Unveiling the Truth (rewrite)

Dumbledore's Discovery

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts, surrounded by towering stacks of parchment and heavy tomes that seemed to multiply by the day. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, he was no stranger to the endless bureaucratic tasks accompanying his titles. Paperwork spilled across the desk, each document demanding his attention in intricate legal jargon or tedious procedural details.

He eyed the stack with mild distaste, resisting the strong urge to cast Fiendfyre and watch it all go up in flames. Across the room, Fawkes, his majestic phoenix, let out a soft trill, his fiery gaze fixed on Dumbledore with a hint of amusement.

"Don't look at me like that, my friend," Dumbledore muttered, managing a wry smile. Fawkes tilted his head, his expression a mixture of sympathy and bemusement, as if silently chiding Dumbledore for his complaints.

With a sigh, Dumbledore picked up his cup of tea and took a cautious sip, savouring the warmth. Just as he settled back, an owl swooped in through the window, its talons gripping a copy of the Daily Prophet. The bird deposited the newspaper on the stack of documents, causing a few sheets to flutter to the floor, and flew off with an indignant hoot.

Dumbledore's gaze flicked over the headline, and his eyes widened in shock. "The Boy Who Lived…Returns!" His reaction was immediate: he sputtered, nearly choking on his tea as he spat a spray of liquid over his painstakingly organized paperwork. For a moment, he could only stare at the headline, his shock mingling with disbelief.

Setting his teacup aside, he ignored the sodden papers and seized the newspaper, his heart quickening as he began to read. The more he read, the more a peculiar mixture of satisfaction and unease began to settle within him.

Finally, after years of wondering and attempting to find him, he had something concrete on Harry—no, Hadrian, as he apparently called himself now. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he absorbed the article's contents. There was a gleam in his blue eyes, not with warmth, but with the thrill of revelation.

This wasn't the innocent child he had hoped to mold. The Hadrian described in the article was powerful, confident, and, from what Dumbledore could tell, dismissive of the norms of their society. There was something off, something almost dangerous in the way Rita Skeeter had described him, a feeling that prickled uncomfortably at Dumbledore's mind. The mention of strange allies, including that demon hunter Dante, and unfamiliar, intimidating familiars only added to his concerns.

'A phoenix and a serpent…' he mused, brow furrowing. Hedwig and Oryou, strange names and stranger creatures—beings he had no knowledge of, bound to Harry, in ways he couldn't quite grasp. And then, there was that weapon—Cavaliere, was it? The boy had summoned it with ease if the report was accurate. A whirring, monstrous blade, unlike anything seen in wizarding Britain.

Dumbledore's fingers tightened slightly. This Harry was outside his influence, surrounded by powerful entities that he couldn't sway or control. And worse, the boy had been raised by Sirius Black, who clearly had his own ideas about how to raise the child.

'Harry should have been with family,' he thought, his eyes narrowing. With Petunia. Dumbledore recalled how, after that terrible night when Lily and James were killed, he had planned to place Harry with her sister, Petunia Dursley. Petunia's blood connection to Lily would have allowed him to establish the blood wards he intended to use, powerful protective magic that would shield Harry from Voldemort's followers. But that plan had hinged on one key component: a small vial of Harry's blood, taken after his birth, which he had safeguarded for that very purpose.

When Harry had vanished without a trace, taking any chance of creating the wards with him, Dumbledore had been left with that vial of blood. It was a vital tool he'd been reluctant to use; if he used the entire vial to try and locate Harry, he'd lose it forever, rendering it useless for future protection or... anything more drastic. He'd decided to search for the boy the hard way, keeping the blood in reserve as a last resort.

Now, however, the vial's importance was a moot point. Harry had been found, though changed in ways that made Dumbledore uneasy. This was a different boy, one who had grown up unbound by the expectations and morals of the wizarding world, clearly molded by Sirius's radical, possibly dangerous worldview. Rogue influences, Dumbledore noted with disapproval. Hadrian needed guidance—guidance Dumbledore had hoped to provide, as he'd once tried with Tom.

