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August 1, 1993, 11:30 PM, Phoenix’ Roost

Gellert Grindelwald stood at the heart of the war room, his silhouette framed by the flickering glow of floating orbs that hovered like captive stars. The cavernous chamber, hewn from the rock beneath the manor, thrummed with a faint, metallic hum— energy coursing through the etched maps that adorned the stone walls.

Each glowing line traced a nexus of power, converging on a single point: Stonehenge. His fingers, long and pale, brushed the edge of a polished obsidian table. The air was cold, biting, laced with the scent of ancient stone.

He was alone until the heavy iron door groaned open.

Vanessa and Matthias entered, their boots echoing on the flagstones. Their faces, usually composed, bore a tightness that set Grindelwald’s instincts alight. Vanessa paused, her breath visible in the chill, and bowed slightly, a gesture of respect that did little to mask her unease.

“I presume this is bad news? Let’s hear it.” Grindelwald said, his voice low. His mismatched eyes fixed on her, unblinking, as he leaned forward.

Vanessa straightened, her hands clasped behind her back, but her pacing betrayed her.

“The Longling shipment, sir.” She began, her voice steady but clipped. “It’s been… compromised. Intercepted en route, destroyed in a raid near the Black Sea. We’ve lost the primary ley line anchors.”

He stilled at once. “How long ago was this?”

“We were just informed.” Matthias said.

“Thought I’d tell you immediately before I headed out.” Vanessa added.

Grindelwald’s expression remained still, a mask of calm, but a flicker of rage sparked in his eyes, brief as a lightning strike. The anchors— crafted from rare obsidian infused with dragon’s blood— were the linchpin of the Stonehenge ritual, designed to channel power surges into the Veil, allowing it to regulate its flow and open the portal.

Their loss was not merely a setback; it was a deliberate wound. His mind raced, weaving threads of possibility, as it had since his youth, when he and Albus had dreamed of bending the world to their will.

“Who?” He asked, the single word sharp, cutting through the hum of the room. His fingers tightened on the orb, its glow flaring briefly, casting Vanessa’s shadow long and distorted across the wall.

“Our scouts traced the raid to a rogue faction. Death Eaters, likely acting on that so-called Dark Lord Voldemort’s orders. The evidence points to them without question.” Matthias said. “Same tactics, without the obvious signs.”

“Pity.” Grindelwald said. “I’d have liked to see this Dark Mark of his. Still… without the anchors, the ritual is likely to be delayed.”

“To the end of the month?” Vanessa said, walking around the map and poking at a few of the lines. “With a few adjustments…”

“A good idea.” Grindelwald said before shaking his head. “But no. Look here.”

He altered the flow of the line coming from the north of France, tuning its frequency until it began to hum. As one, the remaining lines hummed in sync.

“This is…?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is for Halloween that you aim?” Vanessa said, a little confused. “Why?”

“Why not adjust it for the end of this month?” Grindelwald said, and Vanessa nodded. “I could, but then I would constantly be playing this game of delay and adjust, as they know they can slow me down. However… Should I do this, the ritual will commence regardless of anything they do.”

Grindelwald’s lips curled into a thin, mirthless smile, though his eyes remained cold. Voldemort. The serpent who fancied himself a rival, slithering through the shadows of Grindelwald’s vision. The delay was a calculated insult, a move to weaken Grindelwald’s grip on the wizarding world’s future.

Yet, within the rage, a spark of admiration flickered— Voldemort played the game well, if foolishly. The man had not allowed himself to grow.

He turned from Vanessa, his black cloak whispering against the stone floor, and faced the largest line on the map.

“Enlighten me on their tactics, my friend? I am curious.” Grindelwald said to Matthias, his voice softer now, almost conversational, though the edge remained. He did not turn, his gaze fixed on the map, tracing the Stonehenge nexus with a finger.

