stories that a grandfather will tell his children, who will forget them.”

“I won’t,” Leonard declared.

Arthur offered the boy a warm smile as he ruffled his hair, frowning as the limping Gawain entered the room, his expression somewhat troubled and skin pale.

“We have a visitor, Arthur. I think you will wish to see him.”

The king frowned as he stood, took his son by the hand and called for Bercelet to follow.

Gawain led them to the courtyard where a young man was waiting, holding on tightly to the reigns of a large, dappled mare.

It was the appearance of him that gave Arthur pause; a familiar face he would never forget, almost identical to the friend he had bade farewell to long ago.

“King Arthur,” the young man greeted him with a nod before he climbed down from his magnificent mount. “I have always wanted to visit Camelot for myself. I’ve heard quite a few stories of this place, and of the man that rules over Britain. You have my apologies, my name is Taran, your grace. Taran Potter.”

The name spoken elicited a bout of excited whispering amongst those gathered, and the young man frowned confusedly.

“Taran Potter,” Arthur mused aloud as he approached. “Son of Harry and Morgana Potter?”

He could see it.

Even before the man nodded his confirmation, Arthur could see the very same eyes of his sire looking back at him, the messy crop of hair, and even a hint of that mischief he’d come to know his father for.

“I am.”

“Then you are most welcome here, Taran,” Arthur murmured as he stepped closer and grasped the man’s hand. “You will always be welcome in Camelot. Ser Bedivere, I believe today is a good day for a feast, don’t you?”

“Of course, my king.”

The knight hurried off to begin the arrangements, and Arthur began leading their guest into the keep.

“Tell me, Taran Potter, how does your father fare?”

The you man’s expression darkened somewhat, but he nodded.

“Given the circumstances, your grace, he fares well.”

(Break)

He looked upon the graves of his two fallen mentors and released a deep breath.

They had buried Godric next to Rowena by the lake in a private ceremony attended only by Harry, Morgana, Owain, Helga, and Salazar.

None of them knew where Godric’s children were, and any effort made to send a letter informing them of the man’s passing had failed.

Not even Hedwig had been able successful.

Nonetheless, each of them agreed that this was where the man belonged.

Harry had considered burying him the in the village named for him, but Hogwarts was the home Godric had built for himself. It was only fitting he would rest here.

“He would wish for you to succeed him, Harry.”

Harry nodded and offered Helga a reassuring smile.

“I will,” he promised. “I am at your disposal.”

Salazar gave his shoulder a squeeze, and though there was finally something resembling peace up and down the country, the price of it had been steep.

Oddly, the Wizard’s Council had all but insisted he continue on in his capacity watching over the muggle world, intervening where he felt it was necessary to avoid any further unpleasantness.

As such, Harry had kept his men employed, and many others had wished to join them, giving him control over a considerable number of fighting men, a number large and loyal enough to ensure Britain was kept safe.

In his stead, Owain would lead for the most first, consulting with Harry as and when he was needed, and Harry in turn would be present, training, helping, and assisting in the village, as had become his habit.

How long such a thing would last, he didn’t know, but he would not shirk his responsibilities to those of Godric’s Hollow, nor to Hogwarts, which he was determined to see succeed.

Even now, after more than a decade and a half, he still came here when he needed guidance, a moment to gather himself, or when he simply missed those that had taught him all he knew.

It was something of a sanctuary, a sacred place for Harry that so few others could share with him; only those he held so dearly.

“It will be me next,” Salazar muttered.

“Most likely,” Harry agreed, “but you’ll be here with them. It’s where you all belong.”

Salazar nodded and struggled to his feet, resting on a cane Harry had made and enchanted for the man. For the most part, he was confined to a wheelchair now, his legs and back having gotten progressively worse over the years.

The cane, however, offered him a brief reprieve, and Salazar refused to not stand whenever Harry brought him here from the castle.

“She always believed she would outlive us both,” he said quietly, his hand resting on the monument they’d created together for Helga.

It was of an enormous sunflower with a badger sleeping at the base, a mundane plant, but one she was deeply fond of.

In her final moons of life, Harry had tended to the greenhouses and even had the scars to show for it.

He’d never been so good at Herbology, but at the very least, he’d been able to make the woman laugh during her last moments as she watched him fumble his way through her instructions.

