He stared morosely at the parchment mountain spilling across his desk and fought down a sigh.

  Lockhart never had it this bad.

  Hopeful mothers.

  Eager daughters.

  Some not old enough to have earned their OWLs.

  Others distressingly of an age with Bathilda Bagshot.

  Lady Esmeralda Gamp. Fifty-seven. Proud owner of fifteen kneazles, and apparently willing to overlook a mere thirty-three-year age gap.

  How broad-minded.

  Lady Adelaide Bulstrode. She’d attached her full genealogy and a family tree tracing her lineage back to Merlin himself. The sixth of his line this morning.

  Didn’t realize he’d been such a randy old goat.

  Harry tossed the letter aside and reached for the next. At this point, he’d be happy for another offer of inheriting millions from a long-lost Uagadouan relative who kicked the bucket.

  Instead, an unsteady scrawl of crayon greeted him.

  Olive.

  A brittle smile worked its way across his face.

  Apparently, Cecil, her now-named balloon-kneazle, was doing quite well. The pain had lessened with distance from the full moon.

  And, he was her hero.

  The letter was short, heartfelt, and deeply misplaced.

  He didn’t know what to do with her gratitude. It burned like a scarlet letter. If he’d been faster or gone on the attack right away, would she have been spared?

  He’d never know.

  Looking at the large, irregular script, his mind travelled forward in time to a little boy he’d left behind.

  A smaller hand. Messier letters. "Uncle Harry, when will you visit again?"

  Oh, Teddy.

  He closed his traitorously moist eyes for just a breath. An infinity later, he opened them and exhaled.

  The fear had been constant those first years. He’d fretted over every full moon as Andi and Narcissa plied him with chamomile tea that tasted suspiciously of Hellebore. They’d sit together into the wee hours as they awaited the curse’s arrival.

  It never came.

  The boy just grew louder, hungrier, and a bit more fond of roughhousing. Blessedly, utterly normal.

  Sighing, he carefully placed the letter in the small pile that was not fated for the rubbish bin.

  The rest blurred past in a fug of ink and disinterest.

  He turned back.

  The stack had been vanquished.

  A pyrrhic victory.

  Then an owl swooped through the window, dropping a garish pink envelope onto the desk.

  Frowning, he followed the standard procedure he’d developed from bitter experience, decades in the future. He tapped the letter with his wand, pulsing multiple charms across its surface.

  No compulsions.

  No curses.

  No exotic compounds.

  It should be safe.

  Probably.

  Eye-watering lavender perfume wafted forth as he broke the seal. Nothing a quick bubble-head-charm couldn’t fix.

  The handwriting was looping and bubbly, the tone a disturbing blend of flirtatious and pompous. While deciphering the incomprehensible message—”I confess, I find myself curious how it must feel to hold a wand so turgid and domineering in hand”—an enclosed photograph fell onto his lap.

  He looked down.

  And recoiled.

  The figure undulated, the movements a perverse facsimile of coy seduction.

  Puffskein pasties... Did they just wink?

  He glanced at the sender’s name.

  His stomach dropped. Violent coughs racked his body. He fought not to dry heave.

  Dolores Umbridge.

  He snapped the letter shut. The quickest Banishing Charm of his life followed. A quick conjuration of flame purged the cursed correspondence from the mortal realm. But there was no panacea for this kind of trauma.

  Self-obliviation was beyond dangerous. Might be worth it though.

  For now, it was time to flee this tainted place.

  · · ·

  He fled down the hallway, the scent of lavender grasping after like a cloying pestilence.

  By the time he reached the stairwell, he’d wrestled back a semblance of self-control. A few more moments at the top of the stairway and he’d managed to centre himself, the new trauma bottled up for future Harry to deal with.

  He trotted down the stairs of the Leaky Cauldron, taking care to avoid catching anyone’s eye in the bustling common room. Unfortunately, Tom was waiting at the bar, his expression caught between amusement and anxiety.

  "Another petitioner came by to see ya. Told ‘im you wasn’t taking visitors." Tom wiped a tankard with practiced ease.

  Are people drinking this early, or does that tankard have a 'never-clean' enchantment?

  Harry’s smile was anemic. "Thanks, Tom. It's starting to feel like an aviary up there as is."

  Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "Much more o' this, and I'll have half o' London knocking down me door to get a good look at you. And enough bird shite to collapse in me roof."

  Harry placed a handful of galleons onto the counter. "Settle me up through the weekend, would you? I'll find somewhere else to roost before your fine establishment is overrun by the horde."

  Tom swept the up the coins with a grateful nod. "’Preciate that. You're welcome here anytime, but quieter is better for business, you understand."