Matthias swallowed, her pacing slowing. “From our source, it was a coordinated strike— Fiendfyre, primarily, to ensure nothing remained. Our escorts were overwhelmed; only one survived, barely. He spoke of several cloaked figures, wielding curses with deadly intent and great efficiency. The shipment was reduced to ash before we could counter.”

Grindelwald nodded, his mind sifting through the details. The Death Eaters, a group of blunt instruments for the most part, were Voldemort’s pawns, but the precision of the strike suggested a deeper intent. Was Voldemort merely stalling, or did he know of the ritual’s true purpose? The thought gnawed at him, a rare uncertainty.

He turned, his cloak flaring, and fixed Matthias with a stare that made his eyes widen.

“And our prisoner?” He asked, his tone deceptively mild. “The Death Eater we took at the Gloomvault— Mulciber, was it? Does he still breathe?”

Vanessa nodded quickly. “He’s in the cells, sir. Weakened, but alive. Mr. Rafiq’s kept him under guard, as you ordered.”

“Good.” Grindelwald’s smile returned, colder now, a predator’s glint as he called for one of the guards. “Have someone rouse him. I will soon see what secrets his mind holds. Voldemort’s games end tonight.”

The guard nodded. Gellert waved a hand, the orbs dimming slightly, their light pooling around him like a spotlight. “And summon Rafiq. We will need new anchors— Longling’s defectors have caches we can requisition. Go.”

The guard bowed deeply and hurried from the room, his boots echoing until the iron door slammed shut. Gellert turned to Vanessa. “I suppose you’d like to enjoy your prisoner?”

“No need; I’ve already had my fun.” Vanessa said with a smile. “But I could use a bite to eat.”

“I hear there’s steak on the menu today.”

“Perfect!” Vanessa said and gave him a bow. “By your leave.”

She gave Matthias a nod, which was returned, before leaving as well. Grindelwald stood there for a moment, the war room’s hum filling the silence between him and Matthias.

“It’s only a snag.” Matthias said.

“True.” Grindelwald agreed. “But I’d rather not have any to deal with.”

“As would I.” Matthias took a few steps to stand beside his friend. “As would I.”

“Pity the world doesn’t see fit to allow us this advantage.” Grindelwald said.

“It works in mysterious ways, my friend.”

Grindlewald opened his eyes, the rage gone, replaced by a steely resolve. “Come, let’s go see our prisoner.”

They left the war room behind, walking up a few flights of stairs before they reached the cells. The guard was waiting outside of it.

“The prisoner is ready, sir, as requested.”

“Thank you, Mr. Guffries.” Grindelwald said. “That will be all. Go on, enjoy a well-earned rest.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir.”

Not even looking Guffries’ way, Grindelwald paused before the door, looking at Matthias. “Wait here, won’t you?”

“As you wish.”

He waved a hand, and the door’s locks clicked open, grinding as it swung inward. The cell was a cramped, windowless pit, its walls slick with moisture. Mulciber slumped against the far wall, manacled wrists dangling, his once-proud robes tattered and stained. His face, gaunt and bruised, lifted at Grindelwald’s entrance, eyes widening with a mix of dread and defiance. The torchlight flickered, showing his sweat-slick skin.

Grindelwald stepped forward, his presence filling the cell.

“Mulciber.” He said, his voice silky, almost pleasant, yet laced with menace.

“You’ve kept me waiting.” He tilted his head, studying the man as one might a broken tool, assessing its worth. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on your… loyalties.”

Mulciber’s lips trembled, but he forced a sneer, his voice hoarse. “I’ve nothing to say to you, old man. My lord will— ”

“Your lord.” Grindelwald interrupted, his tone sharpening. “Has left you to rot.”

He stepped closer, the torch’s flame wavering as if cowed by his approach. “Voldemort sent you to Gloomvault, knowing you’d fail. And now, he burns my anchors, delays my work. Tell me, Mulciber, what does he gain by crossing me?”

Mulciber’s eyes darted, his chains clinking as he shifted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spat, but his voice cracked, betraying him. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening in the dim light.

