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Chapter Text

Once, in a hidden seam between worlds, there lived a boy marked by a curse and chosen by fate. His name was Harry Potter. Though he began his life unloved in a cupboard beneath the stairs, he would become a central figure upon which the fate of the magical world turned.

He was born in the twilight of a war – the final cry of a resistance crushed beneath the weight of a name too feared to speak: Voldemort. The Dark Lord, in his pursuit of immortality, cursed the child destined to undo him. But the curse failed. The boy lived. And the wizarding world whispered of a prophecy, and a scar shaped like lightning.

At eleven, the boy stepped through the doors of Hogwarts – a castle steeped in secrets and ancient sorcery, where portraits whispered, ghosts wandered, and destinies quietly unfurled. There, Harry found something he had never known: friendship, loyalty, and a spark within himself that no adult had ever cared to see.

With Ron Weasley – humble, unwavering – and Hermione Granger – brilliant and indomitable – Harry faced marvels and nightmares: a mirror that revealed forgotten longing, a serpent bred for murder, a prisoner who was kin, and a tournament that demanded blood.

But beyond the castle walls, the world grew darker with each passing year. Voldemort returned – reborn not by magic alone, but by cruelty, fear, and betrayal. The Ministry closed its eyes. The truth was smothered. And Harry, still only a boy, bore burdens no child should ever carry.

He came to understand that his scar was more than a wound – it was a tether: to the mind of a killer, to the broken past of a frightened orphan who became a monster, and to a prophecy that promised only sacrifice. He learned of Horcruxes, vessels of fractured soul, and took upon himself the grave duty of destroying them.

In time, he stood beneath the shattered roof of the place he once called home and chose to die – not in surrender, but in defiance. And in that selfless act, he severed the last hold of the Dark Lord’s magic.

The final battle came at dawn. Spells cracked like thunder. The dead walked briefly among the living. And Harry – not as a boy, but as a man who had walked through death and returned – put an end to the shadow that had long haunted his world.

In the years that followed, he became a symbol of triumph – a man who had faced death and conquered it.

And yet, the story of Harry Potter was never meant to end with a happily ever after.

"So let me get this straight," Harry said flatly. "The Unspeakables want to abduct me for something I don’t even understand, except that it apparently grants me bloody immortality. And you want me to use this," he said, holding up a silver pendant, "to run away?"

“It’s the only way,” Hermione replied quietly.

Harry’s gaze dropped back to the small metallic trinket cradled in his palm. He didn’t look up, though he could feel the tension radiating from across the table. He knew Ron and Hermione were exchanging uneasy glances – but when he finally did glance at them, both quickly fixed their eyes on the pendant, pretending otherwise.

He didn’t blame them.

These days, Harry tried not to look at them too closely either. Not when the difference in age had become so stark. So visible. Time had moved on for them in the usual way. But not for him.

When the war ended, it left the wizarding world in ruins. And yet, as always, Britain did what it did best: it carried on. Slowly, inevitably, life returned. Things were rebuilt. Normalcy crept back in.

Harry and Ron had joined the Auror Corps together. On Kingsley’s recommendation, Harry was accepted straight into the training program and had qualified before his eighteenth birthday – a record in the history of the Department. He took to it naturally. By twenty-six, he had been named Head Auror. Ron, ever steadfast, had become the division’s top tactician. Their appointments had inspired a wave of fresh applications from across Europe, flooding the Auror Office with eager young recruits.

Hermione, true to form, had blazed a different path. She entered the Ministry and rose rapidly through its ranks – unsurprisingly landing in the Department of Mysteries. By twenty-seven, she had become an Unspeakable.

Life had been hectic, yes. But it was peaceful. Stable. Sometimes, even happy.

But fate and luck had never truly been on his side, and the simple life Harry had built was never meant to last.

One morning, at the age of thirty, he looked into the mirror and realized – with slow, creeping horror – that he hadn’t changed. He still looked seventeen. Twenty-one at most. And as he stared at the reflection, the pieces began to fall into place.

Two years after that realization, Harry retired from the Auror Department.