But now, all he could do was wait for the boy's arrival at Hogwarts. The timing was finally right; Hadrian, at thirteen, was on the cusp of starting his first year. That would be Dumbledore's chance, his opportunity to establish influence and—hopefully—temper the boy's apparent disregard for their world's norms. The Prophet had done him a service, albeit unintentionally. Now, Dumbledore knew where the boy was, but he'd have to be cautious. Rushing this would only push Hadrian further away.

With a slight smile, Dumbledore folded the paper. Yes, patience is key. Soon, he would have Harry—or Hadrian—exactly where he wanted him.

*Hogwarts starts at 13 in this AU

Greengrass Manor - Morning Revelations

The faint clinking of vials and the soft hum of magic filled the air in Daphne Greengrass's workshop, a secluded room hidden within the sprawling halls of Greengrass Manor. Unlike the frigid elegance of her future territory, Frostbound, that she plans to build, this workshop was warm and understated, though a perpetual mist lingered in the corners, enhancing the room's mysterious ambience. Shelves lined with rare herbs, shimmering crystals, and enchanted metals surrounded Daphne as she meticulously worked on her latest creation.

Before her laid her weapon, the Silver Frost Cross. Through a delicate process of alchemy and her mastery of Item Construction, Daphne had moulded a silver cross embedded in the soles of her shoes. Infused with her Fae Blood as a catalyst, the cross allowed her to manipulate her own blood, unleashing a suite of powerful frost-based techniques collectively known as the Silver Frost Cross. She whispered incantations, focusing her energy as the silver symbol glowed faintly under her touch, each rune inscribed on it radiating icy-blue light before settling back into a cool sheen.

Her focus was broken by the gentle pop of her house-elf, Tilly, appearing by her side with a warm, motherly smile.

"Mistress Daffy, breakfast is ready. Miss Tori is already at the table waiting for you," Tilly announced, her voice soft yet dutiful.

Daphne looked up, allowing herself a small smile. "Thank you, Tilly," she replied, setting down her tools. With a wave of her wand, she tidied her workspace, the lingering traces of magic dissipating as the room returned to pristine order.

Leaving her workshop, Daphne walked through the manor's dimly lit corridors, the mist following her like a silent shadow. She entered the conservatory—a lush, vibrant space filled with rare plants and enchanted flowers, each exuding a faint glow under the filtered sunlight. At the center lay a circular pond, its waters a mesmerizing shade of silvery-blue. Lunarscale Carp, a rare species of magical fish, darted about, their indigo and silver scales catching the light and casting shimmering reflections across the water's surface.

Tiny fairies flitted among the plants, their translucent wings leaving trails of iridescent dust, adding a lively charm to the serene environment. Daphne took in the scene, feeling the tranquillity of the conservatory settle around her like a familiar cloak.

In the centre of it all sat her sister, Astoria, honey-blonde hair brushing her shoulders, her complexion healthier than it had been in years. Her green eyes, the same vivid shade as their mother's, lit up as Daphne approached, holding up the Daily Prophet with barely contained excitement.

"Good morning, Daphne!" Astoria greeted her, waving the newspaper. "Did you see this? The Boy Who Lived has been found!" She tapped the headline, a look of excitement dancing in her eyes.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "I know," she replied simply, her voice calm and unhurried.

Astoria blinked, caught off guard. "You… already know? But how?"

Daphne held out her hand, and with a whispered incantation, her Mirror of Scrying materialized in her palm—a finely crafted, ornate mirror, its surface shimmering with hidden power. She glanced at Astoria, amusement flickering in her gaze.

Astoria deadpanned, folding her arms. "You used the Mirror of Stalking again, didn't you?" she accused, her tone laced with playful exasperation.

Daphne gave her sister a mock look of indignation, placing a hand on her chest in a dramatic flourish. "How dare you accuse me of such… improprieties," she replied her voice a picture of offended elegance. But the hint of a smile betrayed her amusement, and Astoria couldn't help but laugh.