Grindelwald’s smile was a blade, cold and precise.

“Lies bore me.” He said softly. He raised his wand, its tip glinting, and murmured. “Legilimens.”

His mind surged into Mulciber’s, a tidal wave breaching a crumbling dam. Images flashed— fragmented, chaotic. A cloaked figure with broad shoulders conjuring Fiendfyre that devoured crates of obsidian anchors.

A whispered order, Voldemort’s voice hissing through a charmed mirror: “Delay him. Let the boy make his move first.”

Grindelwald paused for a moment. The boy?

He pressed harder, sifting through Mulciber’s memories. A meeting in a shadowed alley, Macnair passing a scroll to a Ministry lackey— Fudge’s man, perhaps. Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, the connection tantalizing but incomplete. The memory frayed, Mulciber’s mind buckling under the intrusion, his screams echoing in the cell. Grindelwald withdrew, leaving the man gasping, his head lolling forward, blood trickling from his nose.

“Interesting.” Grindelwald murmured, lowering his wand. The torch flared briefly, casting his shadow across Mulciber’s crumpled form. Voldemort sought to stall the ritual, to let ‘the boy’— Adam Clarke, perhaps?— disrupt it. The Ministry’s involvement hinted at further betrayal, a web of deceit Grindelwald was nowhere near fully mapping.

But what did Adam have to do with it? As far as Grindelwald knew, the boy was too embroiled in his studies, friendships and family ties to be aware of his plans. His fingers twitched, itching to unravel it, but Mulciber’s mind was spent, a husk of broken thoughts.

There was nothing more to be gained here.

Mulciber stirred, a weak groan escaping him. Grindelwald glanced back, his expression one of faint disgust.

“You’ve served your purpose.” He said, raising the wand once more, its tip glowing green. “Avada Kedavra.”

A flash of green light illuminated the cell, and Mulciber slumped, lifeless, his chains clattering against the stone. The torch dimmed, as if in mourning, leaving Grindelwald in near-darkness.

He stepped to the door, his thoughts shifting to Rafiq. The Longling defectors had caches, hidden in the Carpathians, that could replace the lost obsidian. The native boy, Kai’s magic, too, would amplify the ritual, a secret Voldemort was not aware of, as far as he knew.

Grindelwald’s hand rested on the door’s iron handle, the cold metal grounding him.

He pushed the door open, the corridor’s chill greeting him, and descended the stairs, his boots echoing with renewed purpose as Matthias followed him closely. Mulciber’s memories had given him a glimpse of Voldemort’s game, but not its end.

It took some time to get back to the war room, but Rafiq was already there, waiting. He stood rigid beside the map, his scarred face unreadable in its glow. His dark robes blended with the shadows, but his eyes, sharp and wary, tracked Grindelwald’s every move. The man was a blade— loyal, precise, yet not without his edges.

Grindelwald stopped pacing, his fingers brushing the obsidian anchor, its pulse syncing with his own.

“Rafiq.” He said, his voice low, commanding, yet tinged with a warmth reserved for his inner circle.

“Gellert. Matthias.”

Matthias nodded before turning to Grindelwald.

“Our shipment of anchors are ash, courtesy of a serpentine friend of mine. We will need another source.” He turned, his gaze piercing, the runes’ light catching the silver streaks in his hair. “Longling has further caches hidden in the Carpathians, I believe. If you would be so kind?”

Rafiq’s expression barely shifted, but a flicker of doubt passed through his eyes, swift as a shadow.

“The Carpathians are contested.” He said, his voice gravelly, measured. “They guard their caches fiercely, and many of the local warring factions are there. It will not be a simple raid.”

His hand rested on the hilt of a charmed dagger, a reflex of readiness.

Grindelwald’s lips curved into a faint smile, not unkind but unyielding.