Not because he planned to live quietly – he had more than enough gold in his vaults to live comfortably for generations – but because the truth had become harder to ignore. And Harry had never been one to sit still.

With both the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone now bound to him – fused into his magic after he’d tried to discard them – wandless casting came with surprising ease. So he turned his attention to disciplines he’d never had time to explore: obscure magic, foreign traditions, ancient texts long forgotten by the British Ministry.

But he had underestimated the cost of his fame.

His abrupt departure from the Auror Office sent shockwaves through wizarding Britain. Headlines speculated. Letters poured in. And slowly, questions began to surface – about his past, his power, and his unnatural youth.

Then, one night, at three in the morning, Hermione burst through his Floo.

Ron followed close behind, both breathless, both still in their work robes. Their faces were pale, drawn tight with fear.

According to Hermione, whispers had begun circulating within the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables had taken notice of Harry’s unchanged appearance – and were drawing conclusions. Dangerous ones.

They’d started to ask whether the fabled title of Master of Death came with consequences. Whether collecting the Hallows had changed him in ways no one understood. While Harry still possessed the Cloak, the Wand refused to be parted from him. The Stone, lost long ago, had simply returned – called back by his magic. Now both relics lived within him, amplifying his power in ways even he struggled to control.

That night, the Unspeakables handling his case formalized their plans.

“You can’t stay here, mate,” Ron said, his voice low and taut. “It’s the Unspeakables. You and I both know – if they want to find someone, they will.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” he said, holding up the pendant again. “You want me to run. Not just leave the country – run to a different dimension?”

“It might not be another dimension,” Hermione cut in, but faltered under his unimpressed stare. “It’s still a prototype – I haven’t had the chance to test it properly – but it’s designed to take you elsewhere. Somewhere safe. It could be another time, another world, or something in between. And while you’re there… maybe you can find something. A way to undo the immortality.”

Harry snapped. “Hermione, have you completely lost it? Why would you even build something like this? Why would you think I would want to leap across space-time or whatever this bloody thing does? What if I can’t even come back?”

Ron was the one who answered, quietly.

“Would you really want to?”

Harry froze.

“It’s not that we want to see you go,” Ron continued, running a hand through his hair. Misery was etched on his face. “You’re our best friend. Life won’t be the same without you. Hell, it’ll be a damn sight duller. No more wild adventures chasing after wayward trolls and sticking wands in their noses, for one," Ron let out a small chuckle, and even Hermione managed a weak smile at the memory.

“But you’ve been withdrawn for a while now,” Ron said, sobering again. “You haven’t been happy. Not really. I know you tried with Ginny, but that was over before it even started. Even Mum admits it. You’ve spent a decade pretty much married to your job, and the last two years as a shut-in. You can’t do this forever."

"Technically, I could," Harry shot back bitterly, reminding them of the Deathly Hallows fused within him.

Hermione leaned forward. “We’ve looked for answers, Harry. We’ve searched every archive, every spell, every scrap of theory we could find since you became the Master of Death. And there’s nothing here. No cure. No reversal. No way out.”

She paused, her voice softening. “But maybe there’s something out there. In the future. In another world.”

She met his eyes.

“And if we wait any longer, they’ll take that choice away from you.”

Harry's jaw clenched.

“I could just move,” he muttered. “Start over in another country. Lay low.” The idea of being sent to unknown worlds or distant times weighed heavily on him, making his stomach turn with more than just apprehension.

"That’s not going to work," Hermione said firmly. “The Department of Mysteries has developed a device that can track any magical signature on Earth. Even behind a Fidelius Charm – if they’ve got a trace of your magic, they can find you.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“You remember the Hall of Prophecy?” Hermione pressed. “Your prophecy may have been shattered, but you touched it. That left a magical imprint. They have your signature, Harry. They can follow it.”

"You could move to the most remote places of the world and live underground, but they’d be knocking on your door within a month. There’s nowhere on this Earth you can hide. And once they have you, you can kiss your freedom goodbye."

Ron gaped. Harry closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands.

He didn’t know where to begin. This was madness! What if he ended up on another planet entirely, with little green aliens who wouldn’t speak any human language, let alone English?