“It just goes to show that not all of us are so adept at seeing the future.”

Salazar nodded as he shuffled to where Rowena rested.

“If I had to bet, when we were younger, it is this one I would’ve guessed would be here now. She was always so full of life, until she wasn’t.”

“She was,” Harry agreed. “But she, the others, and you will all live on in this place. Even a thousand years from now, it is you all they will remember.”

His words brought a smile to Salazar’s lips, though it fell as he shifted his attention to Godric’s memorial.

“Idiot,” he muttered, the same way he always did when he came here. “I’ll never forgive you for leaving me here.”

Harry snorted.

“I think he would get a kick out of that. He’d see it as a big bloody joke that he got the last laugh on you.”

Salazar hummed as he allowed his hand to come to rest on the lion statue with the sword in its mouth.

“Damned fool,” he declared fondly. “If you were here now, I’d bloody well curse you for being so stupid. As ever, thank you, old friend. I will never be able to make it up to you, but when the time is right, I will have an eternity to try.”

He managed to hobble back to his chair, his breathing laboured as he waved Harry off.

“Not yet,” he instructed. “I would stay a while longer.”

Harry nodded his understanding.

Given his condition, he rarely came here now, and in some ways, Harry found it as morbid as he did endearing.

Salazar knew he would one day be laid to rest here, but being the last of the Founders, it was the one place he could still be with them away from the castle they had built.

He didn’t speak of them so much, and though he would never admit it, he missed each of them dearly, even more so than Harry, who felt their loss each passing day.

“How are Selina and Taran getting along?”

Harry shook his head as he chuckled.

“Well, it seems as though you might get your wish. Your granddaughter and my son are on their way to marriage. Not that they have said as much, but they’re as bloody lovesick as I was with Morgana.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Salazar’s lips.

“He’s a good man that boy of yours, and worthy of her.”

“Even if I am a half-blood?”

Salazar offered him a knowing nod.

“I’ve never said it before, and I never will again, but you, Harry Potter, are the finest man I have met. We have entrusted you with our school, and I would trust your son with my blood. He is like you.”

“An excellent warrior and wizard?”

“A pain in the arse that I have grown very fond of. Just don’t tell him that. I don’t need him here fawning all over me. I had more than enough of him these past years.”

“Was he so bad?”

Salazar released a deep breath.

“He is flippant, quick-witted, and quicker with a wand.”

“That sounds like his mother.”

Salazar wheezed as he chuckled.

“He is much like her too. He got the best and worst of you both, as did your eldest daughter.”

Harry deflated as he nodded.

Seren had been the most problematic of their four children and had certainly inherited the very worst traits of her parents. She was stubborn, adventurous, and did not follow rules well.

She was often plagued by nightmares as a child, and Harry was left in no doubt that they plagued her still. She had simply stopped discussing them with him and Morgana, choosing to consult with the stars instead.

She had done so since she was able to walk, and Harry often found her wandering out of her room at night to venture outside.

When she’d been younger, she had shared all she’d seen with him, both the good and bad, but when she had come to Hogwarts, that had stopped, and the girl had changed.

She was quiet, withdrawn, independent, and troubled.

Both Harry and Morgana did their best to be there for her, but it seemed the more they tried, the more she drifted away from them. Morgana often said Seren is what she would’ve become had she not met Harry, and though he did not want to admit it, he had only grown more concerned by the behaviour of his first daughter.

She isolated herself from others, was quiet for the most part, but he could not deny her sheer brilliance when it came to magic, particularly with curses and the Mind Arts.

He could still tell when she was lying to him, but her skill in Occlumency was truly exceptional now that she could hide much from him.

He hummed his agreement, frowning as Linton, the caretaker of the school hurried towards them from the castle.

“I’m sorry, Headmaster, but…”

“She’s gone again.”

The man nodded apologetically and harry rubbed his eyes in a mixture of exhaustion and frustration before sending off a few patronuses.

“Don’t worry, Linton. I will find her.”

Seren did this often, only more often these past moons than she had before.

She would sneak out of the school, usually undetected, and wander around the country, wherever she felt compelled to be. It was worrying, but now, Harry worried more for any who might come across her with the worst of intentions.

Seren was as sharp with her wand as she was her mind, but somewhat less so than Taran.

