Quote from Robaku90 on September 6, 2024, 4:37 pm

Quote from Naaga on September 6, 2024, 6:00 am

### **Spinner’s End, 1987 - Draven's Fever**

The small room at Spinner's End was shrouded in shadows. The flickering candlelight barely held back the darkness, casting trembling, distorted shapes on the walls. Outside, the wind howled and rattled the windows, its mournful wails seeping through the thin walls and sending chills through the old house.

Draven lay on the narrow bed, his small body drenched in sweat, his breaths shallow and ragged. His fever had raged for days, his cheeks burning with an unnatural, frightening heat. The child’s dark hair was matted against his forehead, and his lips, cracked and dry, parted in delirious murmurs. His eyes, usually so full of life and curiosity, were now glazed and unfocused.

Severus Snape stood beside him, his face etched with an emotion that was rarely ever visible on his features—fear. The healers had come and gone, offering little but grim expressions and dire predictions. *"There is no cure for this fever. His body is too weak. The boy may not survive the night."* They might as well have stabbed Severus in the chest with their blunt words.

But he refused to believe it. Severus Snape was not one to bow to fate or the so-called limits of magic. Not when his son’s life hung in the balance.

### **Desperation and Determination**

Severus paced the room, his black robes flowing around him like shadows, his mind racing. He had combed through his vast library of potions books and forbidden texts for days, scarcely pausing to eat or sleep. His hands were raw from constant brewing, his fingers stained with a myriad of ingredients. He had tried everything within conventional wisdom, and now he was venturing into darker, more dangerous waters.

*I will not lose him,* he thought fiercely, his jaw clenched tight. He looked at Draven, his son’s tiny form trembling under the weight of the fever. *Not like this. Never like this.*

He moved to the cauldron simmering in the corner, its contents swirling with a strange iridescence, an emerald green so deep it was nearly black. He had crafted this potion from the rarest ingredients he possessed—Phoenix tears, Essence of Murtlap, and a few drops of his own blood to bind it to Draven. It was a volatile concoction, one that could either cure or kill. But there was no choice left. If it meant saving Draven, Severus would take the risk.

He filled a small vial with the potion, the fumes rising like a dark mist. His hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he approached the bed.

“Draven,” Severus whispered, his voice softer than the wind outside. “I need you to drink this, my son. It will help you. I promise.”

### **A Father’s Plea**

Draven's eyes fluttered open, his gaze glassy and unfocused. He looked up at his father, not truly seeing him, lost in a haze of fever and pain. But at the sound of Severus’s voice, something shifted. He whimpered, his voice weak and small. “Papa… it hurts so much…”

Severus’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he had to swallow against the tightness in his throat. “I know it does,” he said, his voice trembling with a rare vulnerability. “But you must trust me. I need you to drink this, Draven. Please… for me.”

Draven's small body convulsed with a shiver, and his little hand reached out, grasping weakly for his father's sleeve. His eyes, unfocused and half-lidded, seemed to search for something—comfort, assurance, love. “Don’t… leave… me, Papa…”

Severus’s heart twisted painfully. “I’m right here,” he said, voice cracking, a hint of a plea. “I’m not going anywhere, Draven. Not now, not ever.”

With his other hand, he gently lifted Draven’s head, bringing the vial to his lips. “Drink, son,” he urged. “Just a little.”

The child opened his mouth, more from trust than understanding, and Severus carefully tipped the potion down his throat. The moment the liquid touched his lips, Draven’s body jerked violently. He gasped and began to choke, his limbs flailing weakly against the bed.

“Stay with me!” Severus’s voice was sharp, desperate. He gripped Draven’s shoulders, steadying him as his small body convulsed. “Please, Draven… stay with me!”

It felt like an eternity, every second stretching into an agonizing, infinite moment. And then, slowly, the convulsions ceased. The unnatural flush in Draven's cheeks began to fade, and his breathing, once erratic and shallow, began to steady. His little body, though still weak, seemed to relax.

Severus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders slumped as the overwhelming tension drained from his body. He stayed close, his hand never leaving his son’s, his dark eyes watching every rise and fall of Draven’s small chest. *It’s working,* he thought, daring to hope.

### **Father and Son**

The hours dragged on, and Severus remained at Draven’s side. He whispered softly to him, murmuring reassurances, his voice like a low lullaby in the dim room. “You’re safe, Draven… You’re going to be just fine. I’m here. I’m here…”

As dawn began to break, the fever had finally broken. Draven’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and this time, they were clearer, more focused. He blinked up at Severus, his little brows knitting together in confusion and exhaustion. “Papa…?”

Severus's chest tightened at the sound of his son’s voice—weak but alive. He managed a faint smile, his voice soft and raw. “Yes, Draven. I’m here.”

Draven’s small hand, still trembling, reached up to touch his father’s face. “You… didn’t leave… I thought… you would…”

Severus closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his throat tighten again. “I will never leave you, Draven,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Never. You’re my son… my everything.”

Draven’s lips quivered, and tears began to form in his eyes. “I was so scared, Papa…” he whispered, his voice trembling with a child’s raw honesty.

Severus felt his own eyes sting, but he didn’t try to hide it. “I know,” he said, his voice soft, filled with a depth of emotion he rarely showed. “But you’re safe now. I swear to you… you’re safe.”

The little boy managed a shaky smile, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I… I love you, Papa,” he whispered, his voice fragile but full of warmth and trust.