And there was only one device. He would be going alone.

Harry swallowed his resentment.

He loathed it – the immortality that had been thrust upon him. He hadn’t asked to become the Master of Death. All he had ever wanted was a simple, normal life: the life he had never had the chance to experience. Not with the Dursleys, and not during the war.

And now, it was beyond him. Beyond anyone.

"How would I travel from one place to another?" Harry finally asked, defeated.

Both Hermione and Ron let out a sigh of relief.

"Just channel a bit of your magic into this," Hermione said, holding up the silver pendant. “It’ll take you away. You won’t know exactly where you’ll end up, but you’ll be able to explore each world before deciding whether to stay or move on. Just – don’t lose it. If you do, you’re stuck. Anything you want to bring with you needs to be on your person.”

Harry nodded slowly, mind still spinning. Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a compact satchel, handing it to him.

"I’ve reinforced it with every charm I could think of," she explained. “It’s waterproof, fireproof, and has a permanent Undetectable Extension Charm. There’s food, hygiene supplies, books-”

"What about money? Clothes?" Harry rose to his feet. Ron was already rummaging through his cupboard, grabbing a bundle of clothes, while Hermione darted to the kitchen and grabbed his coin purse from the worktop. It had a decent amount of money, but nowhere near what he had in his vaults. Certainly not enough for an indefinite trip to the unknown.

"There’s no time!" Hermione hissed. "They’re coming right now! I’m surprised they’re not here already. If you stay any longer, you won’t be able to leave at all. Here, don’t forget your cloak."

Harry numbly accepted his invisibility cloak from her, shoving it into the satchel after the clothes.

"What about my disappearance? As idiotic as Britain can be, even they won't believe that I’m on vacation or run off on a honeymoon with a secret wife."

"We’ll just tell them you’ve gone missing," Ron shrugged nervously, glancing at the door. "People love that sort of thing. I can already picture the headline in the Daily Prophet – ‘Harry Potter: Vanished Hero or Scandalous Escape?’ It'll keep them busy."

Hermione slapped him upside the head.

"Don’t be so crass, Ronald! Just ignore him, Harry. We’ll handle things here." Tears welled in her eyes. "Just… try to find help wherever you land. Maybe even friends. There might be someone out there who can actually do something about your situation."

"Apparently, there are alternate versions of ourselves in different dimensions," Ron added, clapping him on the shoulder. "No matter where or when, we’ll always help you. Look us up if you ever need us."

Harry looked at them both, slowly fastening the pendant around his neck. He couldn’t deny that he had drifted from them ever since the physical difference in their age had started to show. Even before that, to be honest. The war had made him more reclusive than ever, and sometimes, he had to force himself to go to work instead of shutting himself away from the world. The last two years without the need to go to work hadn’t helped matters.

But they were his friends. Yes, he could take care of himself, and he had been doing that for as long as he could remember. But they were the closest thing he had to family.

For the first time since he was eleven and entered Hogwarts, he would completely, utterly, be alone.

Perhaps they saw the despair that gripped his heart because Hermione suddenly threw her arms around him, fat tears streaming down her face. The grip Ron had on his shoulder tightened almost painfully.

The three felt an abrupt force of magic – the activation of the anti-Apparition wards surrounding Harry’s flat.

Time was up.

The years passed. From world to world, time to time, dimension to dimension.

Thankfully, he usually found himself on Earth in random locations – from Greece to China. But it was always in different timelines. He had traveled to distant pasts, when gods once walked the earth alongside men, and to alternate future events that never took place in his reality.

And always, he would make his way back to Britain. But every time he did, the crushing disappointment he felt upon the realization that it wasn’t his own world never failed to hit him.

The feeling faded over time, but it never truly went away. Eventually, after many years, he gave up on the notion of ever returning.

He searched for answers about his immortality, hoping to find something related to the Hallows and Death, but came up empty every time.

He had learned one thing over the years, however: never invest in a world he was bound to leave, for it inevitably brought pain to everyone involved. He still interacted and helped with small things – he needed to work, after all. Not all worlds valued the silvers and golds of Sickles and Galleons. But that was the extent of his involvement.