Daphne settled into the seat across from Astoria as Tilly appeared with breakfast—warm pastries, fresh fruits, and tea infused with aromatic spices. They began to eat, the delicate clinking of cups and plates mingling with the sounds of the conservatory's vibrant ecosystem.

"So, you've been watching him?" Astoria asked, her curiosity rekindled as she glanced between her sister and the mirror.

Daphne nodded, taking a sip of her tea. "Yes. Since our encounter at Gringotts, I've used the mirror to observe him now and then. I wanted to understand the sort of person he is… and I've discovered more than I anticipated."

Astoria leaned forward, her interest clearly piqued. "And? What have you learned?"

Daphne's expression turned contemplative as she set her teacup down. "He's… different. Not like most wizards," she said, thoughtfully breaking apart a pastry. "He's powerful, but there's something raw, untamed about him. He doesn't adhere to the norms of wizarding society. And his allies… he's surrounded by strange and powerful beings. There's a demon hunter, a man named Dante, and two formidable familiars—a thunderbird-phoenix hybrid named Hedwig, and a dragon-serpent called Oryou."

Astoria's eyes widened with intrigue. "He sounds… fascinating, but perhaps dangerous. Do you think he's someone we can trust?" Her tone held a note of concern, as if wary of the answer.

Daphne paused, her gaze distant for a moment. "From what I've observed, he has a strong moral compass. He protects those he cares about with unwavering loyalty. He's not bound by our world's traditions or expectations, and that makes him unpredictable. But, yes… I believe he is a good man."

Astoria's eyes softened, hope flickering within them. "Do you think he could help us, Daphne? With… the curse?" Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as if speaking the words might somehow shatter the fragile hope in her heart.

Daphne met her sister's gaze, a look of resolve hardening her features. "I intend to find out. If he's willing, perhaps he could be the key to lifting it. But he'll need to be approached with caution. He's a wary soul, and rightly so."

They continued their breakfast, discussing the article and dissecting the sensationalized portrayal of Hadrian. Daphne found herself both amused and troubled by the tone of the piece; while it painted Hadrian as an intriguing figure, it also presented him as something foreign—a force that disrupted the established order.

As they finished their meal, Astoria looked at her sister with a thoughtful expression. "So… are you going to contact him?"

Daphne set down her teacup, her gaze steady but contemplative. "Yes. I'll send Umbra with a letter, inviting him to meet. Based on what I've observed, he's a man of honor. If he agrees, we may finally have a chance at breaking our family's curse."

Astoria's face brightened with hope, a quiet gratitude in her eyes. "Then let's hope he says yes. Maybe this is the chance we've been waiting for."

As Daphne considered the path she was about to embark on, Astoria glanced at her with a mischievous grin. "Oh, and don't forget—the bodyguard you hired is arriving today. You might want to make yourself presentable."

Daphne rolled her eyes, though a slight smile tugged at her lips. "Yes, I haven't forgotten. And I believe you'll find her… intriguing. She's an unconventional choice, but her skills are unmatched. She holds the title of The Black Knight."

Astoria's curiosity sparked anew. "The Black Knight, hmm? You always did have a flair for the dramatic."

Daphne smirked, standing up with a graceful sweep. "Sometimes, dear sister, drama is precisely what's needed."

As the sisters shared a quiet, hopeful moment, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, as if the very walls of Greengrass Manor held their breath, waiting for the changes about to unfold.

*Mirror of Scrying: Allows Daphne to observe events from afar.

Interrupted Respite

Jeanne d'Arc was in a rare state of fury, and the evidence of her wrath lay strewn at her feet: a dozen bodies, each bearing the insignia of the Church's exorcists. Her beautiful white summer dress, once pristine and delicate, was now drenched in crimson, stained by the blood of those who had dared to interrupt her long-awaited date. She cast an exasperated glance at her dress, letting out a sigh as she took in the carnage around her. She'd planned this day so carefully, down to every last detail, and they'd ruined it.

