Anna held the young Dana tightly in her arms, her posture steady yet gentle. When she rose to her feet, she turned and gave a solemn bow toward the forest on the hillside. The spot where the eighteen-year-old Dana had stood was now empty.
A peregrine falcon burst from the trees, its wings slicing through the air as it pursued a fleeing Death Eater. Fate was cruel—the man had been one of seven to escape, but luck had singled him out as Dana's prey. Though he had slipped from the Witch's terrifying gaze, he would not escape her son's wrath.
His fear had made him foolish. While other Death Eaters had cast brief spells to test their wands before Apparating away, this man had simply kept running, as if flight alone could save him. It was understandable, perhaps; Anna's ruthless magic could drive even the strongest to panic.
The falcon stooped sharply, its eyes blazing with unnatural green fire. The Death Eater screamed as emerald flames engulfed his legs, sending him tumbling across the dirt. The bird wheeled gracefully through the air, its form twisting, reshaping—until Dana stood there, tall and human once more, before his enemy.
"Answer me, Death Eater!" Dana's voice was cold as frost. "Why did you attack that family of three?"
The man writhed on the ground, teeth clenched against the agony. Sweat poured down his face. "Mind your own business," he spat hoarsely, "or when the Dark Lord returns, you'll regret crossing us!"
Dana's expression didn't change. "Crucio."
The curse struck like a whip. The man's scream tore through the quiet forest. "Aaaah—!"
It had been some time since Dana had used the Cruciatus Curse; his first attempt lacked precision. He adjusted his wand, focusing, and the magical pressure deepened. The man convulsed, his eyes rolling back, foam bubbling from his lips as every muscle in his body seized.
Dana's gaze was distant, his fury contained but burning within. If not for these monsters, Father would still be alive… if Father had lived, our family's tragedy would never have happened.
Five minutes passed before he lowered his wand. The Death Eater no longer screamed. Dana did not stop out of mercy—the man was dead.
With a faint frown, Dana extended his right hand. A translucent mist rose from the corpse's chest—the man's soul.
Dana clenched his fingers. The soul shuddered and froze mid-air, struggling uselessly. Dana did not bother with questions. Instead, he reached directly into the spirit's core, tearing through its essence to seize fragments of memory. The method was barbaric and cruel; it destroyed the soul's coherence, leaving behind nothing but chaos and unbearable torment.
The forest filled with a chorus of phantom screams as the Death Eater's spirit unraveled. Dana barely blinked. Within moments, he saw what he needed.
It was the year 1981.
Lord Voldemort had vanished, but the British wizarding world was far from peaceful. Deprived of their master, the Death Eaters had splintered into factions of madness—some sought the Dark Lord's hidden trail, others enriched themselves under his name, and still others infiltrated the Ministry, eliminating rivals and claiming power.
Among the most fanatical were Barty Crouch Jr. and his circle. Recently, they had been contacted by a mysterious organization promising knowledge of the Dark Lord's whereabouts—if they could retrieve a certain tapestry from a witch named Anna Avery.
Only one group in the world coveted the Emrys family tapestry: the Avar Coven.
Even after Anna married into the Avery family and changed her surname, the Coven found her. Pursued relentlessly, she fled with her husband and son, hoping to reach the ancestral home of the Emrys family—a place where she believed even the Coven's power could not reach her.
Anna had altered her appearance, concealed her magic, and avoided all detection spells. Yet, somehow, the Death Eaters found her first and ambushed her family midway through their escape.
The Avar Coven again…
Livingston Town was a quiet wizarding settlement nestled among rolling hills. If one walked its cobbled streets, one could find houses numbered 4 and 6—but not 5.
House Number 5 did exist, though few could see it. It stood at the very heart of the town, hidden behind powerful enchantments. Once, this land had belonged entirely to the Emrys clan. But as the family dwindled through generations, they had invited other wizarding families to settle nearby. Thus, Livingston Town had been born.
The Emrys ancestral home, at Number 5 Livingston, was the most heavily protected. Among its wards, the Fidelius Charm was the most crucial. Joseph Avery—Dana's father—had been its Secret-Keeper.
But Joseph was dead.
With his death, all who had known the secret became Secret-Keepers themselves—only Anna and her eighteen-year-old son.
The next day, Anna and young Dana moved into the ancestral home. Across the street, the house at Number 27 changed hands. Its new owner, a man who called himself Mr. Strange, had bought it for ten times its original price.
That man was Dana Emrys.
Now, he stood by the upstairs window, gazing across the street at Number 5. Through the half-drawn curtains, he saw Anna sitting by the bay window, cradling her young son as she hummed him to sleep.
He could have watched her like this forever.