Being alone, and depending on no one but himself, was what he did best. He worked hard to keep it that way, ignoring the people who tried to befriend him in each world. And after a while, they would all feel discouraged and eventually leave him alone.

But not this one.

"I watch everything in this world," Mari continued, his gaze distant as if seeing something beyond the present. "From an island in the farthest land. Yes, everything. That is the key – I’m only an observer. But what you seek, though not here, may be closer than you think."

Harry paused in the middle of skinning the rabbit meat he had caught for dinner and looked up at Mari’s serene expression. Keeping his features blank, he waited for Mari to continue, ignoring the hopeful anticipation that swelled in his chest at the man’s words.

It had been some time since he first arrived in Westminster, a region in London. He was currently in the seventh century, well after the final battle of Salisbury Plain and the end of the Arthurian legend. It was in the churchyard of the famous stone that had once held Caliburn when Harry first met him.

"Oh my! How wonderful. Dozing off as I stroll along, I didn’t expect to find myself back in the British Isles with you so close by," he had exclaimed that day. "Is this the dream continued, or merely an illusion? Well, not that it matters. This appearance is a special service, an incognito visit totally on a whim."

The person before him was very beautiful. He wore a robe woven from fine fabrics, yet it looked modest. His long hair shimmered with the colors of the rainbow under the sunlight.

He explained that he was actually locked inside a tower and stranded in his dream. So, he would follow Harry even if Harry refused to let him.

"But, hmm… tagging along with someone when I don’t know their name is unsettling," he murmured to himself. "Can you tell me your name? Oh, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you mine. I suppose you can just call me Mari."

It was the most bizarre and suspicious introduction Harry had ever experienced.

It was obvious that Mari wasn’t completely human, and Harry later discovered that he was a mischievous con man. But despite being a hybrid, he had never hated humans. Rather, he was fond of them to such a degree that it was beyond natural. Honestly, if one looked only at the end result, Mari was a good man – and a wise one.

Most importantly, he possessed Clairvoyance: "The Eyes Which See Through the World." If Mari claimed that he was close to reaching his goal, then it had to be true.

"Okay," Harry found himself saying, rising to his feet. "I’ll go pack my things."

Before he could take more than a few steps, Mari’s hand gently came down on his shoulder.

"Now, now. I don’t mean right at this moment," he said with a calm smile. "At least finish dinner and wait until tomorrow. I’d like to enjoy your company before you go. I will miss you, Harry."

Harry stopped and stared into Mari’s otherworldly eyes, contemplating his next words.

"I’m sure it’s obvious by now. I’m a human who doesn’t age," he finally said. "Doesn’t that bother you?"

"I’m a being very far apart from humans. I consume dreams and can essentially understand human emotions, but cannot truly sympathize with them," Mari shrugged. "Besides, I should think it bothers you more."

"... You really are strange."

Mari let out a small laugh. "Aren’t we all? Otherwise, the world wouldn’t be as fun or as beautiful."

A few years later, in a different world, Harry had settled in a semi-rural town near Wiltshire and opened a small café. Coffee-making and baking pastries had been one of the random skills he’d picked up during his journey, and he was quite good at it, if the number of customers he served every day was anything to go by.

It was a decent life, though Harry had felt slightly forlorn during the first few weeks. He would turn to speak with Mari, only to realize he was alone once more.

As the end of September approached and autumn was in full swing, Harry peered out of his window and spotted a strange individual who stood out from the rest of the locals like a sore thumb. He was dressed as an aristocrat, clad in nearly all black, with a demeanor that could be described as old, yet somehow not.

Almost as if sensing him, the man glanced up and caught Harry’s gaze. To his surprise, the man flashed a roguish grin, waved at Harry’s currently closed café, and made a pleading gesture, complete with puppy-dog eyes – an expression that looked absolutely ridiculous on him, considering he appeared to be in his fifties.

Harry couldn’t quite hold back a snort as he moved away from the window and grabbed his work clothes. Technically, he didn’t open for another hour, but he might as well start the day.

