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From the Journals of Imperial Scholar, Prince Daevar Velaryon, of the Royal Society of Disciplines, 388 After Aegon’s Conquest

The Five Titles

Lord Aemon Targaryen of the Houses Targaryen and Royce, Heir of Runestone

Prince Aemon Targaryen of the Houses Targaryen and Royce, Heir of Runestone, the Unburnt, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread

Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen of the Houses Targaryen and Royce, Prince of Dragonstone and Summerhall, Lord Governor of Kingslanding, and Heir to the Iron Throne, the Unburnt, the Dragonslayer, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread and Master of Dragons

His Grace, King Aemon Targaryen of the Houses Targaryen and Royce, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Unburnt, the Dragonslayer, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread and Master of Dragons

His Imperial Majesty, Aemon of the Houses Targaryen and Royce, Emperor and Dragonlord of New Valyria, King of the Westerosi and Essosi, Lord of the Fourteen Kingdoms and Protector of the Imperial Realm, the Conqueror Reborn, the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Dragonslayer, Rider of Balerion the Black Dread and Master of Dragons

The Five Titles refer to the Noble, Royal, and Imperial titles held by His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Aemon Targaryen, throughout his long and extraordinary life.

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       Seems like the time has come, my journey coming to an end, and one hell of a journey it’s been. Here I was, lying in bed, tucked in under heavy blankets, head settled into what had to be the fluffiest pillow ever, damn shame it didn’t make an appearance till now. I was wearing my favorite set of pajamas. Dark emerald green, could fool anyone into thinking they were a boring black until the fabric moved, and the fabric, it was a smooth silk, so pleasant to the skin. One hand was held by Daphne, her thumb brushing over the amethyst gem in my signet ring. The other hand in Luna’s gentle grasp, her fingers rubbing random patterns across the back of it. My wives, my soulmates, my equals. Mine. Anyone would be concerned with the possessive nature of my thoughts, but those who knew me, who knew us, were well aware that I was theirs just as they were mine. Daphne Greengrass and Luna Lovegood. Those were their names when I first met them, just as they were through our school years. Now though, and for the last century, they were Lady Daphne Black and Lady Luna Peverell, the wives of one Hadrian Osiris Black, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and the Noble and Most Ancient House of Peverell.

       Let’s take a moment to explain how we came to this point. I once, in another life, went by another name, one I honestly can no longer remember. All I know of that life is that I was the average twenty-something young man, working some steady job, enjoying the few joys I could, spending most of my time either reading books of fantasy or watching random films and shows, usually of the same genre. What I know for certain is that during the last few years of that life, was that any time I had to spare was focused on reading all kinds of fan fiction, from small short stories to full blown novels that were longer than the original works, some keeping to the plot of the story to going completely off the rails and heading in directions never thought of or believed to be possible. It was a means to escape reality. A way to live another life that was more interesting, more exciting. Never actually thought that I would experience such a thing, but then again, here I am, in some alternative magical world of the beloved Harry Potter franchise. One thing I will say, it was definitely one hell of an adventure and far more exhilarating and frightening than my first life, all one hundred and twenty-eight years of it.

       The first thing I remembered in this life was waking up in the dark, on some flat uncomfortable pallet, the smell of mildew and chemicals traveling on dusty air. I don’t know how long I just laid there, not moving a muscle, barely breathing, just looking throughout the dark and feeling the fabric underneath me with the tip of my fingers, when out of nowhere, a burning, drilling pain flared up in my head. All I could do was clench my teeth and fist, hoping that the pain would run its course and go away. I can’t tell you when it did, as I was busier trying not to freak out from all the memories that were flying through my head. By the time I was done organizing my thoughts and the pain was gone, I knew exactly where I was, and more importantly, who I was. I was laying on my cramp bed in the cupboard under the stairs, in my muggle relatives house, and I was Harry Potter, but not the one I knew and read about.