Severus’s breath caught, and he pulled Draven close, cradling his son against his chest. “And I love you, Draven,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “More than anything in this world. You are my heart.”

Draven nestled into his father’s embrace, his small body finally relaxed, his breathing even. And for the first time in days, he slept peacefully, secure in the knowledge that his father would always be there, watching over him, fighting for him.

Severus sat there for hours, holding his son close, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his own. The world outside might be filled with darkness and uncertainty, but here, in this moment, with his son safe in his arms, he found a rare, precious peace.

From that day on, the bond between father and son deepened in ways that neither could ever forget. Severus became not just a protector, but a guiding star in Draven's life, the one who would always be there, no matter the storms that lay ahead.

Oh my... 😮 I was moved! Beautiful scene! Thank you! ❤🖤💚❤

Quote from Naaga on September 6, 2024, 11:27 pm

### **Draven Burbage's POV – Sorting Ceremony at Hogwarts, 1992**

I stood in the Great Hall, my heart pounding so loudly that I could barely hear the chatter around me. The enchanted ceiling above shimmered like a starry sky, and I could feel its vastness pressing down on me, making me feel small and out of place. I’d heard about Hogwarts my whole life from Mum, and from what little Father would tell me. But standing here now, I felt like I was at the edge of something huge, something I didn’t quite understand yet.

My eyes drifted to the staff table, searching among the teachers. And there he was—my father. Professor Snape. His dark eyes were cold and unreadable, just like always, but I could feel them on me. I held my breath. I wanted him to see me—to see that I was worthy. Would he be disappointed if I didn’t end up in Slytherin? I didn’t want to find out.

*I have to be in Slytherin,* I thought. That’s where he belonged. That’s where I wanted to be, too.

The line of first years in front of me grew shorter as each name was called. The other kids went up nervously, or excitedly, or pretending not to care. The Hat would sit on their heads for a moment, think, and then declare their House. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. The cheers from the tables were deafening. My stomach twisted with every announcement, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

“Draven Burbage,” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, clear and sharp.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward, trying not to let my nerves show. My legs felt like they might give out, but I kept moving. *Don’t trip,* I told myself. *Just keep walking.* The whispers grew louder around me—who is he? Burbage? The Muggle Studies professor’s kid?

I could feel their eyes on me like a hundred needles, but I didn’t care about them. All I cared about was what *he* thought. I reached the stool and sat down, gripping the edges as Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on my head. The moment it settled, everything went dark.

### **The Sorting Hat's Decision**

“Ah, a Burbage… or perhaps not quite,” the Hat said in a slow, rumbling voice that echoed in my mind. “There is more to you, isn’t there? A different lineage… a different path.”

My heart skipped a beat. *Does it know?* I thought, suddenly nervous.

“Yes, I see it now,” the Hat continued. “You desire to belong, to prove yourself… and you have ambition, oh yes. A thirst for knowledge, a determination to rise, to become something more. A perfect fit for Slytherin… but there’s something else. A shadow, a fire.”

I clenched my jaw. “Put me in Slytherin,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s where I want to be.”

The Hat seemed to chuckle softly. “Ah, you are eager. You seek approval… his approval, perhaps?” It paused for a moment, as if weighing something deep within me. “You have a great potential, child. A potential to rise above, to not just be a snake but to evolve beyond it. To become something greater.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Slytherin,” I repeated, more firmly. “That’s where I want to go.”

The Hat was silent for a moment, and then it spoke, its voice loud and clear for all to hear: **“SLYTHERIN!”**

### **A Father's Subtle Approval**

The word seemed to echo in the Great Hall, and for a split second, I was frozen. And then the Slytherin table erupted into cheers and applause, filling the air with excitement. I pulled the Hat off my head and handed it back to Professor McGonagall, my hands shaking slightly. My heart was still pounding, but a strange, warm feeling had settled in my chest. I’d done it. I was going to Slytherin.

As I walked over to the Slytherin table, I couldn’t help but glance up at the staff table. Professor Dumbledore was clapping politely, a small smile on his face. McGonagall looked approving, too. But my eyes quickly found my father. Professor Snape’s face was as stoic as ever, his expression giving nothing away. His dark eyes were fixed on me, unblinking. For a moment, I thought he might look disappointed, but then—just for a fraction of a second—I saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. Approval. A slight nod, almost imperceptible. It was all I needed.

I took my seat at the Slytherin table, and the older students around me welcomed me with grins and pats on the back. “Well done!” one of them said. “Welcome to Slytherin.”

I nodded, trying to keep a calm face, but inside, I felt a surge of pride. I’d made it. I was in Slytherin, my father’s House. I’d shown him I was worth it, that I could belong here, too.

As the Sorting continued, I kept sneaking glances up at the staff table. My father was watching the rest of the ceremony, but his eyes would occasionally flick back to me. Each time, he’d give that same, almost imperceptible nod. A subtle sign, but one that told me everything.

He wanted me here. And I had made it.

For the first time since I’d stepped into the Great Hall, I felt like I’d finally found a place where I could be something more—where I could become whatever I was meant to be. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to prove myself to him… and to myself.

