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Chapter Text

Calanthe Potter knew she was not normal. Normality was what the Dursleys craved, a bland, beige existence defined by matching floral sofas and obsessive lawn care. Calanthe was the ink-black stain on their perfect, suburban canvas.

She was small for her age, a fact Petunia Dursley lorded over her, yet she moved with a fluid, unnerving grace that her cousin, Dudley, entirely lacked. While he was a creature of loud, physical demands, Calanthe was one of quiet observation. From the cramped confines of her cupboard, and later, her second bedroom (a concession granted only after a bizarre incident involving a vanishing glass and a traumatized snake), she watched.

She watched the way her aunt’s smiles never reached her eyes, the way her uncle’s face purpled when he was defied, and the way the world itself seemed to bend, just slightly, in Calanthe's favor when she was angry or afraid.

Teachers’ wigs turned blue. Bullies found themselves suddenly and inexplicably upside down. And once, when Petunia had tried to shear Calanthe's "unruly" black hair, it had grown back overnight, longer and silkier than before, leaving her aunt screeching about "unnatural freakishness."

Calanthe didn’t see it as freakishness. She saw it as control. It was the only power she had in a house that sought to suffocate her.

A week before her eleventh birthday, the letters began.

The first one was addressed in emerald-green ink to:

Miss C. Potter

The Smallest Bedroom

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

Uncle Vernon had snatched it before she could open it, his face the color of spoiled ham. The terror in his and Petunia's eyes was, to Calanthe, far more interesting than the letter itself. It was the terror of the "normal" confronting the "unnatural."

The letters kept coming. They arrived in the post, tucked inside milk bottles, and even, to Calanthe's silent delight, nestled within the egg carton. The Dursleys descended into madness, culminating in a frantic escape to a rickety shack on a storm-lashed rock in the middle of the sea.

It was there, as the clock struck midnight on her eleventh birthday, that the facade of their normal world was blasted apart.

The door splintered, and a giant of a man filled the doorway, his silhouette framed by the raging storm. He was massive, with a wild beard and kind, if slightly dim, eyes.

"Calanthe Potter, I presume?" he boomed. "Got somethin' fer yeh. 'Fraid I mighta sat on it at some point, but I 'magine it'll taste fine just the same."

He presented her with a squashed chocolate cake. Calanthe accepted it, her eyes sharp and assessing. She offered a polite, small smile. "Thank you, sir. You are...?"

"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," he said proudly. He then turned his attention to the Dursleys, his good humor vanishing as he took in her cowering relatives. He proceeded to inform her, in a series of booming, indignant declarations, that she was a witch.

Calanthe did not gasp. She did not faint. She simply tilted her head. "A witch," she repeated, the word tasting strange and right on her tongue. "And this... Hogwarts?"

"Only the best school o' witchcraft and wizardry in the world! You've been down since the day yeh were born," Hagrid beamed. He handed her the letter, the real one, on thick parchment.

"You knew my parents?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"Knew 'em?" Hagrid's voice softened. "James and Lily Potter... some o' the best folks yeh could ever meet."

"They died in a car crash," Calanthe stated, the words the Dursleys had fed her her entire life.

Hagrid exploded. "A CAR CRASH?" he roared, making the shack tremble. "It’s an outrage! A scandal! To say that to Calanthe Potter! Murdered, Calanthe. By the darkest wizard of our time. A wizard named... Voldemort."

He explained the story she had been denied. Her parents' bravery. The wizard who hunted them. The curse that had rebounded. The scar on her forehead.

"And Albus Dumbledore," Hagrid said, his voice filled with reverence, "a great man, Dumbledore. He was the only one Voldemort ever feared. He arranged for yeh to be left here, fer yer own safety."

A cold, sharp thought cut through Calanthe’s mind. Safety? In a cupboard under the stairs?

"Professor Dumbledore sealed your parents' wills, o' course," Hagrid added, mistaking her silence for awe. "For the best, he said. Keep things simple 'til you were older. No need to worry yer pretty little head about vaults and such."

Calanthe’s eyes, the vibrant, killing-curse green she had never understood, narrowed. Sealed? Simple?

"Hagrid," she said, her voice acquiring a sudden, crisp edge that made the giant blink. "I will need to go to this... Diagon Alley. To get my supplies."

"O' course, Calanthe! That's why I'm here!"

"And," she continued, standing up, "I will need to visit Gringotts Bank first."

"Right you are, Gringotts, get yer money—"

"No, Mr. Hagrid," Calanthe interrupted, her tone polite but laced with steel. "I need to speak with my parents' Account Manager. If Professor Dumbledore sealed their wills, then I, as the last of my line, must unseal them. Immediately."

Hagrid looked utterly flummoxed. This small, polite girl was not the bewildered child he had expected. "Ah... well... Dumbledore said—"

"With all due respect to Professor Dumbledore," Calanthe said, "my parents are dead, and it is my inheritance. I will see to it. Shall we?"

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was a sensory explosion. It was chaos, color, and magic made manifest, and Calanthe loved it instantly. But she ignored the shops, the chattering crowds, and Hagrid’s attempts to point out the Quidditch supply store. She marched, with a purpose that belied her small stature, directly to the towering white marble building at the end of the street: Gringotts.

The goblins, with their sallow skin and sharp, intelligent eyes, unnerved Hagrid. They did not unnerve Calanthe. She saw in them the same qualities she was just beginning to recognize in herself: intelligence, a sharp assessment of value, and an intolerance for fools.

She approached the head teller, ignoring Hagrid fidgeting behind her. She waited to be acknowledged, and when the goblin finally looked up with a sneer, she gave a short, respectful bow.

"May your gold ever flow, Master Goblin," she said, her voice clear.

The goblin’s sneer faltered, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He had not expected the pureblood greeting from a child in Muggle rags.

"And may your enemies fall, little witch," he replied, a hint of respect in his gravelly voice. "How may Gringotts serve you?"

"I am Heir Calanthe Potter. I am here to claim my parents' vault and, more importantly, to speak with the Potter Account Manager. I have reason to believe my parents' wills have been illegally sealed."

The goblin's eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. "Do you have your key?"

"I do not," Calanthe said. "I was... misplaced. I require an inheritance test to prove my identity."

"Very well." The goblin, whose nameplate read ‘Griphook,’ looked past her. "The giant will wait here."

"I'm her guide!" Hagrid protested. "Dumbledore himself—"

"The giant," Griphook snapped, "will wait here. Inheritance matters are business of the Nation and the House, not its... pets."

Calanthe gave Hagrid a small, apologetic look. "Please wait for me, Hagrid. I will be fine."

She followed Griphook into a richly appointed office. The goblin seated behind the massive oak desk was older, his face a roadmap of scars, and he wore a finely tailored suit. His nameplate read 'Ragnok, Director - Potter & Black Estates.'

"Director Ragnok," Griphook announced, "an Heir Potter, requiring a test of blood."

Ragnok fixed Calanthe with a piercing gaze. "So. You have finally come."

"I was unaware I was expected, Director," Calanthe said, taking the offered seat.

"The Potter wills were filed with us upon their deaths, as per ancient family magic," Ragnok said, his long fingers steepled. "They were ordered sealed by Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. An order he had no legal right to give, but which Gringotts was... persuaded... to follow, given his influence." His tone left no doubt what he thought of Dumbledore.

"He also left specific instructions for your key, granting him access to your trust vault. For 'school supplies,' he claimed."

"Has he been taking money?" Calanthe asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

"Quarterly withdrawals. For your 'care and keeping.' Sent to one Vernon Dursley," Ragnok said, consulting a ledger. "Furthermore, a magical scan of your Gringotts file shows several monitoring charms placed upon you, all keyed to Dumbledore's office."

The air in the room grew cold. Calanthe felt that familiar, coiling power inside her, but this time it wasn't wild. It was a focused, glacial rage.

"Director Ragnok," she said, "I wish to take the test. And then, I wish to see the audit of my accounts, unseal my parents' wills, and have every single charm placed on me by Albus Dumbledore, or any of his associates, removed. Permanently."

Ragnok smiled, a terrifying expression showing all his pointed teeth. "A true Potter. Griphook, the blood-parchment. And the ritual bowl."