  Harry gave a slight wave as he turned toward the door. "Off to claim my castle, then."

  Outside, Harry murmured a quick charm beneath his breath. A gentle ripple of cool magic whispered over his face, softening his sharp features into something far less recognizable. It wasn't a detailed glamour, but enough to blur his identity and let him navigate the Alley unnoticed.

  He slipped into Diagon’s midday crush, sidestepping a crowd gathered around a street vendor loudly hawking amulets. Silver and Monkshood to repel werewolves. Garlic and chili peppers to ward off vampires… or just about anyone with a working nose, truth be told.

  The mingled scent of fresh bread and potion fumes floated on the air, punctuated by laughter and the sharp crack of Apparition. He lowered his head slightly, keeping to the edge of the street, and slipped into the welcoming warmth of the wizarding real estate office.

  The time had come to find the new Chateau Peverell. Poring over the real estate offerings had been fruitful. A specific listing sat safely in his pocket.

  · · ·

  The deed to his new property sat safely in his pocket. Abandoned lands in the Scottish Highlands were not in high demand, it seemed. A few hours, a couple signatures, and a bank draft later, and Harry was the proud owner of a cliffside view.

  He arrived with a sharp crack, the rush of displaced air immediately swallowed by the roar of the Minch. The wind slapped against his cloak, carrying the brine of the sea and the earthy sweetness of damp heather. Beneath his boots, the ridge was uneven, a mix of weathered rock and moss-slick stone, sloping down toward the jagged coastline below.

  Waves pounded against the cliffs, white spray rising in chaotic bursts, carried upward in swirling gusts. The landscape stretched before him, raw and untamed, reaching out into the sea like a gnarled finger. The narrow peninsula jutted sharply inward where the loch met the sea, its rocky terrain sloping toward sheer edges where the sea had gnawed away at its foundations. Long grasses and patches of sea thrift clung stubbornly to the earth, bent low from the elements. Further inland, the ridges softened into moorland, pockets of gorse and thorny bramble scattered between weathered boulders.

  At the very tip of the land, separated by a narrow channel, the island rose. A dark silhouette against the shifting grey of the horizon, barely visible through the mist curling from the sea. A natural fortress, carved by time and tide.

  Remote.

  Isolated.

  Forgotten.

  Perfect.

  He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against soft velvet, and retrieved a familiar pouch. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it upward, and the air filled with the whirr of tiny wings. The clockwork birds burst forward, brass and silver glinting beneath the overcast sky.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Harry watched as they skimmed low over the ridge, darting between moss-covered stones and twisting through gaps in the rocky outcrops. Their metallic feathers hummed as they danced over the land, mapping every rise and hollow, every jagged break where the cliffs fell sharply into the loch.

  A pair of birds shot toward the island, vanishing for a long moment before flickering back into view. Their trills shifted in tone, now a melodious chirping, as a shimmer of blue rippled in the distance. Slowly, layer by layer, a hidden barrier revealed itself. Delicate filigrees of runes flared into view, tracing luminous circuits of runes across the air before fading into ghostly afterimages. A vast dome of protective magic sat over the island, its edges bleeding into the surrounding mist, nearly melting into the sea spray.

  Harry narrowed his eyes as the birds continued their work, marking the seams, the anchors, the patterns of reinforcement that had held this place in secrecy for centuries.

  This is it.

  He exhaled slowly, lowering his wand as the last of the runes flickered into view.

  The hard part was yet to come. Cracking these wards could be a real pain, but he’d gotten the place for a song.

  At last.

  A place to call his own.

  Harry pulled his broom from his bag, feeling the familiar weight as it expanded to full size in his grip. A smooth kick, and he was airborne, cutting a slow, measured arc around the island. The wind was biting, thick with salt, but the broom handled well, responding to the smallest shift in his grip.

  He felt at home in the air, smiling as a squadron of bonxie fell in behind him and his clockwork flock. As he barrel-rolled and dove, they followed, but flinched out of the Wronsky feint early.

  A touch more welly, lads.

  Below, the hidden fortress remained just that. Even knowing its exact location, all he saw were mist-wrapped cliffs. Bands of gneiss and quartzite ran in jagged veins down to where the tides crashed against the stone.

  His clockwork darlings darted ahead, scanning. A sudden sharp trill from one of them made him glance down.

  There.

  A flat shelf of stone, like a tongue tasting the sea air, just beyond the wardline. He guided his broom lower and set down lightly, boots crunching against loose gravel and damp lichen.

  Right. Let’s see what we’re up against.

  Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his ley-compass, the brass casing warm against his palm. The etched runes along its surface hummed faintly, reacting to the latent magic in the air. Inside the glass casing, a small pool of mercury quivered, shifting in sluggish, liquid movement before snapping into a sharp point, locking onto the unseen wardline ahead.

  The compass tugged against his grip, not pulling in one direction like it would for buried ward stones, but trembling with resistance as he tuned it to analyse the enchantments.

  He waited patiently, holding it steady as the mercury shifted again. More details filtered through, the runes glowing softly in response.

  The primary concealment layer was holding, though slightly degraded. The unplottability fields were weak, their edges crumbling under the strain of time. The structural defensive layers had collapsed entirely, leaving only a faint trace of their former strength. The repulsion ward, however, was still active, though faltering.

  Harry frowned. The repulsion ward was the last functional defence. Whatever had once fortified this place was long gone, leaving only secrecy and a final, stubborn push against intruders.

  Security through obscurity, eh?

  He adjusted the ley-compass, tapping the side with his wand. The mercury rippled, then broke into fragmented rings, isolating the ward’s signature. Its core hummed just beneath the surface of the stone, old magic layered deep, likely drawn from the island’s natural ley-lines.

  A self-sustaining barrier. Passive, but strong enough to keep anyone from setting foot on the bridge.

  Harry tapped his fingers against the compass’s casing, considering. The ward was not rejecting him outright, only maintaining its original function. No need to dismantle it. Just convince the bridge to roll out the welcome mat.

  He pressed his wand lightly against the compass, channelling a pulse of intent through the tool in a classic “knocking” pattern, rather than brute-forcing his magic into the wards themselves. The mercury shivered, then stilled.

  Ahead, the gatehouse stirred.

  Harry stroked an imaginary beard as wisdom of the ancients filled his mind.

  A simple knock opens more doors than a battering ram.

  He nodded thoughtfully, impressed by his own insight. Perhaps there were half-moon spectacles in his future.

  His thoughts were interrupted by creaking wood. The old mechanisms groaned to life as the bridge unrolled, planks locking into place with a heavy, resonant thud.

  Harry watched for a moment, then flicked the compass shut, pocketing it before stepping forward.

  The bridge held firm beneath his boots as Harry strode across the solid planks. The loch stretched wide beneath him, its dark waters churning against the sheer stone cliffs that surrounded the island. He walked steadily, eyes fixed on the gatehouse doors ahead, which stood closed yet oddly inviting.

  As he approached, the heavy iron-bound doors shuddered, then unlocked themselves with a slow, deliberate click.

  The estate greeted him like an old friend.

  Honey, I’m—

  . . .

  Home.

  He passed beneath the gatehouse arch, his new home before him. He stepped onto the courtyard’s uneven cobbles, a patchwork of dark basalt and lighter sandstone, smoothed by the centuries and broken in places where frost and time had pried them apart.

  He gave a sharp, two-note whistle.

  The response was immediate. They’d been keen to explore their new home as well.

  The clockwork flock blitzed through the open gateway in a furious flurry of copper and brass, wings whirring with a restless, high-pitched hum as they zipped into the open air. They moved in unpredictable arcs, darting and looping, wings beating so fast they blurred in flashes of reflected light. One spiralled upward in a tight corkscrew, another spun mid-air before shooting off toward the stable, and a third did a loop-the-loop for the sheer joy of movement before veering toward the manor.

  The rest scattered to explore, singing in bright, metallic trills as they surveyed the grounds.

  Harry strode forward, eyes moving across the estate. It should have looked ancient and decayed.

  It didn’t.

  A bit shabby maybe, but no more than any bachelor left on their own for too long. Still, it felt lived-in. Like someone had just stepped out.

  Is this what they meant by “Back in my day, we built quality”?

  The walls stood tall, built of rough-hewn grey stone mottled with veins of white quartz. The watchtowers stood sentinel over the perimeter, their narrow slits shadowed, but intact. The guest house remained sealed, shutters closed, its thick wooden beams showing no sign of rot. Even the laboratory’s chimney stood unbroken, its iron door streaked with rust but not warped by time.

  The stable, however, had succumbed. Its thatched roof had collapsed inward, leaving the skeletal remains of old beams exposed, a tangled mess of broken planks and rotted straw blackened by years of damp.

  Harry slowly scanned the estate, considering.

  It felt like Hogwarts. Like home.

  The courtyard stretched wide, its cobbled surface uneven in places where tree roots had pushed through from below. The floating quill beside him continued scratching notes onto the unfurled parchment.

  He moved deeper, boots scuffing against loose stones as he passed the guest house, then the greenhouse, its glass panes pearled with condensation, the plants inside pressing thick against the glass.