Of course, Harry had no idea just how much his life would change in his decision to open the door to one Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg.

Chapter Text

"You want me to take part in a war?"

"That's right."

"A magical war. Out in the open. Surrounded by Muggle civilians, no less."

"I do adore that word – Muggle. Such a charming little term your lot came up with. Lightens the mood splendidly when dropped into otherwise dull conversations. Quite endearing, really, Harry."

Harry sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I know the Grail Wars have existed for centuries, and yet no one has ever truly claimed the prize."

"I’ve always admired your clarity."

"And yet you still want me to involve myself in the Heaven’s Feel ritual?"

"Precisely."

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

"You do remember I’ve already fought in one magical war, yes? And now you’re asking me to dive headfirst into another, Zelretch?"

Zelretch gave a sheepish grin.

"Ah. Right. That might have slipped my mind. Memory’s not quite what it used to be."

Harry’s eye twitched. 

"Let's not forget," he said, his tone flat, "that thanks to that bloody war, I'm now cursed to wander between worlds – immortal, and entirely unasked for."

"But surely you see the entertainment value?"

Harry stared at the Wizard Marshall, then closed his eyes, weariness etched across his face.

"You're the sort who'd bully a baby by stealing their sweets if the spectacle amused you, you insufferable bastard."

"Bully is such a harsh word," Zelretch replied mildly, making no attempt to hide his smirk.

Harry groaned. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't walk away from this ridiculous magical death match."

"Well..." The Magician's tone grew more thoughtful. "Just for the sake of argument – how much do you know about the original Fuyuki Holy Grail War?"

Harry frowned. "Enough."

A Holy Grail War centers around an artifact of boundless power – said to grant any wish, no matter how impossible. But when the mages speak of the Fuyuki Grail War, they refer to a very specific ritual: one that summons Heroic Spirits, bound as Servants, to fight to the death in their Masters’ names.

Due to the Association's lax oversight in that remote Eastern country, the ritual was conducted three times with relatively little fanfare. The notion of a wish-granting relic surfacing in some quiet, “backwater nation” was dismissed as fanciful – barely more than a curiosity.

That is, until the Third Holy Grail War.

The global chaos of the Second World War played its part. Multiple nations intervened. And amidst the confusion, the Greater Grail – the ritual’s linchpin – vanished without a trace.

Harry didn’t know the full story, but whatever occurred marked the end of the Fuyuki conflict – and with it, the ambitions of the Three Founding Families. Even so, the Einzbern, stubborn to their core, refused to abandon the dream. Rumor had it they’d set to work forging a new Grail.

The Tohsaka walked away. The Matou faded into obscurity. And yet, knowledge of the system trickled beyond Japan’s borders.

These days, Grail Wars flare up across the world. Most are minor affairs – no more than five Servants summoned – and few ever reach completion. The promise of a granted wish has become a dangerous bet, and one most mages are no longer eager to make.

“The Greater Grail disappeared after the Third War – you’re aware of that, I assume?” Zelretch asked. “Well, the Clock Tower has finally found it. Or rather, discovered where it was hidden.”

“Where?” Harry asked.

“Romania. The city of Trifas, on the edge of Transylvania. It was buried beneath the Fortress of Millennia – the city’s oldest landmark.”

“How in Merlin’s name did the Greater Grail end up in Romania?”

Zelretch’s smirk became sharp. 

“Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia. The clan’s elder. He’s the reason.”

Recognition sparked in Harry’s eyes. 

"He stole it during the chaos of World War II," Harry added. "During the Third Holy Grail War."

"Precisely. And it took the Clock Tower fifty years to finally track it down," Zelretch confirmed.

He wasn’t surprised.

Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia was said to have lived for over a century. A Grand-ranked mage and a former second-class instructor in elemental conversion, he held credentials that impressed on paper. But from what Harry had heard, his students rarely spoke of him with much regard. Teaching had never been his strength. 

Politics were.

The Clock Tower had always been a viper’s nest of backroom deals, shifting alliances, and power plays. And Darnic had thrived in it – deceiving allies, manipulating enemies, and always emerging ahead.