Calanthe dripped three drops of blood onto the enchanted parchment. Emerald-green ink spread, forming lines of script.

CALANTHE AURORA POTTER

• Born: 31 July 1980
• Father: James Charlus Potter (Deceased)
• Mother: Lilian Jade Potter (née Evans) (Deceased)

HEIRSHIP

• Heir Apparent to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter (Paternal)
• Heir Apparent to the Ancient and Noble House of Black (by Magical Proxy/Godfather’s Will, Sirius Orion Black, Unjustly Incarcerated)
• Heir Apparent to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell (by Paternal Lineage and Right of Conquest)

MAGICAL BLOCKS & CHARMS

• Magical Core: 70% Blocked (Binder: A.P.W.B.Dumbledore)
• Parseltongue: 100% Blocked (Binder: A.P.W.B.Dumbledore)
• Metamorphmagus (Minor): 90% Blocked (Binder: A.P.W.B.Dumbledore)
• Other:

• Loyalty/Compulsion Charm (Keyed to A. Dumbledore, Weasley Family, Gryffindor House) - Failing
• Aversion/Distrust Charm (Keyed to T. Riddle, Malfoy Family, Slytherin House) - Failing
• Magic Dampener (Keyed to Dursley Residence)
• SOUL FRAGMENT (HORCRUX) - Foreign Parasite. Unstable.

Calanthe stared at the last line, then looked at Ragnok, whose own face had gone pale with fury.

"He dared," Ragnok hissed, his voice trembling with goblin rage. "He knew. The monitoring charms... he knew you were blighted with a piece of the Dark One, and he left you with Muggles, blocked and defenseless?"

"Remove it," Calanthe said. Her voice did not shake. "Remove it all."

"The blocks and charms are simple, though painful. The... parasite," Ragnok spat, "is Dark magic of the foulest kind. To remove it is costly. And dangerous."

"What is the cost?"

"The parasite is anchored to your scar. To remove it, we must draw it out. It will fight. The ritual will require five curse-breakers, three healers, and a ritual of cleansing that will... purify you. But it will also solidify your core. It will change you, Heir Potter. The magic Dumbledore blocked... it is not 'Light' magic."

"I have lived in a cupboard for ten years, Director," Calanthe said flatly. "I am not afraid of pain. I am afraid of being a pawn. Do it."

Ragnok’s sharp-toothed grin returned. "For the full Heirs' ritual, the cleansing, the removal of the parasite, and the execution of your parents' wills, the cost will be ten thousand Galleons."

"You have a deal," Calanthe said without flinching.

"One more thing, Heir Potter-Black-Peverell. Your parents' wills. They name Sirius Black as your guardian. As he is... unavailable... they name, as a contingent, the Malfoy family."

Calanthe blinked. "The Malfoys? Hagrid told me they were Dark."

"Your mother and Narcissa Malfoy were... complicated friends. Your father and Lucius Malfoy were political rivals, but respected one another. Your parents, Lady Potter, were not the Gryffindor mascots Dumbledore has painted them as. They were powerful, intelligent, and deeply versed in the 'Old Ways.' They trusted Lucius Malfoy's political acumen over Dumbledore's manipulations. The will explicitly forbids your placement with the Dursleys and demands an audit upon their death."

"Dumbledore has stolen my money, blocked my magic, ignored my parents' dying wishes, and left me to rot with people who hate me," Calanthe summarized, her voice like ice. "All while leaving a piece of a Dark Lord in my head. He is not a 'great man,' Director. He is my enemy."

"Indeed," Ragnok rumbled, deeply satisfied. "The Goblin Nation values its allies. And it despises its enemies. We will begin the ritual at once. By the time you leave this bank, Lady Potter, you will be as you were meant to be."

Chapter Text

The ritual was agony. It felt like being torn apart and remade, atom by atom. The blocks on her magic shattered like glass, releasing a flood of power that was so intense she cried out. It was not the warm, cuddly magic Hagrid represented. It was old, deep, and cold, answering to her will above all else.

The removal of the Horcrux was worse. It was a black, screaming thing, drawn from her scar by the goblin's chanting. It fought, and it showed her images—a flash of green light, a high, cold laugh, and a man with burning red eyes. Calanthe met the phantom's gaze, and instead of fear, she felt a sudden, sharp curiosity... and then, with the Goblins' help, she willed it to burn.

She awoke hours later, feeling clean, sharp, and intensely, terrifyingly powerful. The dull ache that had lived behind her scar her entire life was gone.

She sat up. Her body felt different. Stronger. She looked at her hands, no longer thin and bony, but elegant and fine-boned. A goblin healer offered her a mirror.

The girl who stared back was not the one who had entered Gringotts. Her hair was still black, but it fell in sleek, aristocratic waves, no longer a "bird's nest." Her face had lost its pinched look, revealing high cheekbones and a strong jaw. But her eyes were the most changed. They were still vividly green, but now held an unsettling, ancient intelligence.

"The Metamorphmagus trait, minor as it is, has reasserted itself," Ragnok said, entering the recovery room. "It responds to your will, your sense of self. You now look as the Lady of three Noble Houses should."

"I feel..." Calanthe began, "everything."

"Your core is unbound. You are now, magically and politically, one of the most powerful witches in Britain," Ragnok said. He handed her a Gringotts card, a sleek black vault key, and three signet rings on a chain—Potter, Black, and Peverell. "We have taken the liberty of purchasing you a new wardrobe from your vaults, as your... former... attire was destroyed in the ritual."

The clothes were not a child's. They were the robes of a pureblood heir. Dark, expensive wool, silver fastenings, and a cut that spoke of quiet authority. She dressed, the fabric feeling more like armor than clothing.

"We have also," Ragnok said, "taken the liberty of following your parents' will to the letter. A message has been dispatched to Lord Malfoy, informing him of your recovery and your desire to meet. We have also sent a strongly worded notice to Albus Dumbledore, informing him that the Potter and Black accounts are now frozen, pending a full investigation into his criminal mismanagement, and that any further attempt to contact you will be met with the full force of Goblin law."

Calanthe Potter-Black-Peverell stood. "Thank you, Director. You have done my Houses a great service. May your vaults overflow."

"May your magic vanquish your foes, Lady Potter," Ragnok bowed. "Now, I believe you have a school to shop for."

Calanthe emerged into the sunlight of Diagon Alley a different person. The noise and color no longer overwhelmed her; they were simply data to be processed. She dismissed Hagrid, who had been waiting anxiously, with a polite but firm, "My business is concluded, Hagrid. I am quite capable of purchasing my own supplies. You may return to Professor Dumbledore and tell him... tell him I said hello."

The giant, confused and intimidated by this new, cold version of Calanthe, stammered and left.

Calanthe's first stop was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

Inside, a pale, blond boy was standing on a stool, being fitted. He looked at Calanthe with a bored, aristocratic sneer. "Hogwarts?" he drawled.

Calanthe recognized the tone. It was the sound of privilege, but unlike the Dursleys, it was privilege backed by power. She could respect that.

"It is," she replied, her voice smooth and cool.

"My father's next door buying my books and my mother's up the street looking at wands," the boy said. "I'm going to bully my father into buying me a racing broom. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll be in Slytherin. All our family are."

"A fine ambition," Calanthe said, stepping onto the stool next to him. "Cunning and resourcefulness are traits to be admired. You are Heir Draco Malfoy, I presume?"

The boy froze, his sneer vanishing, replaced by genuine shock. He looked at her, really looked at her, and his eyes widened. He recognized the quality of her robes, the way she held herself.

"You are..." he stammered, "You have the advantage of me."

"Calanthe Potter, Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter," she said simply.

Draco Malfoy almost fell off the stool.

"Potter?" he whispered, his mind racing. This was not the savior of the Light he had been told about. This girl was... she was one of them. "But... they said... you were raised by Muggles. They said you'd be a Gryffindor."

"Assumptions are the luxury of fools, Heir Malfoy," Calanthe said, allowing Madam Malkin to measure her. "I was... detained... by Muggles, against my parents' explicit will. A situation I have only just rectified. I find I am in possession of a will that names your father as a potential guardian."