Quote from Naaga on September 6, 2024, 11:40 pm

### **Draven's POV – Slytherin Common Room, 1992**

After the Sorting Ceremony, the new first years, including myself, were led down a series of narrow, dimly lit corridors deep into the dungeons. I could feel the chill seeping through my robes, but there was an excitement in the air. My stomach was still fluttering from being sorted into Slytherin. The older students chatted among themselves, their voices echoing off the stone walls as we walked. Some seemed bored, while others watched us closely, assessing the new faces joining their House.

The Slytherin common room was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was dark but cozy, with greenish lamps casting a soft, eerie glow. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting serpentine creatures, and the cold stone floor was covered in luxurious, emerald-green rugs. High-backed chairs and plush sofas were arranged around a grand fireplace that crackled with a low, blue-tinged flame. The ceiling was low, adding to the feeling of being in a hidden lair beneath the lake.

We gathered around, the first years huddling together nervously. I felt my heart thumping hard in my chest. I was trying not to show it, but the reality of being here—deep within the Slytherin dungeons, surrounded by people I didn’t know—was starting to weigh on me.

Then, a sudden hush fell over the room, and I turned to see him—my father. Professor Snape. He stood at the front of the room, his black robes blending into the shadows, his presence commanding. The older students immediately stood to attention, their expressions shifting to seriousness and respect. My heart skipped a beat. This was the first time I’d seen him like this, in his element, the Head of Slytherin House.

"Welcome to the noble house of Salazar Slytherin," he began in a soft but commanding tone, his voice carrying through the room with ease. "I am Professor Severus Snape, and I am your Head of House from this moment on. That means you can rely on me for your needs, and I will never betray your trust. I give you my word."

He wasn’t smiling, but there was a sincerity in his voice that I hadn’t expected. I glanced around at the other first years. One of them whispered, “He isn’t so bad, bit scary but not bad…” I nodded slightly, feeling the same. I’d seen the stern side of my father before, but there was something different about him here. Something almost... protective.

"I expect excellence from all of you in all of your classes," his voice became slightly louder, more authoritative, and his gaze turned into a piercing stare. I gulped, and I could feel the tension ripple through the room. Now I understood why he was so feared. "Excuses for subpar performances within your classes will not be tolerated. I also expect all of you to respect your teachers and other staff members. Losing points for the house is also not tolerable. I will not allow your incompetence to lose us the House Cup, which we had won six years in a row before last year. As such, those who lose points or fall behind in their studies will. Answer. To. Me..."

I felt his gaze sweep across the room, and when it landed on me, I stiffened. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, holding my own for a few short moments before moving on. My throat tightened. Was he judging me more harshly because I was his son? Or was he just doing his job as Head of House? I couldn’t tell, but the weight of his expectations bore down on me heavily.

He spoke again, his voice softening. "For those of you who are not aware, Slytherin House is often seen as the... evil House by students within the other three Houses. As such, I expect you all to stand by one another and do your absolute best for your fellow housemates. An overlooked trait of Slytherin is fraternity, and many of you will come to understand that it may be one of the most important ones."

I could see some of the older students nodding in agreement. A few of the new first years, like me, seemed surprised. *Fraternity* wasn’t a word I’d expected to hear in Slytherin. I glanced at the others around me, wondering if we’d all come to understand what he meant.

"Tomorrow morning, you will all be given your school schedules at breakfast. I expect you all to be there on time. Tardiness will not be tolerated. I also expect that all of you will look presentable and respect this school's uniform. Am I understood, without a shadow of a doubt, about everything that I have spoken to you of?" His tone left no room for questioning, and the first-years, myself included, nodded quickly, almost in unison.

“Excellent… Goodnight, then, and welcome again to Slytherin.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and swept out of the common room, his robes billowing behind him in that dramatic way he had. A hush fell over the room for a moment after he left. Then, slowly, the conversations began to pick up again.

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I felt a strange mix of emotions—nervousness, pride, and a bit of fear. He was my father, but in here, he was more than that. He was the Head of House, a figure of authority, and somehow, that made him seem different. Bigger.

As the older students began to talk to us, showing us where the dormitories were and explaining the routines, I found myself glancing back toward the door he’d left through. I wanted to impress him. I wanted to be more than just his son. And now that I was in Slytherin, maybe… maybe I could be.

Quote from Naaga on September 9, 2024, 12:09 am

### **Draven’s POV – First Potions Class, 1992**

The dungeons were colder than I expected, the stone walls damp and the air thick with a musty scent. I shivered, pulling my robes tighter around me as I made my way to the Potions classroom. It was my first Potions lesson, and my nerves were already on edge. Having my father as the teacher wasn’t exactly comforting—especially when I didn’t know if he’d treat me differently from the other students.

The classroom was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. Jars of strange ingredients lined the shelves, and I spotted a few things I’d only read about in books—bundimun spores, lacewing flies, and even a jar of what looked like dragon’s blood. The room was filled with both Gryffindors and Slytherins, everyone chatting nervously. As I looked for a seat, I spotted the unmistakable red hair of a Weasley not far from me.

Ginny Weasley. She didn’t seem thrilled to see me, either.

“Great,” she muttered as I slid into the seat beside her. “I get stuck with a Slytherin on the first day.”

I rolled my eyes. “Nice to see you too, Weasley. Not my first choice either, but let’s just get through this without blowing anything up, yeah?”

She gave me a sidelong glance but nodded grudgingly. “Fine, Burbage. Just stay out of my way, and we’ll be fine.”