The boy was like Harry in every way and had worked just as tirelessly over the years to become an exceptional warrior. When the day came that Harry was no longer able to fill his obligations to the Wizard’s Council, and to Arthur, Taran would undoubtedly prove to be a most fitting replacement.

With a shake of his head, he began pushing Salazar back towards the school, wondering where his daughter might be now, and by the time he reached the doors, Taran was already galloping towards them atop his horse.

“Again?” he asked irritably.

Harry nodded and Taran released a deep breath.

“I’ll find her, Father,” he promised, drawing his wand and sending off a plethora of messages before taking his leave of the grounds once more.

He would find her.

Taran had become exceptional at doing so, and despite her shortcomings, Seren always had a soft spot for her older brother.

She would return with him and would do so before Harry and Morgana went to find her themselves.

If there was any she was weary of provoking the ire of, it was her parents. Even if she was averse to authority, she knew not to push them too far, though that didn’t stop her pushing the boundaries they set out.

It just seemed she was doing it more regularly now and pushing harder as she continued to drift away from them.

What Harry would do, he didn’t know.

Soon enough, she would be a woman grown, and he could not pretend that the girl didn’t trouble him so.

He just hoped that would change, but both he and Morgana had their doubts, especially with a fresh threat brewing in the east of the country that he was watching closely; the place where his daughter had been found more than once these past moons.

(Break)

He pulled the drawstrings on his back before throwing it over his shoulder, taking a final look around the small house he’d been given for the duration of his stay.

Lancelot had become fond of the village.

The people here were as one, working together to ensure all were fed, housed, and clothed, each pulling their weight with none left behind.

It was odd and had taken some getting used to, and perhaps such a way of life wouldn’t work up and down the entire country, but here in Godric’s Hollow, it did.

Releasing a deep breath, he stepped out of the house, frowning as he caught sight of Owain Peverell standing near the gate, looking up towards the night sky.

“We get a beautiful view of the stars here,” he murmured thoughtfully.

Lancelot nodded.

“You do.”

Owain continued to stare for a moment before his gaze fell on Lancelot.

“Where will you go?”

Lancelot shrugged.

“Back to Francia. Arthur made it clear I am not to be in his lands, and I will respect his wishes.”

The king had spoken a single word to him during or after the battle. Not that Lancelot had seen him much.

Upon learning of Myrddin’s betrayal, he’d all but locked himself away in Camelot whilst the magicals had prepared to take their leave.

“Well, in case you haven’t forgotten, these are not Arthur’s lands. These are mine, and you fought and bled with the rest of us. If you wish to remain, you have mine and Harry’s blessing to do so. I think you have a lot to offer here. You are an expert swordsman, the very best muggle one I have met, and we have many men and boys that will need training.”

“You would have me stay?”

“Only if that is your wish. You have more than earned a place here, Lancelot.”

Owain offered him a rare, sincere smile, and Lancelot knew he could not refuse the offer.

Godric’s Hollow had become something of a home to him, and his fondness for the place only grew.

He would be a fool to leave it behind when he didn’t need to.

“You have three new students today.”

Lancelot smiled as he wife placed a generous portion of bread on the table, but she slapped his hand away as he reached for it.

“Not until you pray.”

He chuckled as he did so, speaking of his gratitude for his daily bounty.

It wasn’t just the food he was grateful for, but the woman that provided it.

Elaine was a fair woman with red hair, a real beauty that was born in the village, and the two of them had fallen in love after a rather contentious first meet.

Lancelot had perhaps had a little too much ale for his own good, and it had been Elaine who’d sobered him, pouring a large bucket of water over his head as he’d slept in one of her stables.

She had not been pleased to find him there and had warned him of how lucky he was that she’d only used water to rouse him instead of the dagger she carried attached to her thigh.

He’d quickly become smitten with her, and though she’d not been so receptive to his advances, she’d eventually agreed to marry him.

“Will I ever run out of those to train?” he asked.

“Unlikely,” Elaine said with a smile. “For at least the next decade, you will have those needing to be trained.”

Lancelot nodded as he continued eating, finishing only a few moments and standing before placing a kiss on the woman’s cheek.

“I’ll be back later.”

Elaine shoved him away playfully before he could kiss her again, knowing the two of them would become irrevocably distracted by one another.