Draco's eyes lit up with political fire. He understood. This was not an enemy. This was an opportunity.

"My father," Draco said, his voice dropping, "will be fascinated to hear that. He is just next door. Perhaps, after your fitting, you would consent to an introduction? I'm sure my mother would be delighted to meet you."

"I believe," Calanthe said, a small, cold smile touching her lips, "that I am already expected."

As if on cue, a tall, elegant woman with two-toned hair entered the shop, followed by a man with the same pale hair as Draco and cold, grey eyes. Lucius Malfoy spotted his son, then his gaze fell on Calanthe. He saw the cut of her robes, the rings on the chain she wore, and the piercing, intelligent green eyes.

Draco stepped off the stool. "Father. Mother. May I present Lady Calanthe Potter-Black. It seems the Gringotts ravens fly true."

Lucius Malfoy’s impassive mask cracked, just for a second. He looked at this powerful, self-possessed child who should have been Dumbledore's golden girl.

"Lady Potter," Lucius Malfoy said, sweeping into a formal bow. "This is... an unexpected honor. We had just received a most... startling... message from Director Ragnok."

"Lord Malfoy," Calanthe replied, inclining her head in the perfect, pureblood greeting the Goblins had taught her. "I believe we have much to discuss."

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy's study was a testament to old money and quiet power. Dark, polished wood, shelves of leather-bound books that smelled faintly of magic, and a large window overlooking the manicured grounds of Malfoy Manor.

After the encounter in Diagon Alley, Lucius had insisted Calanthe accompany them. "A conversation of this magnitude cannot be had in a public shop," he'd murmured, his silver-topped cane tapping once on the cobblestones. They had finished their shopping—Calanthe purchasing the finest quality trunk, cauldron, and scales, her every choice reflecting her new station—before using the Floo network from a private room in Gringotts.

Calanthe sat in a high-backed chair, Narcissa Malfoy beside her, while Lucius stood by the fireplace. Draco, having been told to wait outside, was no doubt pressing his ear to the door.

"Lady Potter," Lucius began, his voice a smooth baritone. "We find ourselves in a... unique situation. For ten years, the world believed you to be Dumbledore's icon, a symbol of the Light. The girl who defeated the Dark Lord."

"I was a baby, Lord Malfoy," Calanthe said, her voice cool. "I defeated nothing. A magical backlash occurred, and Dumbledore built a legend around it to suit his own purposes."

Narcissa's lips curved in a small, approving smile. "You see, Lucius? She is no fool."

"Clearly," Lucius agreed. "You have been wronged, Lady Potter. Grievously. Your parents' wills were illegally sealed, your inheritance stolen, your magic bound... and you were left with abusive Muggles, all while Albus Dumbledore positioned himself as the savior of the magical world."

"He is a politician," Calanthe stated. "And he used me as his most powerful piece. Now, I have removed myself from his board."

"Indeed you have," Lucius said, his grey eyes sharp. "The question is, what happens next? Dumbledore will not take this lying down. When he learns you are not his biddable little martyr, he will move to 'correct' the situation. He will try to claim you are confused, that you have been 'corrupted' by us."

"Let him try," Calanthe said, a spark of green fire in her eyes. "Director Ragnok and the Goblin Nation are not so easily dismissed. They are conducting a full audit of Dumbledore's actions. The moment he moves against me, they will move against him, armed with the full, sordid truth."

"Goblins are powerful allies," Narcissa said softly, "but they are not wizards. You cannot return to the Muggles. It is unsafe. And Dumbledore is still the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Which brings us to your parents' will," Lucius continued. "They named us, House Malfoy, as your contingent guardians. A fact Dumbledore buried. We are prepared, Lady Potter, to honor that request. We offer you sanctuary here, at Malfoy Manor, for the remainder of the summer. We will see to your education in our ways, see you are prepared for your station, and present a united front when you go to Hogwarts."

It was a political maneuver, Calanthe knew. Alliance with the suddenly powerful and unbound Lady Potter-Black-Peverell was a coup. But it was also a lifeline. She was an eleven-year-old girl, powerful or not, who had just had her entire world remade. She needed allies. She needed education.

"You would take me in?" she asked, "Knowing I am his... enemy?"

"The Dark Lord," Lucius said, his voice dropping. "He is gone. Defeated by your magic. We... some of us... followed him out of fear. Others, out of a desire for a return to the Old Ways, which Dumbledore has sought to stamp out. We are not evil, Lady Potter. We are traditionalists. We believe in blood, in magic, and in power. Things you now possess in abundance."

"My enemy," Calanthe clarified, "is Albus Dumbledore. He is the one who imprisoned me. He is the one who stole from me. The... other... is just a phantom from a story."

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a look. This was better than they could have hoped.

"Then we are in agreement," Narcissa said, placing her cool, elegant hand over Calanthe's. "You will stay with us. Draco will be thrilled."

"I accept your generous offer, Lord and Lady Malfoy," Calanthe said, inclining her head. "I believe this will be a most... beneficial... arrangement for all our Houses."

Chapter Text

The rest of the summer was a revelation. Life at Malfoy Manor was ordered, elegant, and intensely magical. The Dursleys' sterile, beige world faded like a bad dream.

Calanthe was given a suite of rooms in emerald green and silver, with a small library and a window overlooking the vast, misty grounds. Every morning, she joined Draco for lessons. While he had grown up with this, it was all new to Calanthe, and she absorbed it like a sponge.

Narcissa taught them etiquette and politics. How to walk, how to sit, how to address a Lord or a Ministry official. She taught them the intricate dance of pureblood society—the subtle insults veiled as compliments, the power of a well-timed silence, the importance of unbreakable decorum. Calanthe, a natural observer, excelled.

Lucius taught them history—real magical history, not the sanitized version in the Ministry-approved books. He spoke of the Old Ways, the ancient magic tied to the seasons and the earth, magic Dumbledore had systematically dismissed as "Dark" or "primitive." He explained the Wizengamot, the power of the Noble Houses, and the political landscape Dumbledore had manipulated for decades.

And, most importantly, he taught her Occlumency.

"Dumbledore is a master Legilimens," Lucius explained, his voice serious. "He will try to read your mind, to see your intentions. You must learn to shield yourself. A pureblood Lady's mind is her own."

It was difficult, requiring a mental discipline she'd never known, but the ritual at Gringotts had left her mind sharp and clean. Where Dumbledore would have preached clearing the mind, Lucius taught her to build a fortress. She visualized a castle, dark and impregnable, with her secrets locked in the deepest vault.

Draco, freed from the need to be a sneering caricature, proved to be a true friend. He was arrogant and spoiled, yes, but he was also witty, fiercely loyal to his family, and, Calanthe discovered, just as ambitious as she was.

They practiced magic together in the Malfoy dueling room, their unbound cores making them far more powerful than average first-years. They flew on practice brooms, Calanthe displaying an instinctive, terrifying talent for the air.

"You're a natural, Calanthe," Draco panted one afternoon, landing beside her. "Father will be furious if you make the Slytherin team before I do."

"Then you'll just have to practice harder, won't you?" she retorted, a rare, genuine smile gracing her features.

"Mother thinks you're perfect," Draco confided, stretching out on the grass. "She said you're the daughter she always wanted. She's already planning your Yule wardrobe."

"She has been very kind," Calanthe admitted. "This is... this is the first time I've ever felt like I had a family."

"Well, you do now," Draco said, trying to sound casual. "Potter, Black, and Malfoy. Dumbledore won't know what hit him."

By the time September 1st arrived, Calanthe Potter was unrecognizable. She was dressed in custom-tailored black robes of the finest Acromantula silk, her unruly hair now a sleek, dark wave that fell to her waist. The signet rings of her Houses were no longer on a chain, but worn with pride—Potter on her right index, Peverell on her right ring, and the Black Heir ring on her left. She was no longer a lost girl. She was a Lady.

Chapter Text

King's Cross Station was a Muggle mess, loud and dirty. Calanthe walked with poised calm, flanked by her new family. Lucius and Narcissa glided, the Muggles parting for them as if by instinct. Draco walked beside Calanthe, pushing his own trunk.