Before I could come up with a witty retort, the door to the classroom swung open, and the room fell silent. My father, Professor Snape, swept in with his usual dramatic flair, his black robes billowing like a dark shadow behind him. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” he began, his voice low and commanding. “As such, I don’t expect any of you to have an easy time. Potions is an exact science, and I will not tolerate mistakes.”

His eyes briefly paused on me, and I sat up a little straighter, trying not to show any emotion. He moved on without a hint of recognition, his face as impassive as ever. That was a relief—I didn’t want him singling me out, not today.

“Today, we will be brewing the Cure for Boils,” he continued. “A simple potion—if you have any semblance of talent. Instructions are on the board. Begin.”

The room erupted into a flurry of activity as everyone scrambled to gather their ingredients. Ginny and I moved quickly, setting up our cauldron and collecting what we needed. I wasn’t thrilled about being partnered with her, but I’d rather have her than someone who didn’t know their lacewing flies from their newt eyes.

“Remember to crush the snake fangs into a fine powder,” I said, glancing at Ginny as I worked on my own ingredients. “And don’t add the porcupine quills until the very end, or the whole thing will blow up in our faces.”

She gave me a sideways look. “I know that, Burbage. I’m not a complete idiot.”

I smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t take the bait. Instead, she focused on crushing the snake fangs with surprising precision. I couldn’t help but be a little impressed—she wasn’t half-bad at this.

Minutes ticked by as we worked in relative silence, the only sounds being the soft bubbling of potions and the occasional muttered curse from another student. The potion instructions were straightforward, but I knew from my father’s lessons that Potions was all about precision. One wrong move, and you could ruin the whole batch.

As I stirred the potion clockwise, then counterclockwise, it slowly turned a pale green, just as it was supposed to. Ginny kept pace with me, carefully adding the ingredients in order, and I had to admit, she wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d expected. When it was time to add the porcupine quills, I took a deep breath and sprinkled them in slowly. The potion hissed for a moment, then settled into a smooth, rich shade of turquoise.

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, look at that. We didn’t mess it up,” she said, almost sounding impressed.

“Of course we didn’t,” I replied with a small grin. “I told you, I know what I’m doing.”

“Five points to Slytherin,” my father’s voice cut through the room, and I looked up to see him standing right in front of our table. His dark eyes were fixed on our cauldron, his expression as unreadable as ever. “For a perfectly brewed Cure for Boils.”

A surge of pride shot through me. I tried to keep my face neutral, but I could feel the corners of my lips twitching upward. My father’s gaze lingered on me for just a moment, and I could swear there was the tiniest flicker of approval in his eyes before he moved on to the next pair of students.

Ginny leaned over, her voice low so only I could hear. “Alright, Burbage, maybe you’re not so bad at this.”

I smirked. “I’m not just good—I’m the best.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Let’s see if you can keep that up for the rest of the year.”

The rest of the lesson passed by in a blur, but I couldn’t stop the small swell of satisfaction in my chest. I’d survived my first Potions class with my father as the teacher, and I’d even managed to get some praise out of him. As Ginny and I cleaned up our station, I felt the tiniest bit of tension ease from my shoulders.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Quote from Naaga on September 11, 2024, 12:55 am

Albus Dumbledore’s POV – 1996, First Meeting with Draven Burbage

There are few things that surprise me these days, but the revelation of Severus Snape’s son—a bright, promising young student at Hogwarts—had given me pause. I had known of Draven Burbage’s existence for years, of course. But until now, he had remained a distant curiosity, a mere footnote in the ever-twisting saga of Severus’s life.

Now, however, the boy had become a focal point—a figure who shone brightly, perhaps more than even his father expected.

For some time now, I had kept an eye on him. A young mind like his, so sharp and perceptive, naturally drew attention. Professors spoke of his talents—his ability to grasp complex concepts, his proficiency in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts, his surprising adeptness in Charms and Transfiguration. Not many first-years could so easily brew a Draught of Living Death, nor could they cast a Patronus with such ease at his age. A rare skill set for any student, let alone one so young.

In many ways, he was not unlike his father. A bright child with a hunger for knowledge, a thirst for power, and a mind that worked quickly and quietly, calculating every move like a seasoned chess player. But there were also differences. Draven carried a certain vulnerability within him—a shadow of uncertainty that I had not seen in Severus since his youth. It made him a mystery worth unraveling.

And so, it was time for us to meet. Properly.

---

Minerva brought him to my office, and I could see the curiosity in his eyes the moment he stepped in. He took everything in with a quiet intensity, his gaze flickering over the silver instruments that hummed on the shelves, the warm fire crackling in the hearth, Fawkes perched nearby, watching him with a keen eye. The boy had Severus's dark eyes, but there was a softness to them, a glint of something thoughtful and questioning. I could see the makings of a remarkable wizard in him.

"Professor Dumbledore," he greeted, his voice steady, masking the nerves beneath.

"Ah, Mr. Burbage," I said warmly, gesturing to the chair across from me. "Please, sit. I've been looking forward to speaking with you."

He sat down slowly, his eyes still darting around, assessing the room. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”

I chuckled. “Good things, I hope.”

He gave a slight nod, a small, cautious smile tugging at his lips. “Mostly, yes.”

I watched him closely as I spoke. “I must say, I have been quite impressed with your progress this year, Draven. You excel in your studies—Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration… you show quite the aptitude for both the theoretical and practical sides of magic.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “I’ve had good teachers.”