“Later,” she huffed, shaking her head at him.

Lancelot beamed as he left the house, pausing at the sight of Owain Peverell.

“Again?” Lancelot groaned.

Owain nodded.

“We’d best find her before Harry goes looking for her.”

Lancelot released a deep breath as he followed his friend.

“She’ll be where she was last time.”

“Exactly, so best we get there first. Harry will kill him.”

“Why hasn’t he already?”

“Because it would only push her further away.”

Lancelot shook his head.

“I don’t envy him with this,” he sighed. “She’s always been…”

“A pain in the bloody arse,” Owain interjected. “She’s too much like Harry in the worst ways. He’s a pain in the arse.”

“That he is,” Lancelot agreed, preparing himself for the uncomfortable apparation he knew was coming.

Seren was a sweet girl, but at times, she was foolishly naïve, or she worse, she wasn’t and was just attracted to trouble the same way her father had been.

(Break)

He pushed the food around on his plate, wincing as his aching muscles protested from even the most minimal of movements. He was sore from riding, and sore from where he’d been put through his paces the day before.

Taran was no stranger to hard work.

Ever since he could walk, he’d worked the farm with his father, helped Owain chop wood with an axe, and even carried it by himself without the use of magic.

What he was enduring now, however, was nothing short of the hell Lancelot preached about.

“Is something on your mind?” his mother asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Was Father pushed as hard as he pushes me?” he asked, wincing once more.

His mother offered him an understanding smile as she took a seat.

“It will get easier,” she promised.

Taran wasn’t sure he believed her but he nodded.

The woman watched him almost amusedly before taking a sip of her tea. It smelled of elderflower and some of the berries she often picked from her garden.

“How long was he working you for yesterday?” she asked.

Taran frowned.

“Two or three hours.”

“Then he is taking it much easier on you than he had it,” she said thoughtfully. “When Harry was under Godric’s tutelage, he would be in the grounds before the sun rose and wouldn’t be done until Godric could no longer shout at him. Sometimes, that would be all day.”

“And he just did it?”

His mother laughed as she nodded.

“Your father is the most stubborn, proud, and determined man I have ever met. Mind, he was just a boy then, but he hasn’t changed all that much. What you have to understand, Taran, is that your father endured much growing up, things that most could not even imagine going through, but it came out of each of them a much stronger person. He became what he needed to out of necessity. Oh, he was difficult and still is. Why do you ask?”

“I feel like my bloody back has been caved in,” Taran groaned.

“You will not swear at my table,” his mother chided lightly. “We have enough of that with your father. You will get used to it, and if I remember correctly, you asked him to train you the same way he was. We both warned you it wouldn’t be easy.”

Taran nodded as he sat a little straighter, fighting the urge to grimace as the muscles in his back protested once more.

“I want to be just like him,” he declared.

“You already are,” his mother sighed, “but I can assure you, he doesn’t want that for you. He would see you live a life unhindered by what we experienced. He would see you happy.”

“Aren’t you happy?”

His mother frowned at the question.

“I could not be happier,” she said sincerely. “Despite everything, your father and I only ever wanted one thing in life, and we have it.”

“What did you want?”

“What we have,” she answered ominously as she stood. “Your father doesn’t expect you to be like him, Taran. He wants only for you to be happy, with whatever you desire in life.”

“What if I want to be like him for no other reason than I admire him?”

“Then you had better get used to the aching muscles, being screamed at, and probably hating him for some time.”

“Did Father hate Godric?”

His mother laughed as she shook her head.

“No, but he used to curse up a storm whenever his days were done. He always promised he’d get the better of him, would never allow the man to see how close he was to breaking, and he never did.”

Taran nodded.

“I’ll prove myself to him,” he declared determinedly. “He won’t break me, just like Godric couldn’t break him.”

His memories of being trained by his father were no amongst his favourites, even if at the time he had wished for nothing more than to curse the man for what he put him through.

Running, swimming in the lake, swordsmanship, and combat with magic…

The curriculum had been extensive, and not a day went by for several years that Taran did not go to bed sore or injured from his efforts, but he had kept his word.

He had never quit, and when he had come close to doing so, he needed only look towards the man pushing him so hard to find that extra bit of strength he didn’t knew he possessed to persevere through whatever he was enduring.

