I vomited. Twice. The bitter tang of acid clung to my tongue, but I refused to let despair take hold. My knees trembled, though I kept my stance, determined not to fall in front of her.
Hecate watched me with ancient eyes, knowing and cruelly amused. She offered no hand, no cloth, only a soft, almost maternal voice that grated on my nerves.
"It is only temporary," she said, her tone laced with both apology and mockery. "The body resists the… temporal displacement of a soul. Even one as old as yours suffers a moment of discord."
I groaned, straightening as best I could, pressing my fingers against my stomach. 'Temporal displacement,' I muttered, feeling my essence stretch and warp-an unsettling, disorienting shift that left my body trembling.
A soft sound followed. Amusement, perhaps.
When the nausea finally receded enough for me to think, I forced myself to look up.
I was not in Godric's Hollow. Nor in any place that obeyed mortal architecture.
The hall around me was vast beyond reason, its scale designed to awe and remind. Pillars of white-veined obsidian rose into a ceiling lost in slow-moving constellations, stars drifting as though trapped beneath glass. The polished marble floor, shot through with gold sigils, pulsed with ancient runes older than Latin or magic as the modern world knew it.
Braziers lined the hall, their flames burning in colors that should not exist. Deep indigo. Pale silver. Verdant green. Each fire whispered as it burned, murmuring fragments of forgotten languages.
Statues stood between the pillars, colossal and solemn. Not gods.
Witches.
Wizards.
Men and women frozen mid-spell, cloaks billowing, wands raised, eyes carved with expressions of command, compassion, fury, and unyielding authority. At their feet, names, titles, and stories of their deeds conveyed a deep sense of history and respect.
My stomach twisted again, though this time it was not sickness.
It was recognition.
I turned my gaze to the woman standing before me.
She was young in face, timeless in presence. Her skin held the warm bronze of the Mediterranean sun, unmarred by age or flaw. Dark hair fell in loose waves down her back, threaded with gold beads and tiny crescent charms. Her clothing was unmistakably ancient Greek in style, a flowing chiton of deep midnight blue clasped at the shoulders with silver fibulae shaped like crossed torches.
I pushed myself to my feet, unsteady but standing. My body felt… real. As though I was once again in my prime.
"You spoke of an accord," I said. "Explain it properly."
She studied me for a long moment, eyes sharp and ancient, as though measuring the fractures in my soul and finding them… acceptable.
Then she clapped her hands once.
The sound echoed unnaturally, reverberating through the hall like a bell struck in the bones of the world.
"Very well," she said. "Simply put: I will return you fully to life. And all you have to do is remove some obstacles."
"What obstacles?"
"Oh, you know, firstly Dumbledore and then of course the Ministry of Magic." Her lips curved, eyes glinting wickedly. "Though I do suggest that you restore the Imperial Line of Emyrs, no need to hide who you are."
"Hold." I frowned, the words sharp against my throat. "Imperial Line of Emyrs? Never heard of them."
She smiled as she motioned to the statues. "They were my direct children."
The word children struck harder than any spell.
Looking at the statues, several caught my eye
The first was a child.
A boy no older than ten, carved in pale stone veined with faint traces of runic script. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if the world had already failed to surprise him. One hand rested behind his back, the other loosely open, fingers curved as though holding an invisible spell. Magic clung to the statue despite its stillness, subtle and absolute, bending the air around it.
I stepped closer.
MERLIN EMRYS
First Magus of the Imperial Line
He was sculpted no older than twelve, barefoot upon the stone, dressed in simple robes belted at the waist. One hand was raised, fingers slightly curled as if shaping an unseen spell, while the other rested at his side, gripping a staff carved with primitive runes. His expression was alert and clever, eyes lifted as though watching something only he could see. The folds of his robes were plain, unadorned, yet the marble around his feet seemed subtly warped, as if reality itself bent beneath his presence.
Beside him stood a taller figure.
She was carved as an older woman, draped in layered robes that flowed like liquid stone. Intricate sigils were etched along her sleeves and collar, half-hidden among the folds. One hand rested lightly against her chest, fingers curled around a pendant shaped like a crescent blade, while the other extended outward, palm open, offering or demanding. Her face was composed, eyes narrowed with sharp intelligence, lips caught between restraint and knowing amusement.
MORGANA LE FAY
Sorceress Queen. Imperial Architect.
Then the Founders.
They stood together, not as teachers, but as sovereigns.