“Indeed you have,” I said, noting the way his expression shifted slightly at that. A flicker of something—was it pride? Worry? “And of course, you have inherited quite the talent. Your father, Severus, is one of the finest potion masters I’ve ever known.”

There it was again—that guarded look, the careful mask slipping just slightly. “He’s… taught me a lot,” Draven said cautiously.

I leaned back, steepling my fingers. “And how do you find his teachings? Is he as demanding of a teacher to you as he is to the other students?”

Draven hesitated, then shrugged. “He’s… strict, but fair. He expects a lot from me.”

“I imagine he does,” I agreed. “Severus is a man who holds high standards. But he is also a man who has made difficult choices, for reasons that are not always understood.”

Draven's gaze sharpened. “Difficult choices? Like what?”

I smiled gently. “Ah, my boy, that is a discussion best left to your father. He is a man of many layers, and I daresay he may be more willing to share them with you than he is with most.”

He seemed to mull that over, his brows furrowing slightly. “He doesn’t really… talk about himself much.”

“Perhaps he should,” I suggested softly. “Or perhaps you should ask. It is often in the asking that we learn the most.”

There was a moment of silence between us, his young mind working through the tangled web of thoughts and emotions he kept hidden beneath the surface. I could see the confusion, the desire for clarity, and the shadow of something deeper—a hunger to understand not just his father, but his own place in all of this.

“You know, Draven,” I began, breaking the silence, “there are some who believe that we are bound by the actions of our parents. But I have always believed that each of us has the power to shape our own destiny.”

He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And what if you don’t know what that destiny is?”

“Ah,” I said with a twinkle in my eye, “that is the mystery, isn’t it? The path is never clear until we walk it. But I have every confidence that you will find yours. You are a bright young man, and there is much that awaits you.”

He seemed to consider my words carefully. “Thank you, Professor.”

I nodded, watching as he rose to leave. “Remember, Draven, my door is always open should you need guidance or simply a listening ear.”

He nodded back, his face thoughtful, and then he turned and left my office.

---

As the door closed behind him, I leaned back in my chair, my mind drifting to the prophecy Sybill Trelawney had uttered many years ago—the prophecy about "The Promised Prince." It had been a riddle I had pondered over for quite some time, one that had yet to reveal its full meaning.

The Promised Prince shall rise from shadows, born of darkness and light, to be the beacon in the coming storm.

Draven Burbage… or rather, Draven Snape. Could he be the one? His life was indeed shaped by shadows—the secret son of a Death Eater turned spy and a Muggle-born mother with a tragic story. A boy who had inherited both light and darkness, who stood at the crossroads of great potential and great peril.

His talent was undeniable. His thirst for knowledge and power echoed the same ambition that had driven his father, but there was something more—a flicker of a different flame, one that had not been extinguished by bitterness or hatred. Could it be that this boy, whose very existence was a carefully guarded secret, was the one the prophecy spoke of?

The clues fit, and yet, prophecy is a dangerous thing. It could bind one to fate or mislead the unwary. I had been cautious in how I handled Harry Potter, and I would be cautious with Draven as well. It was not my place to steer them but to ensure they had the choice to carve their own paths.

Still, I could not ignore the signs. The pieces were aligning, slowly but surely. And whether or not Draven was the prophesied Prince, he was a player in this great game—one with the potential to tip the scales in a direction few could foresee.

I gazed into the fire, the flames dancing in their unpredictable patterns. Time would tell. But until then, I would watch, I would guide, and I would wait.

Quote from Naaga on September 12, 2024, 12:56 pm

Lucas Fawley's POV – Joining Dumbledore's Army, 1997

The Room of Requirement felt like a hidden refuge, a small spark of hope against the dark grip of fear that had seized Hogwarts. I had heard whispers of Dumbledore's Army—the DA—a secret resistance led by Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood. These were students who hadn’t given up, who were willing to fight back, even with Death Eaters roaming the halls. And I knew I wanted—no, needed—to be part of it.

When I stepped into the Room of Requirement for the first time, it was like stepping into a different world. The space was vast and seemed to shift slightly, as if it were alive, listening to the thoughts and emotions of everyone inside. There were groups of students practicing defensive spells, while others pored over books or whispered fervently about the next steps in their silent rebellion. The air was thick with tension and determination.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the center, where Neville Longbottom stood. He had changed a lot in the past year; his face was set in a hard line, his eyes fierce with the kind of courage that didn’t back down. Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood flanked him, both looking just as determined. I cleared my throat and stepped forward.

“Neville,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I want to join the DA.”

Neville turned his gaze to me, his expression thoughtful. “Lucas Fawley, right? Hufflepuff?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I know I’m not Gryffindor, but I want to help. I want to fight back against what’s happening in Hogwarts.”

Neville gave a small nod, his face softening just a bit. “House doesn’t matter, Lucas. It’s your courage and your commitment that count. But I need to know—you’re willing to take risks? To stand up when things get dangerous?”

“Absolutely,” I said, my voice firm. “I can’t just sit back and let the Carrows get away with what they’re doing.”

Neville seemed satisfied with my answer and looked to Ginny and Luna for their input. They both gave encouraging nods, and Neville turned back to me. “Alright, welcome to Dumbledore's Army.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Thanks. But... there’s one more thing.” I hesitated, feeling the tension in my chest. “Draven should be here too. He wants to fight against this madness just as much as I do.”