The date had started perfectly. She and Sieg had found a secluded spot in Étretat, a picturesque coastal town in Normandy, France, known for its dramatic cliffs and serene beaches. The town was alive with the smell of freshly baked pastries, and the narrow, cobbled streets bustled with locals and tourists, but they'd managed to find a quiet spot along the cliffs with a breathtaking view of the sea. The morning sun bathed the surroundings in a soft golden glow, making the moment feel like something out of a dream.

Jeanne had donned a beautiful white summer dress and a simple straw hat that covered her ahoge, the stray tuft of hair that never obeyed her. Her heart had been fluttering with excitement, and the little bounce in her step mirrored the anticipation she felt. Sieg had been smiling—a real, genuine smile that made her heart skip a beat. After all he had gone through, after the tragedy of his family and the dark legacy that haunted him, seeing him relax and enjoy himself had filled her with a quiet joy.

But then the peace shattered.

A squad of exorcists, moving with the arrogance and self-righteousness only the Church could muster, had ambushed them, demanding they surrender. Jeanne's mood had gone from blissful to murderous in seconds. She'd rather die a thousand times over than submit to the Church that had once betrayed her, that desecrated Joan of Arc her ancestor legacy and haunted Sieg's life with their ambitions.

The fight had been swift and brutal. Jeanne and Sieg barely had to try—these exorcists were weak, not even worthy of being called an inconvenience. Jeanne pried her rapier from the chest of the last exorcist, muttering under her breath, "What on earth is the Church doing, sending such small fry after us? If they wanted a fight, they should've sent someone stronger."

As she turned to Sieg, she found him leaning casually against a tree, an orange T-shirt and black shorts contrasting against the grisly scene. He wore a pair of sunglasses that obscured his red eye, and he was lounging on the corpses of the exorcists as if they were nothing more than a convenient seat. His sword, Balmung, was buried in the chest of the squad's captain, who hung pinned against a nearby wall like some grotesque painting.

Jeanne blinked, momentarily speechless, before managing a wry smile. "Where in the world did you get that newspaper?" she asked as she approached, noticing the familiar headline of the Daily Prophet, that British magical rag, in his hands.

Sieg glanced up, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. "Picked it up from one of the exorcists. They must've grabbed it on their way here. Apparently, Hadrian is making headlines."

He handed her the newspaper, and Jeanne's curiosity piqued as she scanned the front page. The headline read The Boy Who Lived…Returns!

She paused, blinking in surprise as she processed the words. "The Boy Who Lived?" she murmured, glancing at Sieg with raised eyebrows. "Your devil hunter friend is Harry Potter?"

Sieg looked momentarily intrigued, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Huh. So that's who he is. Makes sense why the world's so fascinated by him, I suppose." But after a beat, he shrugged, unbothered by Hadrian's infamous title. "I don't care much for titles. He's still the same Hadrian to me."

Jeanne let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "Well, Sieg, your friend is full of surprises. More than I expected." Her golden eyes twinkled with newfound curiosity as she continued to read, taking in the details about Hadrian Redgrave, the devil hunter who had fought alongside Sieg back in Sweden. She'd heard much about him—Sieg had told her Hadrian was similar to him in many ways, bearing the weight of a complex legacy, facing threats from both human and supernatural forces.

As she continued reading, Jeanne couldn't help but grin. The image of Hadrian in the paper was striking: dark clothing, a confident stance, and a defiant look in his eyes that practically dared the world to challenge him. His familiars—a phoenix-thunderbird hybrid and a dragon-serpent—were briefly mentioned, as well as his tendency to break the wizarding world's norms. He seemed to possess an attitude that Jeanne found... refreshing. He didn't seem to care what others thought, a trait she could respect.

"Well," she mused, her grin widening. "He certainly has a flair for the dramatic. I like that he doesn't seem to care for their rules."

Sieg leaned back, his gaze thoughtful. "Hadrian's a good man, though he doesn't fit neatly into anyone's expectations. He does what he believes is right, regardless of how it looks. That's why he's managed to gather allies from all walks of life." His voice held a tone of respect, one that was rare for him to extend to others.