In short: a ruthless, manipulative bastard.

“Not only does the Yggdmillennia clan control the Fortress,” Zelretch continued, “they’ve officially seceded from the Clock Tower. Oh, and I believe Darnic offered you a place in the clan, didn’t he?”

The Master of Death raised a brow. 

“I won’t ask how you know that – let’s just assume omniscience. But yes, he approached me not long ago. Offered me a place in his… uniquely dysfunctional family.”

The motive had been clear enough. On the surface, the Clock Tower presented itself as a grand institution – a bastion of magical scholarship and tradition. In truth, it was a playground for Lords: pseudo-aristocrats intoxicated by legacy and bloodlines. Power passed between ancient houses like heirlooms, and influence was everything. If you weren’t born into the right family – or didn’t possess some prodigious talent – you were nothing.

That contempt extended to Enforcers. And to “fallen witches.”

In this world, female mages were not considered witches. Witches were legends – creators of the First Magic, patrons of the Department of Botany. But those beings had long since surpassed humanity. Some had returned to the earth, others vanished into myth, and a select few merged with the very fabric of the Magic they once shaped.

But not all witches had gone.

Some remained. Human. Mortal.

And for that, they received no reverence. No pity. Nothing but disdain.

Regardless of their power, no matter how deep their Mystery, the modern mages dismissed them. In the eyes of the Association, to live as a witch in this age was to bear a mark of failure. They were relics – awkward, unwanted leftovers of a bygone world. Eventually, all were met with rejection. Quietly. Coldly.

Harry knew that all too well.

Perhaps it was because he chose to live among humans. Perhaps because he didn't play by the Association’s rules. Whatever the reason, to the Clock Tower, Harry James Potter was a reject.

He didn’t care.

Zelretch, of course, found it endlessly amusing.

To Harry, the Clock Tower had never been anything more than a means to an end – a place to study, to tear apart arcane theories, to search for a way to break the curse of immortality. A curse he’d earned the night he gathered the Deathly Hallows during the Battle of Hogwarts, all those years ago. He had no interest in impressing these mage children or playing their petty games. 

Then Darnic approached him.

He saw in Harry untapped potential – a witch whose blood remained pure, whose soul was still whole. Cast aside by fools too blinded by tradition to recognize what stood before them.

The clan elder was willing to make an exception.

At the Clock Tower, Harry had quickly learned how a mage’s worth was judged: by lineage, pedigree, the age of one's magical bloodline. The most powerful families traced their traditions back millennia. But the Yggdmillennia were an outlier.

They didn’t preserve a single bloodline – they collected them. Failed houses, exiles, defectors. They took in those the Association no longer wanted. They weren’t Lords. They didn’t belong to any formal factions.

Some said they’d lost a power struggle with the Three Great Families long ago. Others claimed their magic circuits were too diluted, too weak to compete.

Rather than concentrate their power, they scattered it – spreading their net across families with thinning blood, dying crests, or condemned secrets. Mages marked for sealing. Lineages teetering on the edge of extinction.

Each member carried a middle name from the house they descended from. Their magical crests were patchwork, stitched from fragments of history. Their fields of study varied wildly: Western Alchemy, Dark Arts, Witchcraft, Astrology, Kabbalah, Runology – even Japanese Onmyōdō.

They were an alliance of the unwanted.

The Lords laughed at them. Sneered at their scattered arts. But Darnic kept them shielded – his political maneuvering alone held the clan together.

Now, that fragile alliance had done the unthinkable.

A month after Harry’s conversation with Darnic, the Yggdmillennia clan declared secession.

Defection wasn’t unheard of within the Association – some left in protest, others because their power couldn’t be restrained. But an entire clan breaking away? That was different.

That was war.

Then again, perhaps they had cause. Perhaps they’d found something worth defying the world for.

Something like the Greater Grail.

A device said to open the path to Akasha – the Root of all things. The origin and end of every soul, every possibility, every timeline.

The immortal wizard groaned inwardly. He was even less inclined to join this Holy Grail War now. Especially with the Yggdmillennia at its heart. The last thing he wanted was to be entangled with them any more than he already was.

