Chapter Text
22nd July, 1991
The Supreme Ruler of the Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick presided over a luxurious office, adorned with tasteful and exotic furniture. Each piece was an exquisite work of design and decoration. The crimson carpet upon the floor was thick and soft, swallowing the footsteps of those who trod upon it. Flags bearing assorted insignia hung upon the walls in the depths of the room. An imposing mahogany desk sat in the centre of the office. Its owner sat behind it, upon a black leather chair.
If one were to describe that man in one phrase — dressed as he was in a long, black robe that seemed to absorb light — it would be "Overlord of Death." His exposed head was a fleshless skull, with points of crimson light glowing within his empty eye sockets, tinged with traces of darkness. This was the man once known as Momonga, who had now taken on the name of the guild, Ainz Ooal Gown.
Ainz meshed his skeletal fingers together, covering the lower half of his face. The nine rings on those fingers glittered, reflecting the magical radiance of [Continual Light] spells.
His nonexistent belly ached. ‘I want to get out of here. In the first place, why did I sit here... no, it’s too late. No use crying over spilt milk. Grow a damn spine, Ainz Ooal Gown!’
The phantom pain in his gut seemed to have subsided a little, but he still felt like throwing up. When he first learned of Harry’s significance in this world ten years ago, Ainz had indirectly asked Demiurge, "What shall we do next?" And the answer he received was, "Since all is going as predicted, we shall stick to the plan."
‘But I don’t know what the plan is!’
Of course, he did not actually say that. As the absolute ruler of the Great Underground Tomb of Nazarick, Ainz had to adopt an attitude that matched the expectations of the NPCs (the children). Therefore, all he could do was pretend to look determined, smile in a kingly way, and reply, “Is that so.” When it came to following Demiurge’s plan, however, Ainz was desperately flailing in the dark.
Ten years had gone past, and much had changed since then. Nazarick’s influence had spread all across the world, manipulating everything and anything from the shadows to achieve their goals. After many twists and turns, Ainz had played his hand entirely off the cuff, trusting that there would be a way through no matter what. As for how confident he was of his actions so far... Well, simply put, he was not.
But he had persevered until now, and believing in his subordinates, he would do so again. ‘Now is the time to take the next step, i.e., emerging from the shadows.’
“Well, then.. Let it begin…”
X
The ancient tower stood sentinel atop Hogwarts Castle, its stones weathered by centuries of whispered secrets and mystical enchantments. Its spire reached toward the heavens, piercing the veil between the mundane and the extraordinary. Within its hallowed walls lay the heart of the wizarding world—the repository of dreams, hopes, and the very essence of magic.
Professor Minerva McGonagall, the stern yet compassionate Transfiguration teacher, sat in her high-backed chair, her emerald eyes fixed upon the open tome before her. The Book of Admittance lay sprawled across the massive wooden table, its pages yellowed with age and etched with silver runes. Each page held the promise of a young witch or wizard, their names inscribed in shimmering ink.
The quill beside the book was no ordinary quill. It was the Quill of Acceptance—an instrument imbued with ancient magic. When a child first displayed their latent abilities, the quill stirred, its feathered tip dancing across the parchment. It wrote their name, forever binding them to Hogwarts.
The room exuded an otherworldly aura. Sunlight streamed through the gothic window, casting intricate patterns on the stone floor. Dust motes danced in the golden rays, as if celebrating the arrival of new students.
The professor’s fingers traced the names—the hopeful, the nervous, the destined. Some were scrawled in elegant loops, while others bore the hurried strokes of anticipation. She knew each name intimately—their potential, their quirks, their hidden talents.
Beside the book lay an inkpot, its contents shimmering like liquid stardust. It whispered forgotten incantations, urging the quill to write. And there, nestled among the parchments, rested a miniature dragon—a guardian spirit, perhaps, watching over the magical rite.
The candle sconces on the walls flickered, their flames undulating as if in approval. The room held its breath, for this was no ordinary task. It was the weaving of destinies—the sorting of souls.
Outside the window, a grey owl perched on the sill. Its eyes bore the wisdom of ages, and it observed the proceedings with solemnity. Was it a messenger from the beyond, or merely a curious observer?
As the sun dipped lower, casting elongated shadows across the tower room, the heavy wooden door creaked open. The air stirred, as if recognizing the arrival of a presence far greater than mere mortals.
Professor Albus Dumbledore stepped into the chamber, his robes trailing behind him like the wings of a celestial phoenix. His long silver hair framed a face etched with wisdom and kindness. His eyes—the colour of ancient starlight—held secrets untold.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The Book of Admittance lay open, its pages still aglow from the quill’s recent inscriptions. The miniature dragon model shifted, its eyes following the Headmaster’s every move.
“Ah, Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore said, his voice a gentle melody. “I see you’ve been busy.”
McGonagall rose from her chair, her spine straightening. She nodded respectfully. “Professor Dumbledore,” she said, her voice a thread of serene magic, “you’ve come again.”