“Simplicity is for lesser men.” He replied, stepping closer, the anchor’s glow illuminating his sharp features. “But you will have ample time to plan this out. You’ll form your own team. Speed is not a concern, but secrecy is your ally in this. The caches hold obsidian infused with dragon’s blood, enough to stabilize the Stonehenge nexus. Without them, the ritual will likely fail.”

“Just so.” Rafiq nodded, his jaw tightening, though the doubt lingered in his gaze. “The defectors may demand terms. Their loyalty is, as you know, rather fluid.”

Grindelwald’s smile vanished, replaced by a predator’s glint.

“Kill them if you feel it’s necessary, but only if it’s necessary. Seek a diplomatic answer, first.” He said simply, his tone as cold as the chamber’s stone. “They are our allies, yes, but ones gained through treachery, and they know this as well as we do. Negotiation is what they will request, but I suspect you will not have the patience for this.”

At that, Rafiq smiled.

“It matters little how you get the shipment; when the portal is open, all will be made clear.” Grindelwald said. “Take the eastern pass. The defectors’ main cache is hidden in a warded cave near Brasov. Our spies marked it last month.”

He fixed Rafiq with a stare.

“I hope the weather will agree with me.” Rafiq said with a nod, before turning to Matthias. “Come, my friend. I believe there is much planning to do.”

“Of course.” Matthias said before both of them gave a short bow to Grindelwald. “Sir.”

“Good luck.”

They left without fanfare. Grindelwald remained alone, considering his plans. The Carpathian raid was a gamble, but necessary. Voldemort’s interference had bought his enemies time— Dumbledore would eventually catch on, and whatever hints Voldemort was sending Adam’s way… The boy was a wildcard, his power a mirror to the Abyss itself, with potential surpassing that of Grindelwald’s.

“Adam Clarke…” Grindelwald shook his head. “Perhaps I should have killed you instead of recruiting you.”

ooooo

Around The Same Time, Grimmauld Place

Adam Clarke

I stood in the dueling room of Grimmauld Place, the air heavy with the sharp scent of singed wood and old magic. The parlor’s creaky floorboards groaned under my weight, the wallpaper peeling in strips, curling like burned parchment. Though they were made to withstand spellfire, this particular fight had strained them fairly well.

My wand rested warmly in my hand, but it was the void inside me that stirred, a restless pulse begging to be unleashed. Sweat stung my eyes, my breath ragged, as I faced Harry across the room.

His green eyes shined with focus, his wand raised, his trainers scuffing the dusty floor. We’d been training for a while.

“Again?” Harry asked, his voice steady, a half-grin tugging at his lips. He adjusted his stance, ready for another round, and I nodded, my pulse hammering.

I flicked my wand, summoning chains— silver, shimmering tendrils that coiled through the air, sharp as blades. They surged toward Harry, aiming to pin his wand arm. He countered with a crisp, “Protego!”

A shimmering shield flared, deflecting a chain. I twisted my wrist, redirecting the others. My eye— the white one— flashed, a dull ache blooming behind it, but I ignored it, focusing on the chains. They grazed Harry’s shoulder, tearing his sleeve, before he ducked, firing a Stunner that I batted away.

The room quivered, dust sifting from the ceiling, and Harry laughed, breathless.

“You’re getting scarier, Adam!” He called, diving behind a charmed dummy, his next spell grazing my arm. I grinned and summoned another chain, thicker, its edges crackling. It was deflected and instead slammed into the dummy, splintering its wooden frame, and Harry popped up, eyes wide but still grinning.

“That’s enough for now.” He said, lowering his wand, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re gonna break the house.”

His tone was light, but his gaze lingered on my white eye, concern flickering.

I nodded, my breath hitching, reluctant to settle.

“Yeah, okay. Fine.” I said, my voice rough. We stepped back, wands lowered, the room’s hum fading. Harry clapped my shoulder, his touch grounding, and headed for the door, promising to grab water. “I’ll do a few repairs after a bit of meditation.”

“Sounds good to me!” Harry’s voice came from up the stairs.