There was a noticeable shift in the room. Neville's brow furrowed slightly. Ginny crossed her arms, looking skeptical, while Luna’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, as if she were watching invisible creatures flitting about.

“Draven Burbage?” Ginny said, her tone cautious. “He’s a Slytherin, Lucas. That’s risky.”

“He's more than just his House,” I argued, trying to keep my voice even. “He hates what’s happening here. He hates the Death Eaters. Just because he’s in Slytherin doesn’t mean he’s like the rest of them.”

Neville looked conflicted. “I believe you, Lucas, but… we can’t risk it. We have to be careful. A lot of people in Slytherin support You-Know-Who. Even if Draven doesn’t, there are too many eyes and ears around.”

Luna, still gazing at the ceiling, added in her dreamy, sing-song voice, “There are Nargles in the common rooms, you know. Always listening, always watching. And the Slytherins… well, they have their own ways of doing things. Sometimes they let the Nargles in, sometimes they don’t.”

Neville nodded, clearly used to Luna’s strange, cryptic statements. “That’s right. We have to be extra careful. If we’re caught, it could mean more than just detentions. It could mean real danger. For all of us.”

Ginny gave a firm nod. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, Lucas. We just need to be sure. Maybe one day, but not yet.”

“It’s not fair,” I said, my frustration bubbling up. “We can’t afford to be divided now. Not when everything’s falling apart.”

Ginny sighed. “I get it, Lucas, I do. But our safety comes first. We can’t risk it.”

I slumped my shoulders, realizing I wouldn’t change their minds today. "Alright, I get it. But you have to believe me—Draven is on our side."

Neville’s expression softened. “Maybe he is. And if he proves that, we’ll reconsider. For now, let’s focus on what we can do together.”

---

Later, I found myself sitting in a quieter corner of the room with Neville, Ginny, and Luna. We talked about the war, about Hogwarts, and about what would happen next.

“Do you think we can win this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Everything seems… hopeless sometimes.”

Neville glanced at Ginny and Luna before answering. “It’s not hopeless, Lucas. It’s hard, yes. But we have to keep fighting. If we don’t, who will? We’ve already lost so much, but we have to hold on. For everyone who’s counting on us.”

Ginny leaned in, her expression fierce. “Harry’s still out there. He’s got some sort of plan. I know he does. And we have to do our part here. Keep the spirit alive, keep resisting.”

I nodded, feeling a bit of warmth in my chest at her words. “But what if... what if we don’t make it? What if Voldemort—”

“Then at least we go down fighting,” Luna said, her voice calm but with an unyielding strength. “And remember, Lucas, it’s not just about winning or losing. It’s about standing up for what’s right. The Blibbering Humdingers are always drawn to those who stand for justice. And Harry… he’s got the Humdingers on his side.”

Ginny gave her a small, bemused smile. “I think that’s something else, Luna. But it’s still true.”

Neville nodded. “And Harry… wherever he is, he’s fighting too. He hasn’t given up, so neither should we.”

Luna tilted her head, her voice soft but full of that dreamlike certainty. “And don’t forget, the Wrackspurts might cloud your mind with doubt, but the light of truth always shines through in the end. We just have to keep going. Keep believing.”

There was a long pause as their words sank in. Despite everything, there was a glimmer of hope—a tiny flicker that we all clung to. Even if Draven couldn’t be here now, I had to believe that, in the end, we’d all be fighting on the same side.

Quote from Naaga on September 13, 2024, 3:32 am

Cultist’s POV – The Lunatic Hideout, 1999

The hideout was dimly lit, its only illumination coming from flickering torches that lined the rough stone walls, casting long, eerie shadows. The air was thick with the pungent scent of incense and burning herbs. Around me, the other cultists moved about, chanting in low, guttural tones, their faces obscured by dark hoods. Our leader stood at the center of the room, surrounded by symbols drawn in blood, his voice rising and falling like a dark hymn.

I watched with a mix of reverence and adrenaline-fueled anticipation. Each rite, each incantation, brought us closer to true power. We had chosen the name Lunatic not just for show. We were the ones who dared to reach where others wouldn’t, who embraced the darkest arts to seek power beyond imagination. Tonight was another step in that journey.

“To the ancient ones!” the leader cried, his voice echoing off the walls. We all responded in unison, a chorus of fervent believers.

"To the ancient ones!"

I looked to my right, where my fellow cultist, Marla, was standing. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving silently, entranced in the ritual. She had been with Lunatic for years and was known for her unyielding loyalty. She caught me looking and opened her eyes, giving me a small, twisted smile.

“Are you ready for tonight’s offering?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chanting.

I nodded, a grin spreading across my face. “Always. The prisoners will serve their purpose. And when they do, our power will grow.”

Marla chuckled softly, her eyes glinting with excitement. “I heard they’re from a nearby village. Purebloods who tried to escape. The leader says their fear will make the rite stronger.”

“Good,” I muttered. “They should fear us. They should all fear us.”

Suddenly, there was a noise—a faint rustling at the entrance of the hideout. I turned, narrowing my eyes. The torches flickered as if a gust of wind had passed through, but there was no draft down here. My heart began to race, a sense of unease crawling up my spine.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, my voice tense. Marla frowned, her eyes darting to the shadows.

The leader’s chanting continued, but I noticed a few other cultists had turned their heads, sensing the same disturbance. Then, the noise came again—closer this time. A heavy, deliberate step. Then another.