“If the Yggdmillennia already have the Grail – and all seven Masters – what’s the point in dragging me into it? That ship’s sailed, hasn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” Zelretch said, his lips curled at the corner of his mouth. “You can still summon a Servant.”

“… Come again?”

“That’s the most intriguing thing about this particular Holy Grail War – the number of Servants has doubled. Fourteen are being summoned.”

Harry blinked.

“Sorry – what?”

“The last mage the Association sent into the Yggdmillennia fortress found the Greater Grail lying dormant beneath the structure. Before he was eliminated, he managed to activate a secondary function.”

“Secondary?”

“The Grail was built with a contingency. In the rare event all seven Servants ever united under a single banner, it would trigger a reserve system – a second set of Command Spells.”

“… You’re saying there’s going to be another team? Seven Servants summoned to oppose the first seven?”

Fourteen Heroic Spirits. It wasn’t just unusual – it was unprecedented. And now Harry understood why Zelretch had come to him.

“Exactly. Trifas sits atop the strongest leyline convergence in Romania – perhaps even stronger than Fuyuki’s. The magical energy there has been accumulating for centuries. More than enough to sustain a full-scale Grail War on both sides.”

“If the Yggdmillennia have their seven…”

“… Then the Association will gather seven of their own. This won’t be a secret ritual in some dark alley – it’s open war. They’re already calling it the Great Holy Grail War.”

Zelretch’s smirk deepened.

“So... will you accept?”

Harry didn’t answer straight away. The idea of fighting over an omnipotent artifact had always struck him as borderline suicidal. No one – no thing – should wield power like that. And this wasn’t just another Grail War. It was bigger, riskier, and almost guaranteed to go catastrophically wrong.

Especially with his luck.

But still...

He thought back. Countless years of wandering – across timelines, across worlds – searching for a way to break the curse tied to his soul. All that effort. All that sacrifice. And nothing. Only dead ends, false leads, and fading hope.

And now, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a path had opened. Dangerous, yes. But a path nonetheless.

Zelretch seemed to sense the shift in his thoughts.

“Regardless of what you decide,” he said quietly, “the Grail has already chosen you.”

Harry rolled up his sleeve.

There, glowing faintly on the back of his hand, was a Command Spell – a complex symbol whose shape, unsettlingly, mirrored the Deathly Hallows.

“I noticed it a few days ago,” Harry muttered. “Still doesn’t explain why it manifested. I’m not even in Romania.”

Zelretch shrugged. “Your luck has always bordered on the absurd. Equal parts divine providence and cosmic punishment.”

Harry groaned, rubbing his face. “Figures. So if I want in, that means siding with the Association, doesn’t it?”

The thought alone made him grimace. Years among the mages had left him with little but contempt for their kind—especially those at the Clock Tower. Arrogant. Insular. Blinded by their own imagined supremacy.

“Not necessarily,” Zelretch replied. “As far as I know, the Yggdmillennia haven’t summoned all seven of their Servants yet. The Association hasn’t finalized their roster either. You’ve still got a choice. That said…”

He paused, locking eyes with Harry.

“If I may offer a suggestion – I’d recommend you accept Darnic’s invitation.”

Harry blinked.

“Him? I thought you’d be pushing for the Association.”

Zelretch laughed. “Please. I may be with the Association, but I’m hardly of it. No, there’s only one path that fits you, Harry—and that’s the Black.”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a slim case.

“Here. A catalyst. You’ve got a few months before the war begins. Use the time well.”

Harry took the case but hesitated. “May I ask where you got this?”

Zelretch smiled with infuriating innocence – what Harry had come to call the Marauder’s Smile.

“I borrowed it.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You mean you stole it.”

“I did not!” Zelretch replied, mock-offended. “I borrowed it—without asking. But I did leave a note.” He sighed theatrically. “Honestly. Such ingratitude. And here I thought we had something special.”

Harry let out a long breath.

He sighed more around Zelretch than he had around anyone – possibly even more than around Dumbledore.

And yes, he had that same damned twinkle in his eye.

That night, under a blanket of stars in the quiet Wiltshire town, Harry set to work.