They passed through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 with practiced ease, emerging onto the bustling, magical platform. The Hogwarts Express gleamed scarlet in the morning light.

Their arrival did not go unnoticed. Whispers followed them. "Is that... Lucius Malfoy?" "And Potter! What is Calanthe Potter doing with them?"

A gaggle of red-haired children tumbled onto the platform, their mother, a plump, flustered woman, shouting after them. "Ron! Stop pushing! Ginny, hold my hand!"

The woman spotted Calanthe. Her eyes widened, and her face hardened. She marched right over, her hands on her hips.

"You!" she shrieked, pointing a finger at Lucius. "What have you done to her? Calanthe, dear!" she said, turning to Calanthe with a sickeningly sweet smile. "I'm Molly Weasley. Dumbledore asked us to look out for you! You must be so confused. Come away from these dark people, dear, we'll take care of you."

Calanthe looked at the woman with a cool, appraising gaze. The loyalty charm on her blood test, keyed to the Weasleys. This was one of Dumbledore's pawns.

"Madam Weasley," Calanthe replied, her voice carrying clearly, "I am perfectly fine. Lord and Lady Malfoy are my legal guardians, as per my parents' true will. I would thank you not to accost us in public."

"Guardians!" Molly gaped. "But... Dumbledore said! He said you were with Muggles! He said—"

"Professor Dumbledore," Calanthe interrupted, her voice dropping to an icy chill, "is the subject of a Gringotts investigation for line theft, kidnapping, and illegal sealing of a Last Will and Testament. What he said is irrelevant. Good day."

She turned, but a bossy, bushy-haired girl stepped in her path, already in her Hogwarts robes.

"Are you Calanthe Potter?" the girl demanded. "I've read all about you in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. They said you were a hero! But you're with Slytherins. And you shouldn't be so rude to Mrs. Weasley, she was only trying to help. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

"Miss Granger," Calanthe said, "it is rude to eavesdrop and even ruder to insert yourself into a conversation that does not concern you. You have read books. You know nothing about me."

With that, she swept past the stunned Granger and the apoplectic Weasley, boarding the train with Draco. They found an empty compartment, soon joined by other pureblood children—Theodore Nott, a quiet, intelligent boy; Blaise Zabini, smooth and charismatic; and Pansy Parkinson, sharp and fashionable.

They all knew who she was. They all knew what it meant that she was with Malfoy. The power in the Slytherin dungeons was about to shift, and they all wanted to be on the winning side.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was magnificent, but Calanthe's focus was on the staff table. She saw Albus Dumbledore, his grandfatherly smile fixed in place, but his eyes, behind the half-moon spectacles, were cold with fury as they locked onto her. He had seen her. He had seen her with Lucius. The game was afoot.

She ignored him, turning her attention to the nervous first-years. Hermione Granger was muttering spells to herself. Ron Weasley was staring at the ceiling, his mouth agape.

Professor McGonagall, her face tight with disapproval, called the names.

"Granger, Hermione!"

The hat barely touched her head before shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Draco sauntered up, and the hat screamed "SLYTHERIN!" before it even settled, sending him to the cheering silver and green table.

"Weasley, Ronald!"

Another instant "GRYFFINDOR!"

More names were called. Nott and Zabini and Parkinson all joined Draco at the Slytherin table, their smirks of welcome directed at her.

Then, the hall went silent.

"Potter, Calanthe!"

Calanthe Potter walked forward, not with a nervous stumble, but with the fluid, silent grace of a predator. She sat on the stool, and McGonagall lowered the hat.

The moment it touched her head, a voice filled her mind.

<Well, well, well. What do we have here? I have not seen a mind like this in... ever. Fortified. Clean. Powerful. You would have done well in Ravenclaw, with such a thirst for knowledge...>

"I appreciate the compliment," Calanthe thought back, <but I am not interested in knowledge for its own sake. Knowledge is power.>

<Indeed it is. And you crave power, don't you? You have the ambition to use it. You have cunning. You have a deep, abiding loyalty—not to ideals, but to those who earn it. You are resourceful. And you are not afraid of your own strength. You would be a Queen in Slytherin.>

<I am aware.>

<But there is more... there is courage, oh yes, the courage to defy the world. And... what is this? There was something here... a darkness... a piece of another... but it's gone. Cleansed. How fascinating! You carry the shadow of the Dark Lord's soul, but none of his taint. You understand him in a way no other can. You are... unique.>

<I know what I am,> Calanthe sent, impatient. <Place me where I belong.>

The hat chuckled. *<He will be so very interested in you. Oh yes. This will change everything. It had better be...>

The hat opened its brim and shouted, not to the hall, but to the stunned, silent Headmaster:

"SLYTHERIN!"

For a full ten seconds, the Great Hall was utterly silent. No one clapped. The Gryffindor table looked horrified. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were just confused. Albus Dumbledore went white.

Then, the Slytherin table exploded.

Draco Malfoy was on his feet, pounding the table, leading the roar. Calanthe Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived, the Savior of the Light, stood, took the hat off, and walked calmly to the silver and green table, a small, regal smile on her face. She sat beside Draco, the undisputed center of power, the Slytherin Queen in her new-found court.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was a vast, elegant chamber under the Black Lake. The high, carved ceiling and dark marble fireplace gave it the air of an underwater cathedral. Greenish light filtered in through the massive windows, revealing the hypnotic, silent dance of merfolk and the occasional shadow of the giant squid. It was beautiful, cold, and quiet.

Calanthe's arrival, flanked by a smug Draco Malfoy, sent ripples of silence through the room. The older students, prefects and seventh-years alike, watched her. They saw the Potter name, but they also saw the Malfoy alliance, the Peverell ring on her finger, and the unapologetic confidence in her posture. This was no Muggle-raised Gryffindor.

"Welcome," said a tall, severe-looking seventh-year prefect, Gemma Farley. "We are House Slytherin. We value ambition, cunning, and blood. You," she said, her eyes fixed on Calanthe, "are an enigma. The Girl-Who-Lived in the serpent's pit. We expect loyalty to the House above all else. Do not," she added, her voice dropping, "bring your Gryffindor fame in here."

"I have no 'Gryffindor fame,' Prefect Farley," Calanthe replied, her voice smooth and clear, silencing the whispers. "I am Lady Potter-Black-Peverell. My loyalty is to my friends, my Houses, and to House Slytherin, which the Sorting Hat deemed my rightful place. I am here to learn, to excel, and to honor the traditions of our founder. I trust we shall all get along."

Her calm, authoritative tone, delivered by an eleven-year-old, took the older students by surprise. Draco, Blaise, and Theo moved to stand with her, a clear, united front.

"Well said, Lady Potter," a smooth, cold voice drawled from the shadows.

Professor Severus Snape emerged from a doorway hidden near the fireplace, his black robes billowing. His eyes, black and unreadable, swept over the first-years before landing on Calanthe.

He stared. He was looking for James Potter's arrogance, for the Gryffindor recklessness he so despised. He found, instead, Lily Evans's eyes, staring back at him with an unnerving, analytical intelligence. And she was flanked by the Malfoy heir.

"Professor Snape," Calanthe said, giving the traditional, respectful nod.

Snape's mind was reeling. This changed everything. Dumbledore's "weapon" had just been sorted into his house, allied with his side. The old man would be apoplectic.

"Lady Potter," he acknowledged, the name tasting strange. "You will find that your... reputation... means nothing in this house. You will be judged on your actions, your intelligence, and your magical strength. Do not disappoint me."

"I have no intention of disappointing anyone who matters, Professor," Calanthe said.

A flicker of... something... passed through Snape's eyes. Approval? Shock? He couldn't be sure.

"The rules of this house are simple," Snape addressed the group, though his eyes remained on Calanthe. "We present a united front. Any inter-house disputes are handled by me. We do not get caught. We do not make fools of ourselves. We excel. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Professor," the first-years chorused.

"Good." He gave one last, lingering look at Calanthe. "Do not be late for Potions." He swept from the room.