"Who's there?" one of the cultists barked, stepping toward the entrance. There was no answer, only silence. Then, in an instant, the silence was shattered by a deafening crash.

The door to the hideout burst open, the wooden planks splintering as if smashed by a giant's hand. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim torchlight. Tall, imposing, with an aura of menace that seemed to suck the air out of the room.

“What in the name of—”

Before anyone could react, the figure lunged forward, moving with a speed and ferocity that was almost inhuman. I barely had time to draw my wand before I heard a sickening crunch—the sound of bone snapping. The cultist closest to the door crumpled to the ground, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Intruder!" Marla screamed, her voice filled with panic. “Defend the hideout!”

Chaos erupted. I raised my wand, my heart pounding in my chest. “Avada Kedavra!” I shouted, aiming at the figure. A jet of green light shot from my wand, but the figure moved with blinding speed, sidestepping the curse as if it were nothing.

The figure—no, the man—plunged forward, his movements fluid, almost like a predator. His face was partially obscured by shadows, but his eyes were sharp, intense, and filled with a cold fury. He seemed to be searching, his gaze scanning the room even as he fought.

“Where are the hostages?” he snarled, his voice like gravel. “Where are they?!”

I felt a chill run through me. This wasn’t just an intruder. This was a hunter. He moved like someone who had done this a hundred times before, someone who was used to dealing with death.

Another cultist tried to engage him, hurling a curse his way, but the man dodged again, his speed almost unnatural. Before the cultist could react, the man was upon him, his fist connecting with the cultist's jaw with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed, and the cultist crumpled to the floor, unconscious or worse.

“Stop him! Kill him!” the leader roared, his voice breaking from its usual composed authority.

More curses filled the air—Bolts of red, green, and blue light ricocheted off the stone walls. The hideout became a warzone, but it didn’t seem to matter. The man moved with a deadly grace, weaving through the spells, countering with brutal, raw force. He didn’t even seem to be using a wand. Instead, he tore through our ranks like a vengeful spirit, each movement precise and deadly.

I caught a glimpse of his face—a young man, but his expression was hardened, like someone who had seen too much and come back from the brink. His eyes, cold and unforgiving, flicked to me for a split second. I felt a surge of panic, raising my wand to cast another spell, but he was too fast.

He was already moving, already striking. His hand grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip, forcing my wand from my grasp. I tried to scream, but his other hand slammed into my throat, cutting off the sound. My vision blurred with pain, and I felt my body slam into the cold stone floor.

“Where. Are. The. Hostages?” he demanded again, his voice low and deadly.

I coughed, wheezing as I tried to breathe, but I managed to choke out, “Y-you’ll never find them! They belong to us now!”

A cold fury twisted his features, and for a moment, I saw something terrifying in his eyes—a darkness that seemed deeper than even our own. Without another word, he hurled me aside like a rag doll, and I crashed into the wall, my head spinning.

Marla tried to flank him, raising her wand. “Expulso!” she yelled, aiming for his chest. But he moved faster than I could follow, spinning out of the way and retaliating with a brutal punch to her gut. She doubled over, gasping for breath.

The leader, still in the center of the room, raised his hands, chanting louder, trying to summon a dark force, perhaps an inferi or a protective ward. But before he could finish, the intruder was on him, grabbing his throat with a single hand and lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

“You’re all the same,” the man growled, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “Hiding behind rituals and dark arts, thinking it makes you powerful. Where are they?”

The leader gagged, his eyes bulging. “Y-you… you think you can s-stop us?” he choked out. “There are more of us… out there. More than you can kill.”

The man’s lips curled into a dark smile. “I’ll find them, too,” he said, and with a swift, violent motion, he slammed the leader into the ground, leaving him gasping, blood trickling from his mouth.

He turned back to the rest of us—those who were still alive—and raised his voice. “I won’t ask again. Where are the hostages?”

One of the newer cultists, barely more than a boy, crumbled under the weight of his stare. “Th-they’re in the back room! Please—just don’t kill me!”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and without another word, he sprinted toward the back room, leaving a trail of our broken bodies in his wake. We were nothing to him. We were just in his way. And as I lay there, my body trembling with pain and fear, I realized one thing with terrifying clarity: We had unleashed something far more dangerous than we could have ever imagined.

Quote from Naaga on September 13, 2024, 3:33 am

Hostage’s POV – Lunatic Hideout, 1999

I huddled in the corner of the cramped, dark room, my body trembling with a mix of fear and exhaustion. The cold, damp stone walls seemed to press in on us, and the only light came from a dim, flickering candle that cast long, distorted shadows over the terrified faces around me. We were eight in total, packed like cattle, our wrists bound with coarse rope that bit into our skin. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and fear, and the faint echoes of chanting from the main chamber sent chills down my spine.

I tried to focus on my breathing, slow and steady, like my father had taught me. In and out. Just like that. But it was impossible to keep calm. The cultists—the Lunatics, they called themselves—had been chanting for hours, their dark voices rising and falling like a twisted melody. It was like the walls themselves were humming with their malice. I didn’t know what they wanted from us, but I knew it couldn’t be good.

A few feet away, a young woman, no older than twenty, was crying softly, her face buried in her hands. Beside her, a boy, maybe twelve, was holding onto her arm, his eyes wide and unblinking. I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know any of them. We were all just strangers thrown together in this nightmare. But in the flickering candlelight, I could see the same look of terror on each face—the fear that this might be the end.