Dana told himself he had chosen this house only to guard against the Avar Coven's return—to be nearby if danger struck. But deep inside, he knew the truth: he wanted to see his mother alive again, even if she did not know who he was.
There will come a day, he thought, when I'll bring her back from Avalon. But for now… it's enough just to see her smile.
Time flowed quietly. The people of Livingston were not troubled by their new neighbors. Wizards came and went in strange ways, and secretive households were hardly rare. Dana, under his false face, had already mingled among them, careful to act like an ordinary resident.
That afternoon, as sunlight filtered through drifting clouds, Anna stepped out of Number 5, basket in hand. Dana noticed her immediately and "coincidentally" opened the door of Number 27.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Avery," he greeted warmly.
Anna turned, smiling. "Good afternoon, Mr. Strange. I'm just heading to the market—little Dana never liked the smell in old Blink's shop, so I left him sleeping."
"You're a wonderful mother," Dana said softly.
Her smile brightened, and for a moment, he almost forgot himself. She looked so young, so full of quiet strength. The years had not yet hardened her heart.
"You flatter me, Mr. Strange," she replied lightly.
"It must be difficult, raising a child alone," he continued. "If you ever need help, please don't hesitate to ask."
Anna's polite smile did not falter. "If that day comes, I certainly will."
They exchanged a few more pleasantries before parting—Anna heading toward the market, Dana strolling the opposite way until he reached a secluded alley. There, with a soft whoosh, he vanished and reappeared upstairs in his own house.
Settling into a reclining chair, he opened a book and pretended to read, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He waited for the moment when Anna would return home, just to catch another glimpse of her face.
Outside, the peaceful rhythm of the town continued—children's laughter echoing faintly, merchants calling out prices, the wind rustling through old eaves.
Then—
Boom!
A deafening explosion shattered the calm. Dana shot to his feet. From the west end of town, a plume of thick, black smoke curled into the sky.
A heartbeat later—
Boom!
Another blast, this time closer, toward the east. Windows rattled, and startled shouts rose from the streets.
Then came a third explosion, followed by a wave of magical energy that made the ground tremble.
Dana's brow furrowed sharply. Alchemical bombs. Someone was attacking the town.
Though he knew his mother would survive—this event was already written in time—he felt anger surge in his chest. He despised the thought of her being frightened, even for a moment.
He stood at the window, eyes fixed on the distant firelight.
"Enough of this," he muttered.
In a flash of displaced air, Dana Emrys disappeared from the room.
The explosions echoed through Livingston as chaos spread through the narrow streets. Wizards hurried to secure their homes, shielding spells flaring in quick succession. Flames licked at the sky where the west-end shops once stood.
To ordinary eyes, the assault seemed random—but Dana saw the pattern at once. The bombs were falling in a widening arc, converging toward the hidden center of the town. Toward Number 5.
Avar Coven.
They had come again.
His anger crystallized into focus. The faint hum of wards buzzed around him as he Apparated midair, high above the rooftops, surveying the scene below. Seven figures in dark cloaks moved through the smoke, tossing rune-engraved orbs that burst with alchemical fire.
Dana raised his wand, and the world went silent.
The nearest attacker froze mid-motion as invisible pressure crushed him to the ground. Bones cracked; the bomb in his hand detonated prematurely, engulfing him in white-hot light. Dana hardly blinked.
Another witch screamed a warning and turned her wand upward, but Dana was already gone—reappearing behind her, his voice calm and terrible. "You chose the wrong town."
A flash of green. She fell before she could utter a spell.
The rest scattered, Apparating in panic. Dana sensed their movements and followed, striking with precision—each attack a blur of fire, lightning, and raw force. Within seconds, silence fell once more.
From the ground, the remaining townsfolk saw only the fading embers of the battle and a single figure descending through the smoke like a shadow of vengeance.
Dana landed lightly at the edge of the square. His robes fluttered in the heat. Around him, shattered stones and flickering fires painted a grim tableau.
For a long moment, he simply listened—the crackle of flames, the distant cries of frightened residents, the pounding of his own heart.
Then, far off, he heard Anna's voice calling her son's name.
He closed his eyes.
She's safe.
When he opened them again, his expression had returned to calm neutrality. He waved his hand, and a soft breeze swept through the streets, extinguishing the remaining fires. The air cleared, and with it, the lingering traces of his presence vanished.
From the upstairs window of Number 27, the townspeople would later claim to have seen nothing but smoke and strange lights—no one could agree on what had happened.
But in the quiet that followed, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Anna Avery walked home with groceries in hand, unaware that she had been one breath away from death. Across the street, a man watched her silhouette through the fading light, his expression unreadable.
Dana Emrys set his book aside and leaned against the window frame, his gaze soft but filled with resolve.
"Not today," he murmured to the wind. "And not ever."
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