As Calanthe was shown to the opulent first-year girls' dormitory, Pansy Parkinson and a tall, poised girl with cool blue eyes, Daphne Greengrass, intercepted her.

"That was impressive," Daphne said, her voice appraising. "You handled Snape. And Farley. You've made your position clear."

"I merely stated the truth," Calanthe said.

"In this house," Daphne replied, "truth is a weapon. You've chosen your court," she gestured to Draco and the boys. "I am, for now, neutral. But I am watching, Lady Potter. And I am impressed."

Calanthe nodded. "Then watch, Miss Greengrass. You'll see I am a far better ally than an enemy."

Chapter Text

Classes began the next day. Calanthe, having spent a summer devouring texts on magical theory with Lucius, was not just prepared; she was advanced.

Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was a tense affair. The Gryffindor Head of House was openly hostile.

"Potter!" she snapped, when Calanthe's matchstick turned into a perfect, silver needle on the first try. "How did you do that?"

"I visualized the needle, Professor," Calanthe said calmly, "and willed the magic to change the object's core properties, as the theory dictates."

McGonagall's lips thinned. "Five points to Slytherin," she said, as if the words pained her.

Hermione Granger, sitting at the front, looked furious, her own needle still half-wood.

The true test, however, was Potions. The Slytherins filed into the dungeon, Calanthe taking a seat with Draco. The Gryffindors, including Ron Weasley, stumbled in after.

Snape began the class with his traditional, terrifying speech, ending with, "I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."

His eyes fell on Ron Weasley, who was already looking bored. "Mr. Weasley. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Weasley gaped. "I... I don't know, sir."

"Miss Granger," Snape snapped, ignoring her frantically waving hand. "Miss Potter. Can you tell me?"

"The combination creates the Draught of Living Death, Professor," Calanthe replied instantly. "A sleeping potion so powerful it can be mistaken for death."

Snape's eyebrow raised. "And... where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, sir. It will save you from most poisons."

"And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"There is no difference, Professor," Calanthe said. "They are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. It is used in the Wolfsbane Potion, to help a werewolf keep their mind during transformation."

The class was silent. Snape stared at her for a long, heavy moment.

"Perfectly answered," he said, his voice quiet. "Ten points to Slytherin."

He turned to the class. "Today, you will brew a simple Cure for Boils. The instructions are on the board. Begin."

Calanthe moved with a precise, fluid grace. She didn't hack her ingredients; she sliced them with the care of a surgeon. She measured, not just by sight, but by magical feel. While the rest of the class struggled, her potion turned a perfect, steaming pink.

Granger, whose potion was a bubbling orange, kept trying to peek at Calanthe's cauldron. "You're doing it wrong!" she finally hissed. "The book says to stir seven times clockwise before adding the snake fangs!"

"The book is a guideline, Miss Granger," Calanthe said without looking up. "It fails to account for the variable freshness of the fangs. If you add them while stirring, it distributes the magic more evenly. It's more efficient."

"That's not what the book says!"

"Then by all means, follow the book," Calanthe said.

At the end of class, Snape swept the room. He vanished Weasley's congealed mess. He sneered at Granger's passable, but flawed, attempt. Then he stopped at Calanthe's cauldron.

He ladled some of the potion, observing its color and consistency. He gave a single, sharp nod.

"Flawless. Twenty points to Slytherin. The rest of you... learn from her."

As they left the dungeon, Draco was ecstatic. "Did you see their faces? Weasley looked like he was going to cry!"

Calanthe merely smiled. "It's just the beginning, Draco."

True to Lucius's warning, Dumbledore tried to corner her after Charms.

"Calanthe, my dear girl," he said, his eyes twinkling, though they didn't reach his cold, calculating gaze. "I was so hoping we might have a chat. I was most... surprised... by your sorting."

"Headmaster," Calanthe said, giving a polite, distant nod. "I am sure you were. However, Lord Malfoy and Gringotts have both advised me not to speak with you without legal counsel present, given the... discrepancies... with my parents' estate. I am sure you understand. If you wish to schedule a meeting, you may send an owl to Lord Malfoy."

She walked away, leaving Albus Dumbledore standing in the corridor, his grandfatherly smile frozen in a mask of pure, cold rage.

Chapter Text

Calanthe was not a Gryffindor. She was not driven by bravery or a reckless need for adventure. She was a Slytherin, and she was driven by curiosity and a desire for control.

Dumbledore's public warning at the start-of-term feast—"The third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death"—was not a deterrent. It was an invitation.

"He's hiding something," she said quietly to her court, seated in a private alcove of the Slytherin common room.

"Obviously," Draco said. "It's a test."

"Or a trap," said Theo Nott, looking up from his Arithmancy text. "Why else announce it to the whole school? He wants someone to go looking."

"He wants me to go looking," Calanthe corrected. "He expected his Gryffindor savior to charge in. He's trying to bait me."

"Are we going to?" Blaise asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Of course," Calanthe said. "But not in the way he expects. We will go when we are ready, when we have information, and when we have a purpose. Not before."

Her purpose arrived on Halloween.

As the feast was interrupted by Professor Quirrell's panicked (and badly acted, Calanthe noted) announcement of a troll in the dungeons, Dumbledore's order for the Slytherins to be led to their common room—where the troll supposedly was—did not go unnoticed.

"He's trying to get us killed," Pansy whispered in horror.

"No," Calanthe said, her eyes flashing. "He's trying to get me into a confrontation. He's testing my strength."

But the troll wasn't in the dungeon. It was on the first floor, cornering a sobbing Hermione Granger in the girls' bathroom, Weasley cowering beside her.

Calanthe and her group, who had ignored the prefects and taken a secret passage, arrived just as the troll raised its club.

"Honestly," Calanthe sighed. "This is so beneath us. Draco, Blaise, leg-locker curse. Theo, Pansy, levitation and binding. On my count."

Weasley and Granger stared as the five Slytherins moved as one.

"Locomotor Mortis!" Draco and Blaise shouted. The spells hit the troll's knees, causing it to stumble.

"Immobilus!" Theo added.

"Incarcerous!" Pansy and Calanthe shouted in unison.

Thick ropes shot from their wands, binding the troll's arms. As it roared and fell, Calanthe stepped forward, her wand pointed at the creature's head.

"Petrificus Totalus," she said calmly. The troll froze, its eyes wide, and crashed to the floor, silenced.

The corridor was silent, save for Granger's gasps.

The professors arrived a moment later, led by a furious McGonagall and a pale Dumbledore. They took in the scene: the defeated troll, the two terrified Gryffindors, and the five perfectly calm, robes-immaculate Slytherins.

"What... what happened?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes on Calanthe.

"We were on our way back to the common room, Headmaster," Calanthe said, her voice dripping with false innocence. "We heard the screaming and found Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley cornered. We neutralized the threat."

"You... neutralized... a full-grown mountain troll?" McGonagall stammered.

"It was a simple matter of teamwork, Professor," Draco drawled, brushing dust from his sleeve.

Snape was the last to arrive. He took in the scene, his eyes lingering on Calanthe's steady wand hand, and a slow, almost proud, smirk spread across his face.

"Five first-years," he said, "have done what the entire staff apparently could not. Fifty points to Slytherin." He turned to McGonagall. "And I believe ten points should be taken from Gryffindor. Each. For being foolish enough to wander the castle when a troll is loose."

Dumbledore looked like he had swallowed a lemon, but he could not argue. Calanthe Potter had not only defied his expectations, she had done so by saving his "lions"... and had made his own house look foolish in the process.

"Well done, Miss Potter," he said, his voice strained. "Well done."

As the Slytherins walked away, Calanthe's mind was racing. This was Dumbledore's move. A troll was a distraction. The real prize, she knew, was in that corridor. And she felt a strange, cold pull from Professor Quirrell... a familiar, dark magic she hadn't felt since the goblin ritual. The game was far more interesting than she'd realized.

Chapter Text

Calanthe's natural talent for flying was, as Draco had noted, utterly terrifying. When Madam Hooch conducted the first flying lesson, Calanthe hadn't just commanded her broom to fly into her hand; the broom had leapt into her palm as if it were a loyal hound greeting its master.