I closed my eyes, trying to block it all out. Maybe, if I just didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe this was all just some horrible dream, and I’d wake up any moment now. But then the chanting grew louder, more frenzied, and I knew it wasn’t a dream. This was all too real.

Suddenly, the ground trembled, and a loud crash echoed from the main chamber. My eyes flew open, and I felt my heart leap into my throat. The chanting stopped abruptly, replaced by shouts and screams. Panic surged through the room like wildfire. The boy clung to the young woman, his breath quickening with fear.

“What’s happening?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the commotion.

The woman shook her head, her eyes wide with dread. “I don’t know... but it can’t be good.”

The sounds of fighting grew louder—a flurry of spells, the unmistakable sounds of bodies hitting the floor, and the agonized cries of the cultists. I heard a voice—a man’s voice—deep and fierce, demanding answers. My heart pounded in my chest. Who could possibly be attacking these lunatics? Was it another group, another cult? Or were we about to be caught in the crossfire of some kind of war?

The door to our room suddenly shook, the wood splintering as something heavy slammed against it from the other side. I flinched, my breath hitching in my throat. The others cowered, pressing themselves against the walls as if they could melt into the stone and disappear. The door burst open with a final, deafening crash, and for a moment, all I could see was a silhouette—a dark figure standing in the doorway, breathing heavily.

The figure stepped into the room, and the flickering candlelight caught his face. A young man, maybe in his late teens or early twenties, but there was something about him—something terrifying. His eyes burned with a cold, intense fury, like he was made of fire and ice all at once. His black hair was matted with sweat, his face streaked with the blood of others. He moved with a predatory grace, like a wolf stalking its prey, and I felt a jolt of fear run through me. Was this another one of them? Had he come to finish us off?

But then I saw his eyes—those fierce, almost inhuman eyes—and something shifted. There was rage in them, yes, but there was also something else. Determination. Resolve. He wasn’t here to hurt us. He was here for them.

“Are any of you injured?” he asked, his voice sharp but not unkind.

I blinked, stunned. I wasn’t expecting that. The young woman beside me sniffled and shook her head. The boy clinging to her trembled but didn’t say anything. I finally found my voice. “No... no, we’re not hurt.”

He nodded, his eyes scanning the room, taking in each of us, one by one. “Good. I’m getting you out of here.”

A wave of relief washed over me, so sudden and overwhelming that I nearly choked on it. For the first time since we’d been captured, I felt a flicker of hope. This man—this stranger—was our savior. Whoever he was, he had come for us, and he was strong. I could see it in the way he moved, the way he held himself. He’d torn through the cultists like they were nothing. And for the first time, I thought maybe, just maybe, we might survive this.

He turned back to the door, his posture tense, his senses sharp. “Stay close to me. Do not stray. If you hear fighting, keep low. I don’t want any of you caught in the crossfire.”

We scrambled to our feet, following him as he led us out of the small, suffocating room and into the narrow corridor beyond. The smell of smoke and blood was heavy in the air. I tried not to look at the bodies scattered across the floor—cultists who had been torn apart by spells or broken by sheer force. But it was impossible to ignore. The hallway was a twisted mess of limbs and robes. The others gasped and gagged, but our savior kept moving, his focus razor-sharp.

As we moved through the hideout, my fear slowly ebbed away, replaced by a strange sense of awe. Whoever this man was, he was unstoppable. I watched as he moved, his steps precise, his presence commanding. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading us through the dark passages like he’d been here before.

We reached a side exit—a small, concealed door that led out to the forest beyond. Fresh air hit my face like a blessing, and I sucked in a deep breath, feeling tears sting my eyes. Freedom. We were almost free.

“Go,” he urged, his voice low but firm. “Get as far away from here as you can. There’s a village nearby. Tell them what happened. They’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” I breathed, my voice trembling with gratitude. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.”

He gave a curt nod, but his eyes stayed hard, focused. “Do any of you know where the rest of them are? Any other hideouts? Anything?”

I hesitated, glancing at the others. Most of them shook their heads, too terrified or too overwhelmed to think straight. But I—I remembered something. “I heard one of them talking,” I said, my voice shaky. “A few days ago. They mentioned a place in the north, near the mountains. Some kind of... base or meeting spot. I don’t know much more, but I remember that.”

He turned to me, his gaze piercing, and for a moment, I thought he might burn a hole right through me with his eyes. “North, near the mountains,” he repeated, as if committing it to memory. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

I racked my brain, trying to remember more. “I think... I think they mentioned a name. Seraphim. I don’t know if it’s a person or a place, but it sounded important.”

He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “That’s enough. Get to safety. And remember—keep this to yourselves. If word gets out, they might come after you.”

We nodded, muttering our thanks, our voices barely more than whispers. I didn’t need to be told twice. I knew better than to spread word of something like this. Whatever these cultists were after, it was dark and twisted. And if this man—whoever he was—was hunting them down, then I was more than happy to stay out of his way.

As we stumbled into the forest, the night swallowing us whole, I glanced back one last time. The man was still there, standing at the entrance, his back to us. He didn’t look back. He just stared into the hideout, his shoulders taut, his hands clenched into fists. I didn’t know who he was, but I knew one thing for certain: he was a force to be reckoned with.

And I was glad he was on our side.