       This Harry Potter, or Harold as he was named, Harry being an obvious nickname, was the older twin brother to Adrian Potter, and son to James and Lily Potter. He took after his father James, with a head full of black hair that went every which way possible and similar facial features, just more innocent and sweeter, cherubic even, but his eyes, he had Lily’s eyes, but more intense, a richer emerald green instead of her softer jade. His younger brother, Adrian, favored their mother, with straight fiery red hair, but had their father’s common brown eyes. Their first year as a family was nothing short of perfect. James spoiled the two of them, always trying to make them giggle with funny faces and tickles. He would use his talent in transfiguration to turn any random object into little miniature animals for them to play with. Lily was of course the more responsible one, making sure they kept to a schedule, with feeding and napping, singing lullabies and wrangling them into their clothes. It was sometime around their first birthdays that they moved from the huge mansion, most likely the Potter Manor, to the smaller cottage in Godric’s Hollow, hiding away from Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It wasn’t bad either way, since they were all still together, and still doing the same stuff they did before. Things were fine, until the one night.

       For a reason I couldn’t figure out until later, that being that James and Lily were too damn trusting, the two of them decided to go to a party being held with some of their friends to celebrate something or another, leaving Harry and his brother with a squib to watch them. They were hiding out in a cottage, under the Fidelius Charm, and they decided to go to a party, leaving they sons under the protection of someone who couldn’t use magic. Even then, that version of Harry, who was only a one-year-old at the time, could sense that something bad was going to happen, according to the feelings attached to the memory of it all. Later in the night brought the sound of glass breaking, and then the front door being blasted open. The screams of the babysitter were cut short just as quickly as they came, followed by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. By that point, Adrian was already crying, the sounds scaring him, but Harry, he was standing up in the crib they shared, using the rail to hold himself up, and staring at the door. With a turn of the knob, in walked the Dark Lord himself, pale white skin and bald head, blood red eyes almost glowing in quiet malice and a flat nose like a snake, draped in a long black hooded cloak that dragged on the floor. A hand with long fingers hung at his side, a wand just as bony and white as his fingers in his grasp.

       He walked up, ever so smoothly, and stood over us. He only spared Adrian a quick glance, who had quiet down to making soft whimpers, before he focused his full attention on me. You would think a year-old infant would be terrified of such a monster that spewed malice, but Harry wasn’t. He stared the Dark Lord down, more out of curiosity than anything, although there was a small hint of confused fury there as well. The dark wizard spoke of how a prophecy mentioned someone equal to him in power, of how at first, he thought such a thing was ludicrous, an impossibility, but now that he stood of front of Harry, he realized how the prophecy had some credence. That he could feel the beginning of some power in the boy, one that could only be sensed by those who trained themselves to sense such things, that it would be so easy for anyone to miss it unless they knew what to look for. Voldemort wondered if he might instead take Harry with him, train him as a weapon or even, possibly, a successor, but just as soon as the idea came to him, it left just as quickly, and was replaced with a cold resolve. It was a shame, he said, for someone of such potential to have to die, but that there could only be one to stand above the rest, and that person would be him. He promised that it would be over in a moment, less than a second of pain, that he could give the boy that, as if killing him, a child, was some kind of mercy. This of course was where things got really interesting.

       The Harry Potter I had come to replace was somewhat odd child for a one-year-old, as his memories had shown. He, even if unknowingly, then instinctually stood his ground against the Dark Lord in the crib, and could somehow tell that the monster standing before him was not only a bad person, but wanted to hurt him and his brother, and he actually moved on his clumsy little legs to stand between his twin brother and the Dark Lord, staring him down and looking straight into those two orbs of glowing red. As Voldemort raised his hand, the tip of his bone white wand mere inches from Harry’s head, as the temperature of the room dropped, and the evil radiating off of him filled the room, the one-year-old babe still didn’t move or show any signs of the confused fear children usually show in front of even the mildly startling of things or people. He just stood there, a tad wobbly, his hands gripping the railing, maintaining eye contact when in the next moment, a burst of sickly green light shoots out of the wand and hits him. What he remembered past that point was foggy.