His father had only ever been encouraging, pushing Taran when he felt he needed it, but praising every step of the way.

Taran Potter had grown under the guidance of his father, and if he could prove to be half the man as the one that had sired him, he would hold his head up with pride.

Now, however, what brought him to the East of England wasn’t his pride, but once more, his often-wayward sister.

Seren had always been different to the other children when they were growing up.

She was an incredibly gifted witch in her own right, but her focus had often been on the stars rather than what was in front of her.

To some, she seemed to be aloof and often absent, but she had the keenest of minds, the sharpest of wands, and something else that Taran did not quite understand.

There was a darkness to her, not dissimilar to that of their mother, but somehow different, more focused on some of her less pleasant traits.

That in itself was troublesome, but it was the company she kept that troubled Taran, and were his father to become aware of all Taran knew and suspected…

He did not wish to think what the man would do.

Harry Potter might be kind and caring to those he held dear, but opposite to that was just how protective he could be, and that protectiveness knew no bounds. Taran had grown up hearing stories of his father, both the rather ridiculous and benign equally.

What he had always known, however, was that despite his warm embraces, praising of all four of his children, and love for his wife, there was something quite terrifying that resided within him, a coldness that seemed not to be of this world.

Taran, nor any other he could explain it, but all he had met knew that Harry Potter was not a man to cross.

“Do you think she is here?”

“I should’ve known you would be, Lancelot.”

The muggle quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You might be on the cusp of manhood, boy, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kick your arse if I have to.”

“If you think you can,” Taran chuckled, offering Owain Peverell a nod of acknowledgement.

The Peverell Lord himself was steeped in a certain mystery, and the rumours that circulated about him and his family were often as profound and eerie as his own.

“It is like looking at his father when I first met the git,” Owain sighed. “Come on, we’d best find your sister before she gets herself into trouble.”

Taran nodded as he led the men towards where he expected he would find the girl.

It was the very same place he had tracked her to the few previous times she had ventured away from the castle.

What struck him as odd however, was that she didn’t even attempt to hide.

Did she wish to be found, or was there more to it than Seren was letting on?

Taran didn’t know, but he continued to grow more concerned with his sister the older and more rebellious she became. Thus far, she had only been wandering off without informing any of where she was going, and that was already crossing the line as far as he was concerned.

It seemed as though she was pushing her boundaries, much more so than he had ever dared, and soon enough, she would cross that line, truly cross it to a point that their father would have to forget that she was his daughter in favour of acting against those she seemed intent on spending more and more time with.

(Break)

She’d always known she was different.

Her mother certainly seemed to understand her better than her father, and perhaps in her own way she was like both of them, but Seren was much less so and more her own person.

She’d always been plagued by dreams, odd dreams and even nightmares that showed her things she didn’t understand, just glimpses when she’d been much younger, but those glimpses became so much more as she got older and could understand what she was seeing.

It was the stars.

She was drawn to them the same way her mother was to the magic of the forest, or her father was to his own that she sensed in no other, but neither were like her.

Neither felt the calling of the stars as Seren did. Taran didn’t, and neither did Caden or Mairwen, her two younger siblings.

“Well, it didn’t take him long,” Fyren sighed amusedly, pulling Seren from her thoughts.

Like many others she had met over the years, she had been led to Fyren.

He’d been wandering the streets of Hogsmeade, and Seren found herself just as inexplicably drawn to him as she was the stars. Whether that was for better or worse remained to be seen, but what had become quickly clear was that Taran and Fyren despised one another.

Her brother believed she was blind to him and his ways, but Seren knew more than Taran.

Much more, things that would likely anger her brother, but things he did not need to become aware of, not yet, at least.

“Home,” he said simply as he entered the clearing in the forest. “You are fortunate it is us here and not father, but he will not be far behind.”

Seren opened her mouth to speak, but Fyren placed a hand on her forearm to prevent her from doing so, and in the light of the fire, she caught a glimpse of the reddish tinge to his usually black eyes.

“I was just encouraging her to do just that,” he spoke, his tone innocent but somehow mocking at the same time. “I do not understand why she is so compelled to come here, but I would be a poor host to turn her away.”

Taran narrowed his eyes at Fyren, and Seren did not doubt he would draw his wand or blade momentarily.