I smiled for a moment and sank to the floor, cross-legged, in the room’s center, the floorboards cool beneath me. The candles flickered, their light soft against the walls’ scars. I closed my eyes, my wand across my lap, and focused on my breath, slow and deep, like Sirius had taught me.

My void was a storm, wild and vast, but I could conceivably tap into it, tame it, channel it. I reached inward, picturing a still lake, its surface black and endless. The void responded, a gentle ripple at first, its cold touch brushing my mind. I guided it, shaping it into a thin thread, letting it flow through my hands, controlled, precise.

The thread grew, a faint hum filling the room, and I felt it— power, pure and sharp, but steady. I pushed further, the void’s lake rippling faster, its edges tingling in my fingers. I opened my eyes, keeping the thread tight, and directed it toward a wooden chair in the corner, its legs warped from years of neglect. The void touched it, a black mist curling around the wood, and I focused, willing the chair to hold, to test my control.

But the void slipped, a sudden surge like a dam breaking. The mist thickened, the hum turning to a low wail, and the chair shuddered. Its wood darkened, then withered, crumbling into ash that vanished before it hit the floor. Gone, erased, as if it had never been. My white eye burned, a sharp pain lancing through my skull, and the void roared, pulling at my mind, hungry for more. I couldn’t stop, the lake now a churning sea, dragging me under.

“Adam!” Sirius’ voice cut through, sharp and urgent. His hand clamped my shoulder, shaking me, his face looming close, eyes wide with alarm. “Snap out of it, now!”

I gasped, the void’s grip shattering, the hum collapsing into silence. My hands trembled, the thread gone, and I touched my face, fingers coming away wet with blood— a nosebleed, warm and sticky, dripping over my lips. The room spun, the candles’ light blurring, and I sagged, my wand clattering to the floor. Sirius knelt beside me, his grip steady, his breath uneven.

“Bloody hell, Adam. Harry leaves you for one second and this happens?” He muttered, his voice low, not angry but shaken. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to my nose, his other hand still on my shoulder. “What were you doing?”

I swallowed, the coppery taste of blood sharp.

“Meditating.” I said, my voice hoarse. “Trying to control it.”

I glanced at the corner, where the chair had been, now just empty floor, a faint scorch mark the only trace. My stomach twisted— I’d meant to test the void, not destroy with it.

It really seems to unmake everything it touches, but I’m completely fine with it in my body. What the Hell does that even mean?

Sirius followed my gaze, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t lecture.

“Well, you’ve learned that it makes you bleed out of your nose— might be scrambling your brain?” He said, tilting my head to check the flow. “Mind stopping this for now?”

His tone was firm, but his eyes held something softer, a fear I knew too well— the fear of losing me, like he’d lost his precious people before.

“Yeah, I’ll stop. Didn’t expect this sort of blowback from the power.” I said with a nod, the headache pulsing, my white eye dimming. The void’s whisper faded, but its warning lingered— I’d pushed too far, lost control.

Harry’s footsteps echoed from the hall, his voice calling about water, and I leaned into Sirius’ grip, the handkerchief staunching the blood. Eventually, he pulled it away, and it came off clean.

“There we are.”

“Thanks, Sirius.” I said. “Maybe I’ll just read a book or two, instead of this.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. If reading was going to kill me, I’d have been dead a long time ago.” I said and we shared a laugh. Sirius let go of me after helping me up, taking a few steps back. “Need any help to walk?”

“No. I should be fine.” I said, turning towards the door to the secret chamber. I took a step forward before stopping and turning to Sirius. “Thank you.”

“If you feel under the weather at all—”

“Yes, I’ll call for you.”

“Good!” At that, Sirius smiled and moved away. “Enjoy your reading.”

Before long, I was sprawled on a faded velvet cushion, my back against the cold stone wall of the secret room. The air was heavy with the musty scent of old books, the chamber’s low ceiling pressing down like a tomb.