Professor Snape was not a man given to sporting enthusiasm, but he was a man who lived to see Gryffindor humiliated. When Draco reported Calanthe's prowess in the air, Snape had her on the Quidditch pitch the next day.

"The rules, Lady Potter," he drawled, watching her effortlessly handle a school-issued Cleansweep, "are for the common witch. Dumbledore has just seen fit to grant the Gryffindor team a new Seeker—your uncouth friend Mr. Weasley's brother, I believe—despite his being a first-year. He has been gifted a new Nimbus 2000. It seems the Headmaster is stacking his deck."

"Then we shall simply have to be the better players, Professor," Calanthe replied, hovering ten feet above his head.

"Indeed." A rare, thin smile touched Snape's lips. "Lord Malfoy has already been informed of the... discrepancy... in team equipment. He has generously offered to outfit the entire Slytherin team with the new Nimbus 2001s, which are, I'm told, superior. You, Lady Potter, will be our new Seeker."

The first match of the season was Slytherin versus Gryffindor. The entire school was buzzing. Calanthe Potter, the Slytherin Queen, facing off against Gryffindor.

Calanthe felt calm as she walked onto the pitch, the new, sleek black broom in her hand. The roar of the crowd was white noise. She saw Dumbledore watching from the stands, his face a mask of false benevolence. She also saw Professor Quirrell, his turban pulled down, his face twitching.

The match began. It was brutal. The Slytherin Chasers were ruthless, and the Gryffindors were desperate to win against their "Dark" rivals. Calanthe ignored it all, her green eyes scanning the air for the glint of gold.

She saw it. A flash near the Gryffindor goalposts. She urged her broom forward, a jet-black streak against the grey sky.

Then, it happened.

Her broom gave a violent, sickening lurch. It wasn't the smooth dip of a controlled dive; it was a spasm of corrupted magic. She gripped the handle, her legs tightening, as the broom tried to buck her off.

She looked to the stands. Her eyes, sharper than a normal human's, scanned the crowd. It wasn't Weasley or Granger. She saw Professor Quirrell, his eyes fixed on her, his mouth moving in a dark, repetitive chant. A jinx.

But then her gaze slid to the left. Professor Snape, in the row below, was also staring at her, his wand half-hidden, his own lips moving in a steady, protective counter-curse.

Her mind, fortified by Occlumency, saw the truth instantly. Quirrell was the attacker. Snape was protecting her. And Dumbledore... Dumbledore was doing nothing but watching.

He wants to see if I can survive, she thought, a shard of ice forming in her heart. This is another of his tests.

With a snarl of pure willpower, Calanthe fought the jinx. She poured her own magic into the broom, overpowering Quirrell's hold. The broom steadied. She saw the flash of gold again, this time diving straight for the ground.

Ignoring the dueling professors, Calanthe pointed her broom down and fell. She was a missile, a blur of black and green, hurtling toward the pitch. The Gryffindor Seeker pulled up, afraid of the impact. Calanthe did not.

Mere inches from the grass, she pulled up, her hand shooting out. She rolled, landing on her feet with an elegance that defied the speed of her fall, her hand held high.

In her fist, the Golden Snitch beat its tiny wings.

The Slytherin stands erupted. Snape stopped his counter-curse, his face impassive, but his eyes gleaming with triumph. Quirrell stumbled, his jinx broken. Dumbledore looked, for a split second, disappointed.

Calanthe Potter hadn't just won. She had dominated.

Chapter Text

The Yule holiday was a welcome respite. Calanthe returned to Malfoy Manor, not as a guest, but as family. The Manor was decorated in silver and green, with towering fir trees and enchanted, ever-burning Yule logs.

On the night of the winter solstice, Narcissa came to her room.

"Tonight is Yule, Calanthe," she said, her voice softer than usual. "As the Lady of three Ancient Houses, it is your right to participate in the Old Ways."

They led her not to a drawing room, but out into the snowy grounds, to a circle of ancient, rune-carved stones that predated the Manor itself. Lucius, Draco, and several other old, powerful families—the Notts, the Greengrasses, the Zarinis—were already there, dressed in traditional ritual robes.

"Dumbledore and the Ministry would have us celebrate 'Christmas,'" Lucius said, his voice carrying in the cold, still air. "A Muggle holiday. They want us to forget the true source of our magic. The earth. The turning of the year. Tonight, the shortest day, magic is at its rawest. We are not here to ask for magic. We are here to claim it."

There was no sacrifice. There was no "dark" magic. It was a ritual of resonance. They stood within the stones, and as one, they spoke the ancient words, channeling their own power into the earth and drawing its untamed, wild magic back into their cores.

Calanthe felt it like a jolt of life. It was the same cold, deep power she'd felt when the Goblins unbound her core. It was the magic of blood, of will, of the land itself. It was her magic.

Later, sitting by the fire, Lucius updated her on the Gringotts investigation.

"Dumbledore is blocking Ragnok at every turn," he said, sipping his wine. "He has the Minister under his thumb and half the Wizengamot convinced he acted in the 'Greater Good.' But the Goblins are not deterred. They have begun an audit of the Black vaults as well, and what they are finding... it is far worse than we thought. Dumbledore hasn't just been funding his Order. He's been funding the Weasleys for a decade, all from your accounts."

"He bought their loyalty," Calanthe said, her voice flat.

"He rented it," Lucius corrected. "And the Goblins will see him pay. But for now, be wary. He is a cornered animal, and you have taken away his prize."

Chapter Text

When they returned to Hogwarts, the castle felt different. Calanthe, now attuned to the Old Ways, could feel the ancient wards, the deep, sleeping magic of the Peverells woven into the very stones. She found herself wandering, not in search of clues, but simply... listening.

Her magic led her to an unused classroom. Inside stood a single, magnificent mirror, inscribed with the words: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. 

She knew what this was instantly. A trap. A lure for the desperate and the weak-willed.

<I show not your face but your heart's desire.>

She stood before it, her Occlumency shields firmly in place. She felt the seductive pull, the magical whisper promising to show her what she wanted most.

She did not see James and Lily Potter. She had no memory of them, and while she respected their sacrifice, she did not desire them. She had a family in the Malfoys.

The image in the mirror rippled. The eleven-year-old girl vanished. In her place stood a woman—Calanthe, but older. She was tall, dressed in formidable robes of black and silver, the signet rings of Potter, Black, and Peverell gleaming on her hand. She stood on the dais of the Wizengamot, her face calm and utterly in control. Below her, Albus Dumbledore was on one knee, his head bowed. The rest of the chamber was bowing to her.

She looked, not at her own reflection, but at the reflection of the doorway. In the shadows, she saw the faint, magical shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm.

Dumbledore was watching.

Calanthe let a small, cold smile touch her lips. She gave a slight, dismissive shrug at the image, as if bored by it, and turned.

"An interesting trinket, Headmaster," she said to the empty air. "A dangerous one, to leave where any first-year might stumble upon it. It breeds obsession. I would have thought you, of all people, would know better."

She walked out of the room, leaving a stunned and furious Albus Dumbledore to emerge from his hiding spot, his great "test" of her heart's desire having failed spectacularly. She did not desire love or family. She desired victory.

Chapter Text

"So," Calanthe said, addressing her court in their usual common room alcove. "Let us review."

Theo Nott, their unofficial researcher, ticked off the points. "One: Dumbledore, a notoriously manipulative Headmaster, has hidden a powerful object in a school full of children."

"Two: He's set up a series of 'protections' that a first-year could bypass, and told us all not to go there, essentially guaranteeing someone will try," Draco added.

"Three: The object is being sought by Professor Quirrell, who is clearly not acting alone and who tried to murder Calanthe at the Quidditch match," Blaise said.

"And four," Calanthe concluded, "Professor Snape is trying to stop Quirrell. Which means Dumbledore is likely using Snape to test the defenses... and to test me."

"We need to know what the object is," Daphne Greengrass said, now a firm member of their circle.

"I already know," Calanthe said quietly.

They all looked at her.

"I had Gringotts retrieve several rare texts from the Potter and Black vaults," she explained. "One of them mentioned the 'Opus Magnum' of the alchemist Nicolas Flamel."