       A burning sharp pain followed immediately after but was accompanied by a heat that surrounded his entire body and the shine of a light that was clearly coming from himself. He could feel the warm trickle of blood spilling from his brow, from a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt in the middle of his forehead. Barely conscious, tired, and in pain, he could hardly make out the screams of the dark wizard, whose very soul was suffering unbearable pain, his body already destroyed, a result of the Killing Curse rebounding back at him. The last thing Harry could remember before passing into unconsciousness was the disembodied soul of Voldemort unleashing an ear-piercing scream and flying away out through the massive hole made from the magical backlash, two of the walls and roof of the nursey gone, exposing them to the elements and stars above.

       It could have been a few moments or an hour before Harry woke up, awaken by the arrival of someone I knew had the potential to be just as bad or worse than the Dark Lord Voldemort, and unfortunately, I was proven right. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Lord of Light, second coming of Merlin, the only one the Dark Lord feared. Tall and elderly, the classic grandfatherly figure with a magical flair. His head of silver hair and silver beard were both long enough to be tucked into at the waist, spectacles with half-moon lenses sat perched on a long and crooked nose, one that had been broken at least once. He wore robes in a shade of purple, a small cap settled atop his head, his long beard tucked into his belt. He took his time surveying the room, first inspecting the robes left behind by the Dark Lord, then the large hole left behind, until finally, he turned his soul-piercing blue eyes towards the crib, his full attention on Harry.

       He spoke mostly to himself, of how the prophecy spoke of one who would be equal to the Dark Lord and possess a power that the Dark Lord had no knowledge of. That while Harry may have vanquished Voldemort, even if temporarily, he was too dangerous to keep alive, for anyone with the power to destroy a wizard of Voldemort’s caliber was a threat that couldn’t be allowed to live, especially when the deed was done when so young. The power Harry could have at his disposal if allowed to reach his full potential could not be allowed to exist. It was easy to deduce that this was not the benevolent elderly wizard that only wanted to bring peace to the wizarding world and guide the minds of the next generation of witches and wizards from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This was the manipulative, conniving, self-righteous man who kept all his cards close to his chest, revealing only the bare minimum of information to his allies or even giving wrong information to further his own goals, believing that their noble sacrifices on his behalf were for the greater good, not that they knew of course.

       This was a man who came to the conclusion that portraying himself as a selfless and humble individual was the right course, being equipped with decades of experience and all kinds of knowledge, and maintaining the image that he was someone who held immense power but never used it openly unless truly necessary and only in the defense of others, never for his own benefit. After all, being the Chief Warlock, who essentially controlled the flow of procedure and which cases were heard by the Wizengamot, the parliamentary body of the British wizarding community, as well as the Supreme Mugwump, the highest office and figurehead of the International Confederation of Wizards, a political body that deliberated and organized policies between the wizarding governments around the world, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who influenced the young malleable minds of the newest generation of witches and wizards of Great Britain, was clear evidence that Dumbledore had no intentions whatsoever of dominating the people of the magical community at large.

       Dumbledore then said that he just can’t allow someone of even greater potential then the Dark Lord to leave, but he would not kill him, that surely the dark mark left on his head would do the deed in time. Just like the Dark Lord, the Lord of Light thought he was being merciful, speaking of the death of a child as if he was just making polite conversation. For the second time that night, a wand was pointed at his head, held with negative intent just like the first. He assured Harry that his parents would mourn him, in time, although just for curiosity’s sake, he would keep him alive, to see how things progressed, that it should be easy to convince James and Lily that sending Harry away was for the best. Besides, they would still have Adrian to care for. The final memory was of a flash of red light, then darkness.