  Above, the watchtowers tracked him.

  Or rather, the gargoyles did.

  Harry slowed. The first one sat nestled above the main archway, a small, winged figure carved from the same gneiss as the walls, no larger than a house cat. It had been still before. Now, its head had tilted slightly, one brow raised, as if trying to puzzle him out.

  Another perched on the watchtower to his right, its stone lips pressed into a constipated expression. "A wee bit o’ privacy, if ye’d be sae kind."

  Wonder how much Gargoyle guano is caking the watchtowers.

  One of his birds zipped past, chirping a bright, sing-song taunt as it buzzed around the gargoyle’s head. The gargoyle’s expression turned to stone, unimpressed.

  Harry huffed.

  He turned his attention to the manor.

  The doors were tall and iron-bound, dark oak deeply grooved from age but still solid. Across its surface, faint carvings wove together in interlocking patterns.

  To his right, the observatory tower stretched high, a pillar of stone shooting into the grey sky. At first glance, it was still. Then he caught a slow, near-imperceptible shift, the upper levels realigning themselves, as though adjusting their focus on something unseen above.

  Harry raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  Alright… that’s proper brilliant.

  He adjusted the strap of his bag before stepping up the short flight of worn stone stairs and pushing on the iron-bound doors.

  . . .

  The doors swung open on ancient, stiff hinges. The air within was cool and heavy, thick with with the scent of aged stone.

  Harry stepped through, his wand sending forth will’o’wisp-like lights that hovered nearby, illuminating the vaulted arches that lined the great hall. The ceiling stretched high above, ribbed with thick, carved stone beams. The walls were built from massive blocks, each slab fitted with impossible precision, their pale seams nearly invisible.

  The floor beneath his boots was uneven in places, not from neglect, but from old magic behaving unevenly over time, leaving small shifts in the stone where preservation charms had failed. The cobbled basalt and sandstone tiles formed deliberate hexagonal patterns, though the centuries had dulled the intricate designs.

  His birds whirred into the space, darting toward the rafters, wings beating in bright, humming trills as they dove and looped through the dust-filled air. One zipped up toward a rusted wrought-iron chandelier, talons clicking against metal, while another hovered near a series of tall, arched windows, their leaded glass clouded by centuries of sea salt. The light that filtered through was dim and distorted, casting pale, wavering shapes against the stone.

  Harry strode forward, trailing his fingers along the edge of the long wooden table that dominated the centre of the hall. The carvings beneath his fingertips felt deep, their patterns forming interwoven knotwork inlaid with brass filigree. Tarnished now, but once polished to a gleam.

  No magical torches flaring to life.

  No self-cleaning charms at work.

  No portraits announcing his arrival.

  Not even a cuppa, then?

  His floating quill kept pace beside him, scratching out notes in sharp, efficient strokes.

  ‘Main hall structurally sound.

  Some floor warping.

  Tapestries degraded.

  Heavy dust accumulation.

  No active preservation charms.’

  Most of the manor had held up far better than it should have. The walls were sturdy, the ceiling intact, the air cool but not damp, a good sign. He had seen places half this old crumble into little more than hollowed-out husks.

  The arches and pillars still bore faint traces of gilding, their surfaces marked with sigils too worn to read, but clearly once decorative. Here and there, small sculpted faces peered from the tops of columns, wizards and creatures alike.

  The state of the place didn’t worry him.

  The size of it did.

  His gaze drifted upward, taking in the scale of the great hall, the branching corridors beyond, the looming staircase that ascended into the dark.

  This is a lot of house.

  More than he could handle on his own.

  "Echo!" Harry called, the sound reverberating back to him. "Echo. Echo. Echo."

  Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  I'm going to need help. Or house-elves. Or both.

  The thought wasn't a complaint, just a fact. Places like this were meant to be lived in, maintained, kept whole. He could throw around a few cleaning charms, sure, but keeping an entire manor functional? That was a full-time job.

  And there were few things in the world as efficient, dedicated, and oddly cheerful as house-elves when it came to that kind of work.

  His lips quirked slightly.

  Dobby would’ve loved this place.

  He stared across the empty hall, eyes seeing a far off scene. Memories filled his mind’s eye, a brief flicker of warmth, a memory of the tiny, stubborn, mad elf who had worn mismatched socks and spoken of freedom with the passion of William Wallace and the kind of joy most people couldn’t even grasp.

  The birds zipped past him again, their high-pitched, chiming songs bouncing through the empty stone corridors.

  Harry shook his head, pushing off the thought for later.

  First things first.

  With one last glance at the dust-covered hall, he turned toward the main stairwell.

  Which room’s mine?