"Flamel," Theo breathed. "He's the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone."

"A stone that produces the Elixir of Life. It grants immortality," Draco said, his eyes wide.

"Exactly," Calanthe said. "Dumbledore hasn't 'hidden' it for Flamel. He's using it. It's bait. And Quirrell is the rat. But my question," she said, her green eyes dark with thought, "is who is the trapper? Quirrell doesn't have the will or the power to act on his own. He is a vessel."

"For who?" Pansy whispered.

"I don't know," Calanthe lied. She did know. She could feel it. The shadow she'd felt from Quirrell's turban was a cold, familiar echo. It was the same magic, the same mind, that had been screaming in her scar for ten years. It was the phantom from the Gringotts ritual. Voldemort.

"We have to get the Stone," Draco said. "We can't let him get it!"

"No," Calanthe said, silencing him. "You are thinking like a Gryffindor. We will not react. We will act. We will let Dumbledore and Quirrell make their moves. We will let them weaken each other. And when the time is right... we will be the ones to claim the prize."

Chapter Text

The end of the year arrived. Dumbledore was "called away" to the Ministry on urgent business. It was a laughably obvious ploy.

"He's left the board open," Calanthe told her friends. "He expects the Gryffindors—Weasley and Granger—to charge in and "save" the day. He expects me to follow. He is wrong."

She had no intention of going. The Stone was a bauble. But that night, a cold, insistent pull echoed in her mind. It wasn't a vision; it was a... summons. The magic from Quirrell. It was calling to her.

<Come, little serpent. Let us speak.>

Curiosity, cold and sharp, overrode her caution. This was the real game.

"I'm going," she told Draco. "Alone."

"Calanthe, no! It's a trap!"

"It's a meeting," she corrected. "Stay here. If I am not back by dawn, send an owl to your father and Professor Snape. In that order."

She moved through the castle like a shadow. The third-floor corridor was unlocked. The Cerberus was already asleep, a harp playing itself nearby. She slipped past.

The Devil's Snare? Lumos Solem. Child's play.

The flying keys? Accio Key. Simple.

The chess game? She was a Peverell. The ancient castle magic recognized her. The pieces bowed and let her pass.

The troll was already defeated.

The potion riddle? She was Snape's star pupil. She solved it in thirty seconds, drank the correct vial, and stepped through the flames.

She entered the final chamber. There stood Professor Quirrell, but his back was to her, staring into the Mirror of Erised.

"You came," a high, cold voice hissed. It did not come from Quirrell's mouth, but from the back of his head.

"You called," Calanthe replied, her wand steady. She felt no fear. Only an intense, vibrating curiosity.

"Turn, Quirinus," the voice commanded.

Quirrell turned, and slowly, unwrapped his turban. On the back of his head, a face was embedded in the flesh. It was chalk-white, with snakelike slits for nostrils and burning, intelligent red eyes. It was the face from her nightmares, the face from the ritual.

"Calanthe Potter," Voldemort hissed. "The girl who lived. Cleansed of my soul. Unbound. And sorted into my own house. You are... a marvel."

"Lord Voldemort, I presume," Calanthe said, inclining her head in a small, respectful gesture. "Or do you prefer Tom Riddle?"

The spirit laughed, a dry, hissing sound. "You have nerve. I see why the hat chose you. You feel no fear."

"Fear is a tool, not a state of being," Calanthe said, quoting Lucius. "I have no reason to fear you. My enemy is Albus Dumbledore."

"Is he now?" Voldemort mused, his red eyes boring into her. "He is my enemy as well. He is the one who left me like this. A parasite, clinging to a fool, forced to drink unicorn blood to survive."

"And he is the one who set this all up," Calanthe said, gesturing to the mirror. "This entire year has been his game. He's using you as a boogeyman, and me as his hero. He wants us to destroy each other, so he can claim the Stone."

"And what do you want, little serpent?" Voldemort asked, his voice hypnotic.

"I want him ruined. I want my Houses restored. And I want to be free to choose my own path."

"We want the same things, then." Voldemort paused. "The Stone is trapped in the mirror. I see it, but I cannot get it. Dumbledore's magic... it is tied to the one who wants the Stone, but not to use it. He set the trap for me."

"And for me," Calanthe said. She stepped in front of the mirror. She looked at her reflection. She felt no desire for the Stone. Immortality was a burden. She only desired victory.

As the thought crossed her mind, her reflection smiled. It reached into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone.

Calanthe felt a heavy weight drop into her own pocket.

"You have it!" Voldemort shrieked. "Give it to me! Give it to me, girl!"

"Kill her!" Quirrell screamed, launching a curse.

Calanthe dodged, her wand coming up. "This is not your prize, Professor."

But before she could attack, the doors to the chamber burst open. Albus Dumbledore stood there, his face a mask of thunder.

"Calanthe! Get away from him!"

"Dumbledore!" Voldemort shrieked. "Fool!"

Quirrell lunged at Calanthe, his hands outstretched. The moment his skin touched hers, he screamed. It was not the love protection Dumbledore had imagined. It was Calanthe's own magic, pure, unbound, and ancient, rejecting the parasite. Quirrell's hands turned to ash.

"Master!" he shrieked, crumbling.

The spirit of Voldemort screamed in rage and pain. It flew from Quirrell's dissolving body, a black, screaming shadow, and passed through Calanthe.

She did not fall. Her Occlumency shields held. But for one, blinding second, she felt his mind—his rage, his pain, his ancient knowledge... and his profound, shocking sanity. Then he was gone.

Calanthe stood, breathing heavily, the Philosopher's Stone warm in her pocket, over the ashes of her professor.

Dumbledore stared, his plan in absolute ruins.

"Calanthe..." he began. "What... what have you done?"

Calanthe pocketed her wand, her face a cold, pureblood mask. "What you intended, Headmaster. I have survived. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe this Stone belongs to Gringotts, as it is a clear danger to the students of this school. I'm sure Director Ragnok will be fascinated to hear how you've been managing Hogwarts security."

Chapter Text

"What have you done?" Dumbledore repeated, his voice strained, the grandfatherly twinkle in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a cold, hard fury.

Calanthe Potter stood calmly amidst the ashes of Professor Quirrell, the Philosopher's Stone a heavy weight in her pocket.

"I have ended your game, Headmaster," she said, her voice echoing in the chamber. "You set this all up. A ridiculous obstacle course a group of first-years could bypass. You lured a wraith of the Dark Lord into a school full of children. You used me, your 'Golden Girl,' as bait, and him as the monster. You sat back and watched him try to kill me during a Quidditch match. All for this."

She pulled the blood-red Stone from her pocket. It pulsed with a sickening, parasitic life.

"You risked the lives of every student in this castle," she continued, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. "All for a power play. You are not a guardian, Headmaster. You are a reckless, manipulative old man. And you have failed."

"I did what I had to," Dumbledore said, his voice rising. "The Stone was a test—"

"It was bait," Calanthe snapped. "And now, it is evidence. I am placing this Stone in the custody of the Goblin Nation, along with my full, magically-binding testimony of your gross negligence. You have endangered the Scions of multiple Noble Houses. Lord Malfoy and the other governors will be fascinated to hear about it."

She ignored his sputtering protests, her mind already working. She strode from the chamber, leaving Dumbledore standing alone with the ashes of his servant. She bypassed the sleeping Cerberus, re-locked the door, and returned to the Slytherin dungeons.

As promised, she sent an immediate, priority raven to Gringotts. Within the hour, two heavily armed goblin guards, led by Director Ragnok himself, had bypassed the Hogwarts wards (to Dumbledore's profound shock and fury) and met her in Professor Snape's office.

Snape watched, his face a mask of disbelief and dawning respect, as Calanthe calmly handed the Stone to Ragnok.

"This object was housed in this school, Director, in breach of countless safety protocols. It lured the shade of Voldemort, who possessed a professor and has now fled. Albus Dumbledore orchestrated the entire affair. See to it that Nicolas Flamel is informed of how his property was misused, and see that the Wizengamot is informed of the Headmaster's failure to protect his students."