A single charmed lantern hung from a chain, its pale light flickering over shelves stuffed with scrolls, grimoires, and artifacts the Black family had hidden away. The void’s hum lingered in my chest, quieter now but restless, a faint echo of the dueling room’s disaster where I’d withered a chair to nothing. My head throbbed, the ghost of a nosebleed still sharp in my memory, and my white eye ached, a dull pulse that hadn’t truly faded since Sirius snapped me out of my trance.

I’d retreated here to rest, away from his worried eyes and Harry’s cautious grins, but rest wasn’t what I needed— answers were.

I shifted, my wand resting on the cushion beside me, its ebony grain catching the lantern’s glow. A new stack of books sat at my feet, pulled from the chamber’s shelves, their leather covers cracked and dusty. My hands itched to dig, to find something that explained the void, the stirrings of the world, or Grindelwald’s plan. I reached for the topmost book, its cover blank, no title or author etched into its worn surface. The pages crunched as I opened it, the ink faded but legible, scrawled in a tight, frantic hand. Notes, not a proper book— personal, urgent, like a diary of forbidden thoughts.

My eyes scanned the text, heart quickening as I recognized the handwriting from other Black family tomes: Cassius Black, the pompous douchebag obsessed with magic’s edges.

Every Black with the exception of Sirius is a douchebag, it seems.

The notes rambled about ley lines, invisible rivers of power crisscrossing the earth, and a few tidbits of valuable information emerged in jagged underlines: “the nexus, raw and untamed, surges with the earth’s pulse.”

I leaned forward, the cushion creaking. Cassius described disruptions, ley lines flaring unpredictably, and my mind flashed to the man’s words— dark stirrings, tied to something big.

Then, a line stopped me cold: “Beware the sovereign from beyond the realm of life.”

The void in me seemed to resonate with that word, a cold thread weaving through my veins. Sovereign.

It echoed the nightmares that haunted me, a tentacled horror whispering my name, its eyes like dying stars. The lantern flickered, shadows dancing across the chamber’s walls, and my white eye burned, the headache spiking. Was this what my void comes from?

I forced my breathing to slow, just in time to hear footsteps echoing from above, muffled through the walls and ceiling. Harry’s voice called, faint but warm, something about tea and biscuits. I smiled despite myself.

Always dragging me back from the edge.

I wanted to join him, to let his grin and Kreacher’s grumbling ground me, but the book held me, Cassius’ notes too valuable to ignore for now. I flipped another page, finding a diagram of a power ritual that looked eerily family, though I couldn’t place it. Each pillar was circled in ink, labeled ‘nexus peak’.

I closed the book, its weight heavy in my lap. Harry’s footsteps faded, the silence returning, and I leaned back against the wall, the stone cool through my shirt. I had to keep digging, for Harry, for Sirius, for everyone Grindelwald threatened.

But first, a quick break. I wouldn’t be good to anyone if I were disabled by my need to do something. Before long, I was seated at the wooden table in the kitchen. The air smelled of Kreacher’s stew, rich and savory, steam curling from a pot on the stove, but my stomach twisted too much to eat.

Sirius stood by Kreacher, who was stirring the pot at the stove. “Go and rest, you old bugger.”

“I will do as dumb Master says.”

“How’d your meditation go?” Harry’s voice pulled back from that amusing exchange.

I smiled a little and gripped my mug, its heat seeping into my palms.

“Just… thinking.” I said, my voice rough. I glanced at Sirius. The man started stirring, his back to us, the spoon scraping the pot with a steady rhythm.

“Is it the chair?”

I swallowed, the tea bitter on my tongue.

“Yeah. I hadn’t even meant to do that.” I said, my gaze dropping to the table’s scars. “I was trying to control it, meditating, but it slipped.”

Sirius turned then, his dark eyes locking onto mine, the spoon still in his hand.

“It’s a dangerous power you’re tapping into.” He said. “You shouldn’t use it without supervision, I don’t think.”

I bristled.