Godric Gryffindor's statue stood broad and imposing, feet planted firmly apart. He wore heavy battle robes reinforced with sculpted armor plates, a long cloak draped over one shoulder. Both hands rested on the pommel of a great sword planted tip-down into the stone before him. His head was lifted, gaze fixed forward, jaw set in perpetual readiness.
Salazar Slytherin's marble form was lean and poised, robes cut close to the body and etched with subtle serpentine patterns. One arm was folded behind his back while the other extended slightly outward, fingers relaxed, almost conversational. A carved serpent coiled at his feet, its head lifted, mouth open in silent hiss. His expression was sharp, composed, and calculating.
Helga Hufflepuff stood with a balanced posture, wearing thick traveling robes layered for work rather than war. One hand held a goblet close to her chest, the other rested open at her side, palm up. The lines of her face were kind but firm, her stance steady and unyielding, as though she had been carved to endure centuries without shifting.
And finally, Rowena Ravenclaw.
Her statue was slender and upright, robed in long, flowing garments etched with delicate geometric patterns. A circlet rested upon her brow, delicately carved. One hand held an open book, its pages frozen mid-turn, while the other touched her temple with two fingers. Her gaze was angled slightly downward, thoughtful, observant, eternally calculating.
"The founders," I said.
"Branch members," Hecate corrected. "Administrators. Educators. Hogwarts was not independent. It was an Imperial academy."
Something cold and sharp settled into place inside me.
"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that the Ministry of Magic—"
"—is a usurping bureaucracy built atop the corpse of an empire," Hecate finished. "Yes."
Something cold and sharp settled into place inside me.
"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that the Ministry of Magic—"
"—is a usurping bureaucracy built atop the corpse of an empire," Hecate finished. "Yes."
She waved a hand, and the image darkened.
"And now," she said, "there is only one living vessel capable of inheriting the Imperial resonance."
My thoughts snapped instantly to a single name.
"Harry Potter," I said.
Hecate nodded once.
"And he is… unsuitable," she said bluntly. "Untrained. Manipulated. Surrounded by liars who would mold him into a martyr or a mascot."
My jaw tightened.
"You intend for me to replace him," I said.
"When you are ready," she agreed. "Not before."
"And how," I asked, voice dangerously calm, "do you define ready?"
Her smile returned. Slow. Unpleasant.
"When you understand what was stolen."
She snapped her fingers.
The air screamed.
A book appeared.
No. Not a book.
A monument.
It landed before me with a thunderous impact that cracked the marble floor, towering over me even as it lay closed. The cover was forged of blackened dragonhide reinforced with bands of silver and gold, runes crawling across its surface like living things.
I stared at it.
"How many pages?" I asked quietly.
Hecate hesitated.
"Ten thousand," she said. "Roughly."
I laughed. I couldn't help it.
"This," I said, "is a joke."
"No," she replied evenly. "This is Volume One."
I stared at her.
"There are… how many?"
"Eleven," she said. "This one, and ten more."
Silence stretched between us.
"You expect me to read all of this," I said.
"You expect to rule the Wizarding World," she countered. "Then read the book."
She stepped back. "This contains the true history of the Wizarding World. The laws of the Emyrs. Their achievements. Their failures. If you cannot carry that knowledge, you have no right to carry their authority."
I looked back at the book.
Then, without another word, I opened it.
The moment my fingers touched the page, something clicked.
The words flowed more naturally, and I found them easy to remember after reading.
And before long, several years passed.
Ten of them.
Time did not behave normally in that hall, but I felt every moment. Every hour, hunched over impossible text. Every revelation made my hands shake with rage.
I learned of the Lex Arcanum Scholastica, the Emyrs' Magical Law Codex governing education. Hogwarts was theirs. Legally. Magically. The founders had been empowered administrators, not sovereign owners. The Board of Governors? An illegal construct.
I learned of theLex Arcanum Imperialis, the Supreme Magical Law of the Wizarding World. Laws the Ministry had gutted, diluted, or outright erased.
And then there were the abominations.
The Servitude Binding Act.
I remember gripping the page so tightly the dragonhide cover creaked.
Elves.
They were once a normal magical race; they looked like humans, though they had longer ears and a more natural control of magic, which caused many witches and wizards to fear them. This forced the Act and reduced their status to that of servants. The Ministry forced its magic to twist into a leash that strangled an entire species into submission.
I closed the book that night and screamed.
When I finished the final page of the final volume, I stood.
Hecate appeared beside me as though she had always been there.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
She studied me for a long moment.
"Good," she said. "Then I wish you luck, Tom Riddle."
She snapped her fingers.
The world went white.