"With pleasure, Lady Potter-Black-Peverell," Ragnok grinned, his teeth sharp. "The Goblin Nation will not forget this. Dumbledore's accounts will be seized pending a full investigation by the Board of Governors. He will not wriggle out of this."

The end-of-year feast was a tense, delicious affair. Dumbledore, looking a hundred years older, was forced to award the House Cup.

"And now," he said, his voice heavy, "due to recent... events... I must award... four hundred and fifty points to Slytherin House."

The hall was silent. He had no choice. Slytherin had dominated in classes, won the Quidditch Cup, and Calanthe had, as the entire school now knew, "uncovered and neutralized" the dark plot within the castle.

Slytherin won the House Cup. As the green and silver banners unfurled, Calanthe met Dumbledore's gaze across the hall. He looked defeated. She gave him a small, cold, victorious smile.

Chapter Text

Returning to Malfoy Manor felt like a true homecoming. Narcissa embraced her on the platform, her cool facade breaking into a genuine, proud smile. Lucius clapped Draco on the shoulder, his other hand resting on Calanthe's.

"You have done the Houses of Malfoy, Potter, and Black a great service," he said quietly as they Floo-ed back to the Manor. "Dumbledore is, for the first time in his career, on the defensive. The Board of Governors is demanding a full inquiry. He cannot hide behind his 'Greater Good' any longer."

The summer was even more intense than the last. Calanthe, now twelve, was growing into her power. Her minor Metamorphmagus abilities, no longer dormant, were coming under her control. She could sharpen her features for political meetings, lengthen her hair, and, to Draco's endless amusement, change her eye color to match her robes.

But her real work was in the Malfoy library. With the Black Ladyship now hers by proxy (and with Gringotts' help, soon to be hers in truth), Lucius had unsealed the Black Family library. It was not "Dark," as Dumbledore would have it. It was ancient.

She studied blood magic, warding, and ritualistic magic tied to the Peverell line. She and Draco practiced dueling, their spells now far beyond second-year level. They were no longer children playing; they were heirs training for war.

The Gringotts investigation bore fruit. Dumbledore was found guilty of gross mismanagement and theft. His personal vaults were seized to pay restitution to the Potter and Black estates. The Weasley family, exposed as having received "stipends" from Dumbledore using Potter money, were publicly disgraced. Molly Weasley's howlers were now directed at Dumbledore, not the Malfoys.

Sirius Black, however, remained in Azkaban.

"Dumbledore still controls the Wizengamot," Lucius explained, his face grim. "He's managed to block a retrial for Black, claiming he's too unstable. He's afraid of what Sirius will do when he finds out you're with us."

"He's afraid of my guardian being free," Calanthe corrected. "He's afraid of losing his last pawn against me. We will free him, Lucius. When we control the Wizengamot."

Chapter Text

Their trip to Diagon Alley for second-year supplies was a media circus. Calanthe Potter, the "Slytherin Savior," was flanked by the Malfoys, all of them looking immaculate and powerful.

They found chaos at Flourish and Blotts. Gilderoy Lockhart, a preening fool with perfect hair and a vapid smile, was holding a book signing. He spotted Calanthe and pounced, dragging her into a photograph for the Daily Prophet.

"Calanthe Potter! Together, we could make the front page!"

Calanthe endured it with a frozen, polite smile, extracting herself with a sharp, "Excuse me, Professor, your robes are wrinkling mine."

It was then that the Weasleys arrived, with Hermione Granger in tow.

"Bloody hell," Ron Weasley muttered, "it's the whole Dark Arts fan club."

"At least my family can afford our books, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice carrying.

Arthur Weasley turned red. "We have a different concept of what's valuable, Draco."

"Clearly," Lucius Malfoy sneered, stepping forward, his cane tapping. "Associating with Muggles, Granger's parents... and still living in that hovel? What a disgrace to the name of wizard."

Arthur Weasley, his honor impugned, lunged at Lucius. The two men began to brawl, sending cauldrons and books flying. In the chaos, Calanthe watched, her eyes cold and analytical, as Lucius, with a Slytherin's cunning, grabbed a small, black book from his own robes and slipped it into Ginny Weasley's battered, second-hand cauldron.

It was a brilliant move. A way to further disgrace Arthur Weasley by planting a Dark object on his daughter. Calanthe didn't know what the book was, but she recognized the quiet, vicious beauty of the political attack. She filed the image away.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was, if possible, even more tense. Dumbledore was subdued, his power checked. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, was a complete and utter fraud.

"He's a fool," Calanthe stated in their first class, after Lockhart had unleashed a cage of Cornish Pixies and promptly hidden under his desk.

"A dangerous fool," Theo corrected, as he, Calanthe, and Draco calmly rounded up the last of the creatures. "He leaves the school defenseless."

Then, the attacks began.

The first was Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, found petrified, hanging by her tail. And beside her, written in blood: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

The school was gripped by panic. Dumbledore, his authority weakened, could do little to calm them.

And Calanthe... Calanthe began to hear voices.

It was a cold, hissing whisper, slithering through the stone walls.

<I smell blood... so hungry... let me kill... let me rip... tear...>

She heard it in the corridors, in the library, in her own dormitory. She told no one, at first. She fortified her Occlumency shields, assuming it was a new kind of attack.

But the voice grew stronger. It led her, one night, to the second-floor corridor, where she found the ghost of Moaning Myrtle flooding the bathroom.

<Blood... I want blood...>

And just down the hall, the petrified form of Colin Creevey, a first-year Gryffindor.

She finally told her court, in the securest alcove of their common room.

"I'm hearing a voice," she said. "It's a snake. It's ancient, and it's moving through the walls. And it's hunting."

Draco and the others looked at her, not with fear, but with awe.

"The Heir of Slytherin," Daphne breathed. "They say he was a Parselmouth."

"The voice," Theo said, his mind racing, "is a basilisk. The King of Serpents. It would explain the petrification—they didn't see its eyes directly."

"But who controls it?" Draco asked.

"The Heir," Calanthe said. "And I," she paused, remembering the blood test, the 100% block, "am a Parselmouth."

Chapter Text

Lockhart, in a moment of utter stupidity, decided a Dueling Club was the answer to the attacks. He, of course, enlisted Professor Snape as his "assistant."

After Lockhart was humiliatingly disarmed by Snape, they set the students on each other.

"Let's have Potter and Weasley!" Lockhart suggested.

"A waste of time," Snape drawled. "Weasley would be on the floor in a second. Malfoy, Weasley. Let's see if any of your summer training paid off."

Draco, eager to humiliate Weasley, agreed. Weasley, red-faced and furious, squared off.

"Serpensortia!" Draco shouted, a spell far too advanced for him. He'd been practicing.

A large, black snake erupted from his wand, hissing furiously.

It turned, not on Weasley, but on a terrified Hufflepuff, Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Don't worry, Finch-Fletchley!" Lockhart preened, "I'll save you!" He flicked his wand, and the snake, instead of vanishing, was merely thrown into the air, making it angrier. It coiled, hissing, ready to strike.

Instinct, deep and ancient, took over Calanthe. She stepped forward.

<Stop!> she hissed.

The sound that left her mouth was not English. It was a long, sibilant cascade of sounds.

The snake froze, its head turning to her. It lowered itself, its tongue flicking. <A Speaker? I obey, Mistress.>

<Leave him. Return to the one who summoned you,> Calanthe commanded.

The snake docilely slithered back toward a pale, shocked Draco.

Calanthe turned. The entire hall was staring at her in abject horror. Justin Finch-Fletchley had fainted. The Hufflepuffs were backing away.

"What... what did you do?" Ron Weasley whispered.

"You're a Parselmouth," Hermione Granger breathed, her face pale with academic fear. "The mark of Salazar Slytherin."

Calanthe looked at the terrified faces. Then she looked at her own House. They were watching her, not with fear, but with calculating, dawning realization.

"Of course she is," Draco Malfoy announced, his voice ringing with newfound pride as he stepped to her side. "She is the Heiress of Potter, Black, and Peverell. She is the true descendant of the founders. She is not the 'Heir' attacking students; she is the Queen who commands the serpent."

Calanthe Potter, the Slytherin Queen, the Parselmouth, simply raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"