“But I have to—” I said and stopped, feeling a warm trickle— another nosebleed, blood dripping onto my lip, coppery and sharp. I snatched a cloth from in front of me and pressed it against my nose. “Again?”

“Adam.” Harry said, his voice urgent, half-rising from his chair.

“Breathe, kid.” Sirius said, his voice steady now, grounding. “I know you have to, and I’m happy to help you with it.”

“Just don’t know where to start.” I said, muffled as my voice was. Before long, I felt the flow slow to nothing. The headache eased, and I sagged in my seat, the mug trembling in my hand.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I did find something, though. On my break.” I said. “More notes from Cassius— I don’t think his portrait knows everything, it seems. There were stuff I recognized— talks about a nexus and collections of power, but there was also a mention of something else… something called a ‘sovereign’.”

Harry leaned closer, his eyes wide. “Sovereign? Like a king or something?”

“I think so?” I said, glancing at Sirius, whose expression hadn’t changed, but his grip tightened slightly. “I need to keep looking through the notes to fully understand what the point of it is, but it seems to be tied to what I’m researching, and some king-like creature doesn’t sound like it’s anything good.”

Sirius approached and pulled the cloth away, checking the blood before nodding.

“We’ll look together.” He said, his voice firm but softer now, a promise. He stood, ruffling Harry’s hair, then mine, a rare gesture that eased the knot in my chest. “But no more for the day, yeah? You’re bleeding, and we need you whole for that sort of research.”

I managed a nod, Harry’s grin returning as he pushed the tea closer. The kitchen’s warmth wrapped around me, the stew’s scent grounding.

“How about I have some of that stew, instead?” I said, smiling.

“Now we’re talking!”

oooo

Hours later, I collapsed onto my bed in Grimmauld Place, the worn mattress creaking beneath me, the room cloaked in shadows despite the dim glow of a charmed lantern on the nightstand. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged wood.

My head throbbed from the day’s toll, and it seemed like I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon; however, sleep did eventually come.

It wasn’t a refuge, though, but instead a fall into terror.

The dream thrust me into a warped, alien landscape, a barren plain under a sky that oozed crimson, clouds twisting like festering sores. Towering stones surrounded me, jagged and black, their surfaces pitted and pulsing with veins of red energy.

They stood in no order, leaning at unnatural angles, as if wrenched from the earth by some primal force. The ground was split, oozing black mist that coiled around my legs, icy and slick, tasting of ash and metal on my tongue. A deep roar pulsed through the air, not sound but a force, rattling my bones. I didn’t know this place, its strangeness defying any name, but a nagging feeling tugged at the back of my mind, a whisper of familiarity I couldn’t place.

My wand trembled in my hand, its ebony grip slick, but the void inside me surged, wild and ravenous, drowning out thought.

A rift tore through the ground, a gaping wound spilling darkness, and from it rose a churning mass of tentacles, black and glistening, studded with eyes that burned like dying stars. Its form flickered, never solid, a nightmare given life.

“Adam.” It whispered, its voice a tangle of screams and hisses, clawing at my mind. “We meet at last… Thank you for inviting me here.”

My white eye seared, blood trickling down my cheek, warm and sharp. I tried to summon chains, silver tendrils to bind it, but they crumbled, dissolving into the mist, my magic failing me.

The stones’ red veins glowed brighter, their pulse hammering in my skull, and the Sovereign’s tentacles lashed out, grazing my arm with a touch like frozen knives, burning and numbing.

“You cannot stop the waking.” It said, its eyes piercing mine, unraveling me. “This place opens, and you are its key.”

I stumbled back, the ground quaking, the rift widening, swallowing the stones’ roots. My scream was lost in the roar, my white eye blinding, the void dragging me toward the deep dark of the Abyss— 

I woke gasping, my chest heaving. Grimmauld Place’s shadows snapped back, but my heart pounded, the Sovereign’s voice lingering.

Inviting it? It’s coming because of me?

No answer came from the dark.