Jeanne noted Sieg's expression, her curiosity deepening. She could count on one hand the number of people Sieg trusted or felt at ease with. She herself had fought long and hard to gain that trust, and seeing this level of admiration in his voice for another spoke volumes. It was rare for Sieg to connect with others, to smile openly. If Hadrian could bring out that side of him, perhaps he was someone worth knowing, maybe even an ally in their fight against the Church.

The thought was interrupted as she caught sight of a bloodstain on her dress, and she sighed, brushing futilely at it. "Ruined my dress," she muttered with a grimace, casting a disdainful look at the corpses. "Next time, the Church had better send someone worth fighting."

Sieg chuckled, reaching over to pluck a stray bit of straw from her hat. "You'll get another chance soon enough. The Church isn't going to stop. They still want Balmung," he added, nodding towards his sword, which gleamed with a faint, ominous light.

Jeanne's gaze darkened. The Church's interference in Sieg's life, their desecration of his family's grave, their attempt to create a clone of Siegfried—all of it ignited a rage that simmered beneath her composed exterior. She looked at Sieg, her voice laced with conviction. "Let them come. We'll remind them why they should leave us alone."

Sieg gave her a rare, genuine smile, one that softened his otherwise hardened features. "I know we will." He glanced at the newspaper in her hands, his expression growing thoughtful. "And maybe, if we ever cross paths with Hadrian again, he'll be willing to lend us a hand."

Jeanne folded the newspaper, her curiosity about Hadrian turning into a firm resolve. "I'd like that," she said quietly. "He's someone I'd like to fight alongside, if only to see the look on the Church's face when they realize just how outmatched they are."

The two stood side by side, surrounded by the fallen bodies of their enemies, sunlight filtering gently through the canopy above. Jeanne glanced at Sieg, her yellow eyes meeting his with an understanding that went beyond words. In this shared silence, Sieg felt a surge of protectiveness—not just for Jeanne, but for the path they were choosing together. He knew the truth about Hadrian Redgrave, knew what lay in his blood. If the Church ever discovered Hadrian's lineage—demon blood bound to magic—they wouldn't hesitate to brand him as a target for extermination. Sieg clenched his jaw, a fierce determination settling in his gaze. He understood too well how ruthless the Church could be; he'd seen it firsthand, how they hunted down anyone who bore the mark of anything they considered "impure."

But if the time came, if the Church turned its relentless gaze on Hadrian, then he and Jeanne would not stand idly by. They would have an ally, a fellow outcast who understood the shadows they all walked through.

Rossweisse and Brynhildr's Discussion

The clash of metal against metal echoed through the training grounds in Asgard, a testament to the intensity between two warriors locked in combat. Rossweisse ducked as a spear grazed past her cheek, the force of Brynhildr's thrust sending a gust of air in its wake. She shifted, angling her sword defensively, her eyes sharp and focused.

Brynhildr pressed forward, her movements fluid yet precise. Rossweisse sidestepped, aiming a feint to throw off her opponent, but Brynhildr parried effortlessly. A swift twist and the Valkyrie's spear was at Rossweisse's throat, halting her in her tracks.

Rossweisse sighed, her shoulders sagging in resignation. "Lost… again."

A small smile softened Brynhildr's typically stoic expression as she withdrew the spear, letting it rest by her side. "You've come a long way, Rossweisse. Faster, more decisive. Keep it up, and you may be the youngest Valkyrie-in-training to become a full Valkyrie," she said, echoing a compliment that Sigrún herself had given.

Rossweisse's eyes brightened, pride lighting her features despite her exhaustion. "Thank you, Brynhildr. I'll do my best."

Brynhildr chuckled softly, taking a seat on a nearby stone. "Do so, but don't let ambition cloud your judgment. Speed is nothing without wisdom." She gestured for Rossweisse to sit beside her as they both took a moment to recover from the sparring session.