His eyes, those pools of starlight, held a mixture of hope and sorrow. “Every year,” he replied, “since that fateful night in Godric’s Hollow.”
The Book of Admittance lay open, its pages like veils between worlds. Names shimmered—bright futures, dormant talents, and uncharted destinies.
“Harry Potter,” McGonagall said, her finger tracing an empty space. “His name remains unwritten.”
Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on the blank parchment. “He vanished, Minerva. A child marked by prophecy, yet lost to us.”
The quill rested, its feathered tip still. The inkpot whispered secrets, but Harry’s name remained elusive.
“Perhaps,” McGonagall ventured, “He lives. Hidden, protected. The Boy Who Vanished, still breathing.”
Dumbledore nodded. “Hope is a fragile thing, my dear. But it persists. And so do I.”
“Why?” McGonagall asked. “Why return each year, Albus?”
He turned to face her, his eyes wells of memory. “Because hope is our greatest magic. And Harry—Harry embodies hope. If he lives, if he thrives, his name will find its place.”
The room held echoes—the cries of Lily Potter, the laughter of James, the lullabies sung to an orphaned babe.
“And if not?” McGonagall pressed.
Dumbledore’s smile was bittersweet. “Then we honour his memory. We keep the flame alive, even in the darkest times.”
He closed the book gently, as if cradling a fragile heart. “Until next year, my old friend.”
The room held its breath, as if aware of the impending revelation. Professor Dumbledore, on the cusp of departure, paused. His eyes, ancient and knowing, scanned the horizon beyond the gothic window.
And there it was—a ripple in the fabric of reality. A surge of magic so potent that even the mundane world shivered in response. Muggles glanced skyward, sensing an inexplicable shift.
The tower room quivered. Dust motes danced, and the owl spread its wings, sensing the cosmic tremor. Professor McGonagall clutched the edge of the table, her heart racing.
“Albus,” she whispered, “what is this?”
His gaze remained fixed on the distant point where sky met earth. “Hope,” he murmured. “Or perhaps fate.”
And then it came—the wave of magic, a tidal force that swept through the castle, the Forbidden Forest, and the very marrow of the earth. It whispered secrets, sang forgotten songs, and caressed the stones.
The Book of Admittance glowed, its pages unfurling like celestial scrolls. The quill trembled, its feathered tip ablaze. The inkpot overflowed, spilling liquid stardust.
And then—the name.
Not etched in lightning, not scarred by fate. But written with grace, as if the universe itself held its breath.
“Harry Potter,” McGonagall breathed.
The quill danced, its strokes fluid and deliberate. The ink formed letters—each curve a promise, each line a legacy.
Harry Potter.
The room exhaled—a collective sigh of wonder. The owl hooted, its eyes wide.
“He lives,” Dumbledore said, his voice a hymn. “Somewhere, in shadows or sunlight, he lives.”
The Book of Admittance closed, its pages sealing destiny. The quill rested, its purpose fulfilled.
“Why now?” McGonagall asked.
Dumbledore turned to her, his gaze piercing the veil of time. “Because hope,” he said, “is a patient companion. It waits, even when the stars grow cold.”
He stepped toward the window, the world beyond beckoning. “Harry Potter,” he whispered. “May your journey be as boundless as magic itself.”
And as he left, the owl soared after him, its wings brushing eternity.
In the tower, the name glimmered—a beacon, a promise.
And Hogwarts held its breath, for destiny had stirred.
X
The Ministry of Magic quaked—a hive of frantic activity, robes billowing, wands drawn. Cornelius Oswald Fudge, portly and red-faced, stood at the epicenter, his voice a thunderclap.
“What madness is this?” he bellowed, his spectacles askew. “What is happening now!?”
Ministers scurried, their parchment-filled hands fluttering like startled birds. One, a bespectacled witch with ink-stained fingers, stepped forward.
“Sir,” she stammered, “the magical signature—it’s unprecedented. Like a thousand phoenixes reborn.”
Fudge’s jowls quivered. “From where?”
Another—a wiry wizard with frayed cuffs—spoke up. “Godric’s Hollow, Minister. The very place where Fate took the Boy Who Vanished.”
The room held its breath. Godric’s Hollow—the cradle of prophecy, the graveyard of heroes.
“Scale?” Fudge demanded.
The worker’s eyes widened. “Akin to a horde of dragons awakening. Raw power, unbridled.”
Outside, the enchanted windows rattled. The sky darkened, as if the heavens themselves leaned closer.
“Harry Potter,” Fudge whispered. “Could it be?”
The owl perched on the sill hooted—a sentinel, a witness.
“He vanished,” the bespectacled witch said. “But perhaps—just perhaps—”
The room quivered, its stones humming with ancient incantations.
“Prepare,” Fudge ordered. “For destiny stirs, and Hogwarts awaits.”
And as the magic surged, the Book of Admittance glowed, its pages whispering secrets.
Harry Potter.
The name etched in starlight, in hope, in the very fabric of existence.
And the Ministry braced—for the storm had come.