To prevent that, she stood and approached her brother, calming him with a look of reassurance.

“Until next time, Seren Potter,” Fyren called amusedly as she was led through the forest.

“Next time, I’ll cut your fucking throat,” Taran warned.

Fyren laughed, and Taran stepped forward, only for Owain to prevent him from advancing, whispering a few chosen words in his ear that Seren was not privy to.

Whatever he said seemed to work, and Taran nodded, and the four of them continued on their way.

“Say nothing, brother,” Seren sighed. “I have no answers to any of your questions, and you have no warning I wish to hear.”

“Why do you have to be such a pain?” Taran huffed. “Why do you keep coming here?”

Seren paused as she peered towards the sky, swallowing deeply as she deflated.

“Because it is where I am supposed to be,” she answered, apparating away before her brother could press her further.

(Break)

“I have seen what happens to those that follow the stars blindly. They may show you a path, Seren, but it is never a clear one, and it is easy to misinterpret what you see.”

“I know that, Father, but you must trust me. My destiny is not the same as yours, nor is it the same as mother’s. I have my own purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“I cannot say,” Seren sighed, “the same way you have not been entirely forthcoming with us about who you are and where you are from.”

He leaned back in his chair and eyed his daughter curiously.

“What is it you believe you know?”

Seren shrugged.

“I know only wat the stars show me, Father. They have shown me that the path that led you here was unlike any other, that you once belonged to another place. I do not pretend to know all I have seen, but I must trust my magic the same way you trust yours.”

Harry shook his head frustratedly.

“I will not see you put yourself in danger.”

Seren offered him something of a sad smile before placing a kiss on his cheek.

“With you around, I know I never will be, not truly. Trust me, Father. I am following the path laid out before me.”

Harry didn’t like it.

He hated having a daughter that was much more adventurous than him, that took risks none should, and yet, she had somehow convinced him that she was doing what was intended of her all along.

He had not forgotten his wife’s difficult pregnancy, what she had seen and endured throughout, nor had he forgotten just how undeniably different Seren was to her other siblings, or any other he’d met.

She had shown her gifts to him, shown the brilliance she possessed, more so than to any other, but that did not stop him from worrying about her.

“Do you not think she is going too far?” Morgana asked as the girl they were discussing approached the house, no worse for wear.

Harry frowned at the question.

“What I think is that this is only the beginning,” he murmured. “It will become worse before it gets better.”

Morgana offered him a look of concern, and Harry squeezed her hand.

“Seren believes all will be as it should, that what she is doing is necessary for Britain to continue to thrive as it is. She did not lie to me.”

“No, but she did not tell you what is to come.”

“She did not,” Harry agreed. “That worries me, but for now, I must trust her judgement. Neither of us can deny she sees things that we cannot. She is our daughter. We must not doubt her.”

“It is not her I doubt, Harry. It is everything else.”

Harry did too.

He had every faith in his daughter, even if he didn’t understand what it was she was doing.

Despite everything unfolding around him that displeased him, that faith did not waver.

Seren was different, but the two of them had always been close. He had been there for her first steps, her first words, had comforted her after her nightmares, and even taught her now at Hogwarts.

Yes, although he dreaded what was to come, he believed wholeheartedly in the girl he had raised.

(Break)

“You play a very dangerous game, my son.”

Fyren nodded.

“There is no reward without risk, but she loves me so, Mother. Her blood will suffice for what we will need, but I am no fool. I will act only when the time is right to do so. The people here will follow me as they did my father, before Potter saw to his slaughter. He will reap what he sowed the day he burned you, but first, he will watch his world crumble around him.”

The woman nodded, the smile she wore twisting the scars that littered her features into something quite grotesque to look upon.

Nonetheless, she was his mother, had raised him alone in a world that despised them for what they were, but Fyren cared not for what others thought of him.

They would follow him, and he would again take possession of the throne that was stolen from his father.

He knew of Harry Potter’s reputation, of the name he had carved for himself through the many victories he had achieved, but it would mean nothing when the time came.

Fyren merely needed to bide his time, use what was at his disposal, and then punish the man for all of his transgressions against his blood.

He would use Potter’s own against him to do so, and the very thought of it brought a smile to his own lips; one unmarred by vile scarring, his a charming one he had inherited from the man that had sired him.