Their brief reprieve was interrupted by the flutter of wings. Muninn, one of Odin's ravens, swooped down with something in his talons. He dropped it into Rossweisse's lap before vanishing back into the skies.

Rossweisse glanced down, her eyes widening at the sight of the newspaper. She quickly unfolded it, her face shifting between curiosity and concern as she read the bold headline: The Boy Who Lived…Returns!

Brynhildr raised an eyebrow, peering over her shoulder. "Another report from Midgard?"

"Yes," Rossweisse replied, her voice a mix of relief and worry. "It's about Hadrian Redgrave—the boy I mentioned before." She paused, her eyes narrowing as she read further. "It says here he's… Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?"

A flash of surprise crossed Brynhildr's face before she shrugged, dismissing the title. "Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived—it's all meaningless to me. I care little for titles. What matters is who he is as a person and his strength in battle, not the monikers others give him."

Rossweisse, however, looked thoughtful, her curiosity intensifying. "True, but… the Killing Curse," she murmured, almost to herself, her gaze distant. "It's one of the most lethal spells known, especially for mortals. I wonder… how did he survive it? Was it some protective enchantment? A powerful relic, perhaps?" Her mind raced, already weaving theories as her 'magical nut' side took over, delving into the possibilities.

Brynhildr watched her for a moment before chuckling, reaching out to gently nudge Rossweisse's shoulder. "Keep your focus, Rossweisse. Your mind can drift to theories later. Right now, there are matters at hand more pressing than a puzzle from Midgard."

Rossweisse blinked, snapping back to the present, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "You're right. It's just… fascinating," she admitted with a sheepish smile.

Brynhildr offered her a steady look, a softness in her usually firm gaze. "Fascinating or not, remember your duty, Rossweisse. We are Valkyries of Asgard. Our loyalty and our purpose lie here, not with the whims of mortal heroes, however intriguing they may be."

Rossweisse nodded, though her gaze lingered on the newspaper. "I know, Brynhildr. But… I feel a strange connection to him, perhaps because he's as misunderstood by his world as I sometimes feel by ours. He's strong, yes, but also isolated. I can't help but worry that he might need allies who understand him beyond his power."

A hint of warmth flickered in Brynhildr's gaze, though her expression remained controlled. "Perhaps. But be cautious, Rossweisse. Love—any attachment, for that matter—is a fragile thing. It can bring joy, but it can just as easily break your heart." Her voice softened a hint of past sorrow in her tone. "I know that from experience."

Rossweisse looked at her with a mixture of respect and understanding. "I'll remember, Brynhildr. I won't let curiosity or sentiment cloud my judgment. But… if the need arises, if he proves himself worthy, perhaps we could offer a small measure of support."

Brynhildr's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Perhaps. If he shows that he's not just a lost soul but one worthy of our aid. We are not knights errant, sworn to every call for help. He must prove himself—both to Midgard and to us. Until then, we remain vigilant for Asgard."

Rossweisse managed a small smile, her worries easing. "Thank you, Brynhildr. I just thought… should he ever need us, it might be right to offer help if we can. He's not like other wizards, Brynhildr. He could be… different."

Brynhildr chuckled a rare sound that filled the quiet of the training grounds. "Then we shall see, won't we? And I admit I'm curious about this serpent companion of his. Oryou, you called her?"

Rossweisse's smile widened, her excitement briefly breaking through her composed exterior. "Yes, Oryou. She's fierce and loyal—a formidable ally. I imagine she's as fierce as Hadrian himself."

Brynhildr laughed, the sound bright and full of life. "Then perhaps fate will bring our paths together again. Until then, we uphold our duties, and should the need for an alliance arise, we shall answer—on our terms."

Rossweisse nodded, feeling more grounded by her friend's presence. She knew Brynhildr was right—they were Valkyries, bound by duty to Asgard. Yet, if the day came when Hadrian Redgrave truly needed them, she held a sliver of hope that they might offer him some support. For now, she would wait, letting time and fate shape their paths forward.