His remote cottage, shielded by Unplottability charms and wards designed to repel unwanted attention, offered him the perfect sanctuary for the ritual. The garden, secluded and expansive, was an ideal canvas for what was about to unfold.

With practiced precision, Harry began to carve the summoning circle into the earth. Blood, ink, and intent reinforced the carefully etched lines. Ancient runes – protective, binding, anchoring – flanked the perimeter.

He paused. 

Years of solitude had brought a certain comfort in isolation. But whatever this summoning brought, that comfort was about to end.

He opened the case before him. Inside, nestled against soft velvet, lay a single linden leaf, stained with dragon’s blood. The scent was unmistakable.

There was only one figure in legend who could be tied to both.

He closed the case with a soft click and placed it carefully upon the altar.

“That meddling old coot…” he muttered to himself, a rueful smile pulling at his lips. “He’s really outdone himself this time. I wonder who the poor bastard is that he took this from.”

Somewhere deep in Romania, a portly mage from the Yggdmillennia clan sneezed violently. Moments later, he was tearing through the fortress in a fit of rage, searching frantically for his missing catalyst.

In his hand, he clutched a note – handwritten in elegant, looping script – that apologized for the inconvenience, claiming the catalyst had been “borrowed for an unforeseeable future.”

The note was punctuated with heart doodles and a cheerful smiley face.

Back in Wiltshire, Harry stood before the completed circle. He glanced at the time.

“Tempus.”

Midnight. The hour of power.

“Let’s get this over with.”

He took a deep breath, steadying his mind, and raised his hand, beginning the chant:

“Let silver and steel be the essence.

Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.

Let black be the color I pay tribute to.

Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.

Let the four cardinal gates close.

Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom, rotate.”

The circle flared to life – red, vibrant, and alive. A strange pressure pressed against Harry’s chest, as though something ancient had stirred within him.

“Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling.”

Power surged; the very air heavy with it.

“Let it be declared now; your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.

Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.

Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.”

The circle erupted in blinding light. Magic roared through Harry’s core, reaching out across space and time.

“An oath shall be sworn here.

I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;

I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.”

He felt it. The connection. The miracle was happening.

“From the Seventh Heaven, attended by three great words of power,

come forth from the ring of constraint, protector of the holy balance!”

The world exploded in light and wind. A roar of storm and fury. Then, suddenly, stillness.

There he stood.

A figure tall and broad-shouldered, clad in radiant silver armor that gleamed like moonlight itself. A massive greatsword rested across his back – weathered, scarred from countless battles, its blade shimmering faintly with a pale, unnatural sheen. His silver hair shifted gently in the breeze, the only softness in a frame built like a fortress.

Harry stared; his breath caught in his chest.

The figure stepped forward; his movements deliberate. His voice broke the silence – a steady rumble that seemed to echo from deep within the earth itself.

“In accordance to the summon, I present myself – Saber of Black, Siegfried. I have answered your calling.” 

He paused, steel-blue eyes locking onto Harry’s emerald green gaze. The two stared at each other, a connection immediately formed that neither could explain, nor deny.

“I ask of you: are you my Master?”

Moonlight filtered through the clouds, casting a pale glow over both Master and Servant.

The night held its breath.

Zelretch raised a glass of wine to the moon.

As Master of the Kaleidoscope, he had witnessed thousands of worlds – countless variations playing out across the weave of the multiverse. And in every known thread, Saber of Black had been summoned by Gordes Musik Yggdmillennia. Silenced. Misunderstood. Condemned to a fate his Master neither valued nor deserved – a sacrifice required for the tale to advance.

But not this time. 

This time, something had shifted.

Harry James Potter – an anomaly, a walking impossibility – had stepped onto the stage of this world.

And now, beneath the gaze of stars, the Master of Death and the Dragon-Blooded Knight had been bound together.

Their story would not be one of Servants and Masters. Nor saints and sinners.

This would be a story of wishes – Harry's desperate desire for the peace of death after centuries of unending life, and Siegfried's unspoken yearning for a purpose beyond servitude.

For better… or for worse, their fates were now intertwined.